Chapter Seventeen
Morning arrived softly, as if the Academy itself had decided no one needed to be rushed after the night we’d had. Or more accurately, the early morning.
Sunlight filtered through tall windows in pale ribbons, warming the stone and coaxing the halls awake at a leisurely pace.
The usual early stirrings were absent. No hurried footsteps.
No murmured debates drifting from kitchen sprites.
Even the Academy’s hum felt lower, drowsier, like it had chosen to sleep in along with the rest of us.
Celeste and I wandered into the sitting room together, both of us still half-wrapped in that fragile fog between sleep and waking.
She wore one of my old sweaters, the sleeves too long, her hair pulled into a loose knot that spoke of comfort rather than effort.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed these small, ordinary moments until they were suddenly back in my life.
A low table had been set in the center of the room by thoughtful, unseen hands.
Scones still warm, their edges golden and flaky.
There were small dishes of jam and honey.
An electric teapot steamed gently beside a pair of mugs, one already filled with something strong enough to make Stella proud. The scent alone made my shoulders drop.
“Well,” Celeste said, blinking at the spread. “Either the Academy’s apologizing or it’s bribing us.”
“Possibly both,” I replied, smiling despite myself.
We settled onto the sofa, the cushions sighing beneath us. I poured tea while Celeste reached for a scone. She broke it open with the care of someone who’d been eating crappy campus food for too long.
But as she took a second bite, Celeste stiffened.
I followed her gaze just in time to see Gideon pass the open doorway, moving down the corridor with quiet purpose. He didn’t look in. Didn’t slow. He was simply… there.
Her shoulders tightened instantly.
“He’s still here?” she asked.
There was no alarm in her voice. Just disbelief edged with tired anger.
I set my mug down and nodded. “Yes.”
Her jaw clenched. “Why?”
“Not by our choice,” I said gently. “Last night the Academy made it very clear that, for whatever reason, it wanted him here.”
Celeste turned toward me, frustration flashing across her face.
“So why does that matter?” she asked. “Shouldn’t our safety matter more?”
The question landed hard because it was the right one to ask.
I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I pulled her into a hug, pressing my cheek to the top of her head, breathing her in. She leaned into me without hesitation, the way she always had, and the familiarity of it steadied me.
“It does matter,” I said softly. “Your safety matters more than anything to me.”
“Then why let him stay?” she pressed.
I leaned back just enough to look at her, meeting her eyes honestly.
“Because I have to believe the Academy understands more than we do.”
She frowned. “That’s a lot of faith in a building.”
I smiled faintly. “I know. But this is the same Academy that opened its doors when everyone thought it never would. That woke itself up when it was supposed to be dormant. That found professors when no one was even looking for them.”
Celeste chewed on that, absently tearing off another piece of scone. “That doesn’t make him safe.”
“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t.”
Her eyes searched mine. “You’re worried.”
“Yes,” I said simply.
She nodded, relieved at the honesty. “He’s ruthless.”
The word echoed through the quiet room.
“He is,” I agreed.
Celeste sighed and leaned back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t like that he’s here.”
“Neither do I,” I admitted. “Not like this. Not without answers.”
The Academy hummed faintly around us, as if listening but not intervening, its presence steady and inscrutable.
We sat there for a few more moments, the calm stretching just long enough for me to almost believe it might last.
But then our world shattered. The explosion came from within the Academy, a thunderous crack that ripped through the stone and sent a violent shudder through the floor beneath our feet.
The walls trembled with a shockwave of sound, while pressure tore through the sitting room, rattling shelves and sending cups clattering.
Celeste gasped as the windows flared with light.
I was on my feet instantly, heart slamming against my ribs, magic surging in response before I even thought to call it.
Somewhere in the distance, stone groaned.
And whatever fragile peace the morning had offered was gone in an instant.
The sound of the explosion was still echoing through the Academy when instinct finally kicked in.
“Celeste,” I said sharply, already moving. “Under the table. Now.”
She didn’t argue. That alone told me how serious this was. She ducked beneath the heavy oak table near the hearth, curling in tight as I swept the chair aside and crouched with her long enough to meet her eyes.
“Stay here,” I said, keeping my voice calm even as my pulse thundered. “No matter what.”
She nodded, jaw set, fear flickering but contained. Brave. She was always brave.
I straightened just as Twobble came barreling into the sitting room, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug.
“Explosion,” he panted unnecessarily. “Big one. Very uninvited.”
“Twobble,” I said, catching his sleeve. “Stay with her. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
His usual flippancy vanished instantly. He puffed himself up, planting his feet wide.
“On it. Nobody’s getting past me. Not shadowy villains, not magical debris, and certainly not emotionally compromised ex-anythings.”
Crap. That was right. My ex was still here.
Celeste snorted despite herself, and I was ever indebted to Twobble.
I turned and ran for the foyer, magic buzzing just beneath my skin, the Academy’s hum fractured and uneven now, like a heartbeat that couldn’t find its rhythm. The air smelled of dust and scorched stone.
