Casals Hall's two-story atrium, normally bustling with administrative staff, echoed with only a dozen set of feet moving between its sturdy columns and underneath its yawning arches.

The strap of Malou’s valise dug into her palm as she climbed the winding marble-cut staircase to the second story, then the grand staircase to the third floor, which hosted the offices of the hall's namesake: Premier Aina Casals and her only son, Vice-Premier Zeynel Casals. Every bit of this cold, grey building reminded Malou of the pair—both flawed and flawless, both rough and refined.

On the third floor, she sucked in a breath and opened the giant doors labeled in gold. The chaises longue were vacant by the fireplace as per usual. A picture of the university’s founder hung above the mantle and the ticking clock on its granite ledge. The secretary’s fingers flew over the screen mounted to the edge of their desk.

For some reason, she’d been expecting to face Zeynel when she opened the door, waiting with his standard scowl and a bed head curl licking the wrinkles on his forehead. She wanted him to have worried over her like a proper almost-father, so worried he couldn’t have waited for her to walk to his office before asking if she was alright.

Malou stepped inside all the same. At the very least, Zeynel was expecting her, or the secretary would’ve stopped her from continuing down the east corridor. She didn’t knock when she reached the end of the hall where the long ornate Samouvean rug curled into Zeynel’s office door. She shut it behind her, then leaned against it.

Zeynel glanced at her from behind his oversized desk. From the look of the screen on his desk, he was in the middle of a conference call.

For a second, she was tempted to ask Laure whom he was speaking with, but he ended the call before she could even open her mouth. He stood, his gaze narrowing as he studied her from across the room.

Everything that had happened yesterday rushed over her—her mother’s composed tone when she’d told her that her grandfather had been murdered, Senator de Klijn’s wolfish smile at her aunt’s inauguration, the smell of gunpowder hanging around Professor Brosch’s dead body when she’d come out of hiding, the fake warmth of her mother's hug when she’d said goodbye.

She didn’t know whether this feeling was anger or anguish.

“Why didn’t you drop off your valise first?” Zeynel crossed the room, took her bag from her, and dropped it beside the door. Then he asked quietly, “What happened?” as if he didn’t already know.

Was there a chance he didn’t know? He had to know someone was after the Teir or he wouldn’t have asked her to retrieve it from the professor.

“He’s dead,” she said.

Zeynel gave a rough sigh, then wrapped his arms around her shoulders, tucked her head under his chin, and held her close. Maybe he had been worried about her. But even in his sturdy embrace, the tightness in her muscles didn’t unwind. This was feeling more like anger after all.

She pulled away from him because she was past being comforted. She didn’t need his paternal act. She needed him to stop keeping the truth from her.

“If you really don’t know, I left two hours after midnight.” Malou swept across Zeynel’s office and sank into one of the antique sofas in front of the fireplace. “After everyone was asleep like I always do.”

His office was a study in dark wood trim and white accents—the rug, the twin sofas, the snowdrops from her father’s grave drooping in porcelain vases above the fireplace. Zeynel took a seat across from her and gestured for her to continue the story.

“He wasn’t expecting me—and neither was my grandmother. Why didn’t you tell him, either of them?” she asked.

“Finish telling me what happened, then I’ll answer your questions.” He sank into the other sofa, stretching his arms across its wood-trimmed back and resting an ankle on a knee.

She clenched her jaw and spoke quickly as she retrieved the Teir’s silver box from her pocket, already back to its original size. “I handed him your note and this is what he gave me, though I don’t know why he had it in the first place. Then his home was invaded—no idea who it was or why they did it—and he had me hide. He’s dead. Professor Brosch is dead, and I can’t even tell if it’s my fault.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Of course, it isn’t your fault. Why would it be? You weren’t supposed to be there when they came. Did you see…”

Brosch’s dead body? She’d heard him get shot, first, and then she’d seen his dead body. Then, on the ride here from the Valois Manor, she’d poured over the footage Laure had captured.

