Chapter Two
A cold, hard block seemed to be carrying her.
Isla felt herself in motion, the chill of the surface beneath her hand unmistakable.
Her fingers brushed against smooth stone—slick with damp, like marble kissed by rain.
A steady hand rested across her waist, anchoring her, while urgent, determined footsteps echoed alongside her. She forced her eyes open.
Above her, the vaulted ceilings soared, shadows dancing across the old stone like ghosts pacing the rafters. She shivered, remembering the shadows that had attacked her—or was it a nightmare she was waking from?
Her eyes darted around, and when she turned her head to the side, pain erupted at the back of her head, bringing the recent events back into reality. This was her university—vast and impossibly old—and now, it felt like something out of a fever dream.
“Andrew?”
She felt his hand tighten over her waist. “Almost there, Isla. You’ll feel better soon.”
They paused, and she slipped slightly on the block beneath her. Was she lying on ice? Andrew steadied her, glancing around as if checking the coast was clear. Satisfied, he pushed forward, nudging open the heavy double doors of the library.
The room was dark and moody looking, closed for the evening.
Low amber lights glowed against the towering shelves of dark mahogany, their surfaces glossy with age.
Ladders stretched high to reach the upper tiers, and the scent of old paper and beeswax polish lingered in the air.
A small fire crackled in a hearth near the far wall, casting a soft glow over worn leather chairs and a low table stacked with books.
The space breathed warmth and history—a quiet sanctuary of knowledge tucked inside stone walls.
Despite the appearance of warmth, her own body began to tremble from the cold floating device . .. thing.
A figure who sat reading by the fire jumped to her feet as they approached.
“Andrew? What happened?” came Juliette’s voice. She was Isla’s best friend who spent all her time in the library—and not just because she was the head librarian.
“Isla was attacked by an Ignis Summoner,” he replied grimly.
Juliette rushed to them, her warm blonde hair haloed by firelight, her normally serene expression twisted in horror.
“Why on earth are you carrying her on a block of ice? She must be freezing. You should have carried her in your arms!”
Isla might’ve laughed if she weren’t so utterly overwhelmed and drained. Of course Juliette would find a way to turn a near-death encounter into the opening scene of a gothic romance.
“I’m hardly built like Hercules,” Andrew muttered.
Juliette gave his lean frame a once-over and seemed to concede the point with a slight tilt of her head.
Andrew looked back, annoyed. Isla wasn’t sure whether to be offended that Andrew couldn’t carry her or to simply agree with Juliette’s unspoken conclusion that it had been a long walk to the library and Andrew wasn’t exactly the dashing-hero type.
Handsome, definitely, but he was more the academic sort, inclined to spend all day working on a project or deep in his studies than to be lifting weights.
Still, when he slid his arms gently beneath her knees and shoulders—lifting her off the inexplicable floating slab of ice with surprising care, Isla found herself oddly reluctant to leave his arms, as absurd as that thought was.
He made her feel infuriatingly secure, even if he did struggle to carry her.
He lowered her with care, only wobbling a little, onto a worn sofa near the fire, and she was grateful for the space—she needed to gain control over her spiraling thoughts about being in Andrew’s arms and about the awful events that had displayed a complete betrayal of everything science had ever taught her.
She shivered, and Andrew shrugged off his jacket and laid it over her.
Great. Now he was being gallant. Not in the least helping her gain control over her analytical brain.
His scent of sandalwood curled around her—even that was smug—and she tried to remind herself she was a scientist. A rational adult.
A professor. She blinked up at him. He stood there in his high-waisted trousers, neatly tucked-in shirt, and suspenders.
Her levelheaded, sound-minded brain—the one that had read every scientific journal she could find on neurology, biology, and chemistry—had absolutely no explanation for why looking at him gave her the feeling of butterflies in her stomach. The man was infuriating.
She was not someone who got flustered by aftershave and a well-timed rescue. She blamed the trauma. And the hypothermia. And possibly the suspenders.
Andrew waved his hand, and the slab of ice that had started to drip onto the rug dispersed. Isla stared, horrified.
“You look pale; here, suck on this.”
Juliette pulled one of her precious rhubarb-and-custard boiled sweets from a paper bag and, without asking, shoved it into Isla’s mouth.