Keegan was already there, one arm lifted protectively as if he could physically brace the building if needed. Lady Limora stood beside him, eyes bright and assessing, skirt immaculate despite the chaos. Skonk hovered near the edge of the room, chewing on something and looking deeply unimpressed.
And then I saw it.
A pile of rubble sat where the outer wall curved toward the main doors, stone blocks scattered like someone had upended the Academy itself. Atop it all sat Gideon.
He was brushing dust from his shoulders, slowly and carefully, as if this sort of thing happened to him all the time.
He cleared his throat.
“What happened?” I asked because apparently that was the sort of question one asked when Stonewick’s most dangerous man was atop debris like it was a stage.
He looked at me, blinking once. “I assumed that when the Academy untrapped us, it understood that I could roam where I needed to go.”
Skonk let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, that’s rich.”
Twobble appeared at my side, arms folded, eyes darting back toward the sitting room. “Let me guess. You tried to be sneaky.”
“I tried to be practical,” Gideon replied coolly. “I needed some fresh air.”
“So,” Skonk said, tilting his head, “you’re saying the Academy tried to blow you up for wanting fresh air, even though it decided to keep you here to so you stayed safe?”
Good point, Goblin Friend.
Gideon winced faintly.
“Obviously, it didn’t want me to leave. I attempted to exit through the front door, and it… corrected me.”
I stared at him, then turned slowly toward the massive front doors. They stood closed, pristine, utterly unapologetic. I crossed the foyer and laid my hand against the stone, feeling the residual thrum of magic still vibrating through it.
When I pulled the doors open, the truth revealed itself.
The steps outside were gone.
Not shattered. Not collapsed.
Gone.
Chunks of carved stone lay scattered across the courtyard like discarded toys, as if the Academy had ripped its own steps free and hurled them backward with singular intent.
At Gideon.
I shut the doors slowly.
“Well,” I said, turning back to him, “that’s… committed.”
“Not the development I hoped for,” he said, sounding genuinely rattled now.
“We don’t need the Academy blowing itself up on your behalf,” I snapped, irritation slicing through my fear. “The message is clear. You’re here for the time being, so please don’t go trying to sneak off again. I rather like the architecture we have.”
“Understatement of the year,” Keegan muttered under his breath.
Gideon rubbed the back of his neck, dust still clinging to his dark clothes.
“For the record, I don’t enjoy being forcibly retained.”
“No one asked,” Skonk muttered.
He hesitated and inclined his head stiffly. “Fine. I’ll stay. For now.”
The Academy’s hum settled back into something closer to steady, as if satisfied it had made its point.
But then I saw Celeste.
She stood just inside the sitting room doorway now, Twobble hovering at her side like a sentry. Her face was pale, eyes fixed on Gideon with a mixture of anger, fear, and something worse—resignation.
And in that instant, I knew.
He could not stay here.
Not like this. Not where she could see him. Not where every step he took reminded her of what he’d done. It would be akin to getting back on the same stretch of road where someone already crashed into you once.
As people began to disperse, voices low and hurried, I felt the decision lock into place.
“Wait,” I called, and everyone stopped.
I stepped forward, heart pounding, and lifted my chin, turning not toward the people but toward the walls themselves.
“I respect you,” I said aloud to the Academy. “I respect your choices and your wisdom. But I have a daughter.”
The Academy’s hum deepened, attentive.
“She went through something deeply traumatic because of Gideon,” I continued. “I cannot subject her to living under the same roof as him. Not while she’s healing. Not while she’s learning to trust this place and to trust magic.”
Silence pressed in.
“I’m not refusing your will,” I said carefully. “I’m asking for a different arrangement. Let him stay at the cottage. Away from her. Close enough for you to watch him. Far enough for her to breathe.”
The stone beneath my feet warmed, and the great doors shuddered once.
But then, they slowly opened in agreement.
Relief flooded through me so quickly I nearly fell to my knees, but it didn’t last.
A subtle shift followed, the air charged again, and a presence brushed against my thoughts with a condition.
Nova’s voice echoed faintly from somewhere deeper in the Academy. “There is a catch.”
Of course, there was.
Skonk groaned. “I knew it.”
“The Academy requires oversight,” Nova continued. “Gideon will not be unattended.”
My stomach dropped.
Skonk blinked. “Wait. Oversight as in—”
“Yes,” Nova said calmly. “You.”
Skonk stared. “Me?”
“And Ardetia,” Nova added.
Ardetia stepped forward, serene as ever. “I accept.”
Skonk looked between her and Gideon, and back at me. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
“Probably not,” I said, managing a weak smile. “Think of it as… character growth.”
Gideon met my gaze with an unreadable expression flickering in his eyes. Gratitude, irritation, or the realization that he’d lost more control than he cared to admit.
But the Academy hummed, satisfied, and for the moment, that was the best I could hope for.