The Teir suddenly felt so heavy in her hand. She hated this weight. She unhooked it from her chatelaine and set its box on the glass coffee table separating her from Zeynel. She made sure to turn it to face him.

Or maybe he was asking if she’d seen that there was only half of the Teir inside.

“Yes.” Malou’s fingernails dug into the brocade upholstery at her sides. “Why? Why’d you send me?”

“The first reason is obvious. I knew you’d get the job done. The second reason…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew he’d hand it over if it was you. And that he’d make sure you were safe at all costs. That ass has been stubborn—he’s had half of that thing for nearly a year. I’ve been asking him to return it for months, but he refused. I had to send someone else. The third reason is that the opportunity presented itself.”

She scoffed. If her grandfather’s death was an opportunity, was Brosch’s one, too? What about her father’s? Someone had been after the Teir for over a year, and Brosch had been the one protecting it. What about before that?

He continued, “We were supposed to have more time before they came. Something was grossly miscalculated on our side. I’m sorry you had to be there for that. I should’ve told him you were coming. Perhaps he would’ve had more time to prepare.”

“The others—the other eight who disappeared—when I asked where they’d gone, you told me it wasn’t worth knowing,” she said. Instead of looking at Zeynel, she set her gaze on the Teir. “You lied. They’re dead, too, aren’t they? They were killed. For this. And maybe even Dad was, too. That’s worth knowing.”

“They’re not all dead, no.”

“Who’s after it?”

“We’re not getting into that.” Zeynel hadn’t even flinched, and it reminded her of all the times Gavriel compared him to her mother. Death didn't mean anything to them, did it? “It has nothing to do with you, and that’s the truth.”

“You don’t get to make that call anymore,” she said. As she saw it, he’d put her into that room with Professor Brosch. He’d put the Teir into her hands. He’d involved her, and now it had everything to do with her.

If he hadn’t been taking care of her since her father had died, she would’ve stopped here and left. If she didn’t trust him with everything she had, she wouldn’t expect answers or the truth even when it mattered the most. Except he was Zeynel. He had to tell her. Just this once—he had to tell her the complete truth.

“They killed Dad, too, didn’t they?”

He sighed, long and heavy. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

She had no idea what Zeynel meant until he reached into his pants pocket. He had a silver box just like what Brosch had given her. He set it down on the coffee table and turned it to face her this time. He snapped open the boxes one after the other. The two lenses shimmered up at her.

“That’s your answer?” Even as something welled inside of her, compelling her hands forward, she didn’t move. She deserved to hear from Zeynel himself if her father had been murdered after so many years of waiting for the truth from him. “Did you promise Dad you wouldn’t get me involved? Because if you didn’t, then please just tell me. I’m not a little girl anymore. I can handle the truth. And even if you don’t tell me, it’s not like I won’t find out eventually.”

He chuckled dryly. “Don’t I know it? I already said I’d answer your questions. Now put it on so you know if I’m telling the truth. Pretty much all it’s good for at this point.”

“What does that mean?”

In true Zeynel fashion, he didn’t answer. Only gestured at the boxes, knowing that was all she needed to finally sit forward. She coaxed one of the pliable lenses onto the tip of her finger. Some solution circled in the concavity. For some reason, it didn’t feel like she deserved to wear the Teir. What had she done to have this privilege? Only Zeynel’s bidding.

“Good,” Zeynel coached. “Now lift your eyelid, tip your head back. Then just tap it in gently but make sure not to blink. If you fuck up too many times, I’ll do it for you.”

She followed his instructions, fighting her impulse to blink out the soft sting because she knew he was incapable of being gentle. “Am I even allowed to wear it? To use it?”

“Roll your eye around a bit, it’ll help the lens correct itself. Then do the other.”