She must be truly worried if she was willing to share, as sweets were hard to come by during the war.
Juliette popped one into her own mouth, pushing it to the side and giving her cheek a slight hamster-pouch effect on her slender features.
The sugar did seem to help—Isla felt a flicker of herself return.
“What happened?”
Andrew and Isla exchanged a look. Neither seemed eager to be the one to explain.
“Juliette, go and fetch Harold. I think he needs to explain this.”
Juliette nodded and took off at a canter.
Harold Wentworth. The vice chancellor, the head of the whole university. Isla wasn’t so sure that was a good idea—he’d think she was insane.
“Andrew, no—I don’t think I want him to know about this.”
Andrew met her gaze. Those eyes, usually full of smugness and the will to irritate, now looked soft. Sincere.
“It will be okay, Isla. I promise. I know what just happened was awful”—his face hardened, anger flickering in his eyes at the memory of what she’d been through—“but I’ve been waiting a long time for this day to come.”
Isla just stared, her methodical brain working hard to make sense of his words. Nope, she couldn’t make sense of a thing he’d just said.
“You’ve waited a long time for me to be attacked by some creepy shadows and then to carry me on a slab of ice?”
“Well ... no, not exactly.”
“Have you waited a long time to somehow do that thing where you’re able to wave your hands”—she twirled her hand dramatically to encompass him—“so ice just vanishes into thin air? Is that what you’ve been waiting for?”
“No, that’s not what ...” He stumbled his words but didn’t finish his sentence.
He seemed to want to take a step back and address her theory.
“I didn’t look like that when I did it, and the ice didn’t just disappear.
It sublimated—that’s when solid ice turns directly into water vapor without becoming liquid first. The moisture is still in the air around us. ”
“I know what sublimation means,” she grumbled under her breath, trying to gain back a feeling of control with things she thought she knew about.
He gave her a wry look and lifted an eyebrow at her interruption. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I’ve waited a long time for you to receive your Sigil mark. I’ve wanted to tell you ...”
His words were cut off as Harold swooped into the room, his long strides forcing Juliette to skip in order to keep up.
The vice chancellor’s salt-and-pepper hair was swept back, his beard neatly trimmed.
His presence was commanding, yet as he loomed over Isla, he smiled at her kindly with a dignified charm.
“I hear you have had quite the evening, my dear.”
Isla straightened quickly, wincing as she did. Andrew and Juliette both leapt to help her, one on either side, until she was settled. Harold pulled up a chair in front of her, while Juliette and Andrew—who was annoying in a way she couldn’t quite define—stayed close, flanking her on the sofa.
The man beside her lifted his palm and a block of ice materialized, which he wrapped in his handkerchief and offered to her. She looked at him, at a loss for words.
“For the bump on your head,” Andrew explained. “It will reduce the swelling.”
She slowly took the offering, trying not to show fear or that it was not, in fact, normal for a man to be a living, breathing ice dispenser.
The thought occurred to her that an ice dispenser would be a wonderful idea, and she should write to her American inventor friend to see if it was something he could create.
Though if Andrew here could produce it in the palm of his hands .
.. well, she didn’t know how to finish that sentence.
She looked around at the group as she placed the ice pack on her sore head. She was surrounded, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She preferred to live life alone, to keep her distance. Though Juliette had forced her way in with her bubbly persistent persona.
“I’m sure you have many questions, Isla?” Harold’s deep soothing voice asked.
“I do ...” She laughed, though there was little humor in it. “But I’m not sure I want to ask them.” She looked at her boss. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Harold replied, humor in his eyes. “But I assure you, nothing you ask will surprise me.”
She studied him hard for a moment and saw the sincerity in his eyes. What did she have to lose? Only her job, her reputation, her sanity ...
“I don’t know where to start.” She swallowed hard. “Sir, I feel ... confused. The events of tonight ... they don’t make sense. They aren’t logical.”
“Oh, but they are,” he replied gently. “We often dismiss what we cannot explain as myth or madness simply because we do not yet understand it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t following a logic—just one we’ve yet to comprehend.”
Isla stared into his dark, wise eyes. “So, you’re saying that impossible things are actually possible, but we’re just too ignorant to understand how they work?”