Chapter 42 #2
As we start walking, I glance back before I can stop myself. And it makes funny things happen to my heart to watch the always cool, composed Gavrail chat with my mother like no time has passed, giving her a smile that shows off that one ridiculous dimple—the one usually only reserved for me.
* * *
The first night of Parents’ Week, the school hosts a welcome barbecue in the quad. The event is a warm, bustling affair meant to ease the transition between Whittaker’s rigorous world and the families peering in from the outside.
The picnic tables are bedecked in the flowers and ferns of spring.
A guitarist strums mellow tunes from the dais.
The air carries hints of lemon zest, fresh herbs, and something buttery baking.
Students and parents wander about with sparkling spritzes and lavender lemonades in hand, catching up like no time has passed at all.
Rozsen’s parents came all the way out from California.
Elemental healers, the both of them. They make it very clear that they find Whittaker…
distasteful. Rozsen jokes that they raised her on herbal tea and anti-establishment ideals—autonomy over allegiance, intuition over institution.
“Rules are for people too afraid to trust their own power,” her dad whispers conspiratorially to me as Rozsen rolls her eyes.
Elliot’s mom sits next to them. Her curly blonde hair and sharp blue eyes give her a startling resemblance to her daughter. She’s already deep into a debate on government overreach with Rozsen’s parents.
Amelia shyly introduces Peter and his parents to her dad, who made the trip from Vermont. All of the earth Magicks are drawn together at the far side of the quad.
Ian’s mother proudly shows everyone around them the book he bought her at Ink & Ether, and she’s as loud and vivacious as her son.
She’s unofficially adopted Nate, since his parents couldn’t make it from Canada for the week.
Sawyer’s parents couldn’t make it either—some surf trip in the Maldives, he says with a shrug.
As we settle into our plates—herb-roasted chicken, spring pea risotto, honey-glazed carrots, and warm rosemary rolls—Headmaster Thorne approaches the dais. A light clinking of glass brings the quad to attention.
“Parents, guests, and students,” he begins, “welcome to Whittaker. This week is yours—to explore, to ask questions, to see what your remarkable children have built and become.”
He continues, describing upcoming demonstrations and lectures, tours and special events. When he finishes, he steps down, moving among the tables, offering polite nods and handshakes as he passes familiar students and their families.
Then, to my surprise, my mother reaches out a hand. “Evander!” she calls, standing to greet him.
He stops. For a moment, something flickers behind his eyes. Then, the perfect smile returns, polished and unyielding. “Rosalind,” he replies smoothly. “So nice to see you again.”
Again?
They slip into an easy conversation. I watch them closely—the subtle familiarity, the warmth in her voice, the way he inclines his head. Something about it feels off. Comfortable. Too comfortable.
My eyes narrow before a commotion draws my gaze across the quad, landing on Noa’s parents speaking with none other than General Silas Vaylor—the highest-ranking general of the magick faction of the Service.
His attendance alone elevates the entire evening, a silent nod to Whittaker’s prestige and the promise of its students.
His dark hair is threaded with silver. He’s older, but not softened by it.
His ice-blue eyes are cool and clear enough to make you want to believe that only truth lives there.
Vaylor is what the Service has sold to the world: magick made handsome, efficient, and loyal.
And yet, beneath the cordial smile and sophistication, there is something too still about him—too unpredictable, like a serpent dressed in silk.
His presence commands respect and obedience, the quiet dominance of a man long accustomed to control.
It’s only then that I notice pairs of Service officers at each corner of the quad as well as a few scattered through the crowd.
Across the field, Noa catches my eye. One eyebrow raises in my direction as he tips his chin at me. I smile and wave back, then feel Gavrail’s presence before I see him.
“What is he doing here?” he mutters, suddenly beside me. His voice is low and sharp as ice, his gaze not moving from Vaylor’s back. A predatory stillness settles over him as he watches the group of soldiers in black.
Thorne eventually peels away from my mother, just as she starts launching into another meandering anecdote. He nods toward General Vaylor, and I watch as his polished mask reassembles itself in full.
I turn back to my mother. “I didn’t know you knew Headmaster Thorne.”
“Oh, my goodness, yes!” she chirps, voice like honey, softened by the glasses of wine Gavrail charmed out of a server for her earlier. “He’s been a friend of the family for years. He knew your father well—from their college days, I believe.”
I freeze. “My father?”
She clucks her tongue. “Your father didn’t always hate Magicks, Celeste.”
I try to mask my shock. Funny, I think, that Thorne never once mentioned knowing my dad.
“He was actually the one who encouraged me to have you apply to Whittaker,” she adds.
I turn to look at her, surprise jolting through me. Beside me, Gavrail’s expression darkens, all trace of charm gone. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he doesn’t speak.
Before I can press her further, a familiar presence approaches.
Noa and his parents walk over. His father folds me into a crushing bear hug, and his mother kisses my cheek before pulling me in close. I haven’t seen them since last summer, since Noa left for Whittaker. Since before my dad passed. Somehow that’s both forever ago and only yesterday.
“Celeste! We couldn’t be more proud of you and how much you’ve accomplished in such a short time!” his mother gushes.
I flick a questioning look toward Noa, searching for confirmation. His expression remains carefully blank, but I understand. He hasn’t told them about my past. They still believe my powers only recently manifested.
His mother sits beside me, looping her arm through mine like we’re old friends as she greets my mother. She tells us about Alissa’s new job, her boyfriend Greg, and their future plans like nothing about the world has changed since last summer.
Blake Gallegher stands nearby, tall and powerful, the kind of man who makes other people step back.
His hair, like Noa’s, is a chestnut brown, streaked with silver at his temples, his presence quiet but undeniably warm.
A retired commander of the non-magick faction of the Service, the prestigious Iron Vanguard, he exudes silent strength and discipline.
Noa’s mother, by contrast, is tiny and fiery, with amber eyes and strawberry-blonde hair—the spitting image of her daughter Alissa.
Brigid Gallegher practically sparks with energy, never short on opinions or opportunities to poke fun at the men in her family.
She is the true flame in the family, her maiden name Emberlain—one of the original founding fire families.
The same Emberlain whose textbook on fusion we’ve been studying.
I want to ask her about her family, but now is not the time for history lessons.
My mother rises to pull Noa into a warm embrace, and the two of them start chatting as he charms her—and the rest of the table—in the way only he can.
Dinner passes in laughter and nostalgia, all of us catching up on what we’ve missed in each other’s lives.
My mom lost two of her favorite silkie hens to foxes but now has two horses named Starla and Paul.
I smile as I watch her win over my friends with her stories and ever-present warmth.
The comfort of it all makes my eyes prickle with tears as I move in closer, laying my head on her shoulder. Gods, I’ve missed her.
Gavrail turns to Noa. “What business does General Vaylor have here?” His tone is clipped, short, almost accusatory.
Noa’s father answers for him. “He’s trying to recruit Noa for his own unit come summer,” he says, unmistakable pride in his voice as he looks at his son.
Gavrail’s eyes darken, his body tensing, as he looks out over the quad at the general—the black of his uniform cutting and sharp, the awards of service dripping from his lapel denoting decades of missions and wars, stories not spoken of, or perhaps too classified to know.