“I know more than you think I do,” she said. With the other lens on her fingertip, she leaned her head back again. “You’ve been having me deliver messages for the Blind Collective for years—don’t think I didn’t know. I couldn’t figure out why you were doing it for the longest time. I kept asking myself, what does the Onzena Nit have to do with the Blind Collective? But now I see—”

The moment the second lens settled in place, an even stronger wave of magic ran through Malou. In her ear, Laure said, “The synchronization rate has improved significantly, but it will still be at least a few hours. I can access it just fine, though. Would you like me to do that in the meantime for you?”

She glanced at Zeynel, who hadn’t seemed to move after he’d stretched his arms along the back of the couch again. He didn’t look like the Zeynel who’d given her a hug when she’d arrived. He looked ready for business. Maybe she really would get answers this time.

Ignoring Laure, she asked Zeynel, “How does it work? How does the magic work?”

“What magic?” he asked. “You should be able to access the Teir through your secretary. So tell me. What do you see now?”

“Go ahead and access it,” she told Laure, loud enough for Zeynel to hear. Then she leveled with him. “I see that your Onzena Nit hasn’t been helping the Blind Collective at all. It’s you. Just you. You’re helping them hide the Teir. Or at least half of it. After all, the Teir is safer separate than together. Dad told me at least that much about it. What would be the reason you’d get involved, if not because your best friend died protecting it and you felt guilty?”

“It’s not guilt.” Zeynel’s jaw tightened for a moment. “Don’t you want to learn how to use it? I’m trying to show you, but you don’t seem very interested.”

“You know how to use it,” she repeated, startled. “You sent me because you knew I’d get the job done? You knew because the Teir must’ve told you. You know who’s after it, too. You know who killed Dad and Brosch and the others. And I know you—you’re helping them keep the Teir safe as revenge. Am I wrong?”

Zeynel tilted his head as if amused. “The best way to use the Teir is by asking yes or no questions. The thing is quite annoying to use. Not very practical. You can start with asking if I used the Teir to know you wouldn’t fuck up since it seems you’ve got some delusion that I’m using it all the time. Go ahead.”

For some reason, she didn’t want to be facing him, so she moved to her feet. A slow movement because it felt unreal that she was wearing the Teir at all, that Zeynel was instructing her how to use it as she’d always imagined her father would. She studied the dusty pictures on the fireplace mantel of Zeynel and his cousin, Zeynel and his mother, Zeynel and her father, Zeynel and her father and her mother. This was all very real.

“Laure—”

“Oh, finally,” Laure answered immediately. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to ask. He did not use the Teir to determine the successful outcome of your message delivery. There is no answer available for whether he knows who is after it, who killed your father, or who killed the others. Quite useless, isn't it? If you want my analysis, though, I’d say he knows something.”

Always so helpful. Malou stopped in front of a picture of her mother and her father, the fireplace’s false flames warming her legs. Her father had told her of his Svaran ancestry that gave him fair skin, dirty blond hair, and blue eyes. In this photo, he was mid-laugh with an arm around her mother's waist as she leaned against him, an arm snaked around his shoulders, her fingers in his messy hair. Back then, she had only a crop of tight curls. She even looked like she meant the smile on her face.

“I'll let you ask one more question,” Zeynel said, glancing at a gilt pocket watch clipped to his chatelaine. Her father had a matching one, but his rested in the tree hollow grave in place of his ashes. Zeynel headed to his desk. “I have another conference call, and this time I can’t cut it short. Think quick."

Suddenly, it seemed like he’d let her use the Teir only to waste time, knowing he’d cut their meeting too short for her to get the answers she wanted most.

She could ask again if her father had been murdered if the same people who’d killed Brosch had also killed him ten years ago. But she couldn’t ask the Teir who was after it, nor why they might be. She couldn’t ask why Zeynel had her deliver a message to her grandmother—was she in the Onzena Nit as well?

Her mother’s warning echoed in her mind. Maybe Tousieux University wasn’t safe. Was that why Professor Brosch had half of the Teir?

She had too many questions. How was she only supposed to ask just one? On the other hand, how was he going to stop her from asking more anyway? She was done waiting for her mother to come home, and now it was time to be done waiting to hear the truth from Zeynel.

“Laure, ask the following questions in order,” she said so Zeynel could hear. He should have to hear all the questions she had. But she kept her back to him because she couldn't get herself to face him in full defiance. “Was Anselm Brosch’s death preventable? Was my safety truly guaranteed? Was Brosch’s death an assassination? Is the Teir safe here? Did my father—”

She flinched at a sudden prick in both of her eyes. That electricity, the adrenaline from before was gone. Wasn’t that magic? Hadn’t he just said what magic?

“Malou,” Laure said. “I’ve lost connection with the Teir. The synchronization has paused. It’s as if you’re not wearing it anymore.”

Of course, he’d stop her. If she'd known that was even possible, she wouldn't have asked her questions so he could hear.

Zeynel chuckled, but he did not sound amused anymore. “Wow, abusing the Teir already. Your father would be proud.” He was behind his desk, another silver box in his palm. This one was big enough to house both lenses, and its silver exterior had an even more intricate design. He put his free hand on the back of his desk chair. “Sit. I’ll take them out for you.”

He’d said what magic although he knew exactly what she’d meant and she was tired of giving him the benefit of the doubt. She wished now more than ever that her father hadn’t said no one. Before this, she maybe would’ve trusted Zeynel enough to ignore her dad’s warning, but he’d taken that option away from her now.

"You said you'd answer my questions." She wasn’t amused, either. Not with this little game. She ducked her head as she took his seat obediently, whispered Laure's name.

"You're lucky," Laure said, and so Malou readied herself. "Since I'm not useless, I ran each question after you asked rather than as a group after you'd asked all of your questions. No, Anselm Brosch’s death was not preventable. Yes, your safety was guaranteed. Yes, his death was an assassination.”

He lifted her face, tipping her head back while her mind reeled. “I don’t have the time or patience to show you how to remove them. I’ll talk you through it, so listen well and don't move.”

“No, the Teir is not safe at Tousieux University,” Laure finished.

She hadn't readied herself for that. It wasn't difficult to keep still as Zeynel narrated each of his steps because the fear she'd just put the Teir in danger again froze her in place. First, he sanitized his hands. Very thoughtful of him. Second, he applied an artificial tear into each of her eyes, resting the outside of his palm against her cheekbones to steady his aim. He showed her one method of removing the lens with his fingertips, then a second. He was far more gentle than she'd thought he'd be.

After replacing both into the indents in the new silver box, he closed it, pocketed it, and then leaned over her. She took in his tanned features, his hard blue eyes that were a shade closer to hers to her father's, the white hair starting to mix into his stubbly beard, the lines around his mouth that told her he used to be capable of happiness.

He didn't look mad. Nor did he look worried anymore. Had this happened a week ago, would she have turned her gaze away from his hard stare? Even though she felt so small under his scrutiny, the answers to her questions rang in her ears.

Brosch was assassinated. Her dad was likely assassinated, too. The connection between them was the Teir, and it was now in Zeynel’s pocket putting him in danger as well.

She'd made a mistake coming back.

“Let’s be clear,” Zeynel said. “The Teir isn’t safe anywhere and not with anyone. As you’ve demonstrated, not only can it predict the future, it’s able to predict with enough accuracy even what’s happened in the past. Predictions can be dangerous in the hands of just about anyone.”

Another lecture she didn’t need to hear. Her father had mentioned that the Teir could predict more than the course of war, that the magic that powered it made it something more like all-knowing. Whoever had killed her father and Brosch was dangerous enough without magical omniscience.

“Predictions,” Zeynel continued, expression darkening, “are not the truth. Yet you decided a few extra predictions were worth disobeying me. I won’t need your services as a messenger any longer. Find something else to do with all of that free time you seem to have. Now go home. Get some rest. You probably need it more than you realize. I’ll have your valise sent after you.”

With that, he rose to his full height and moved to the side so she could pass him on her way out. One moment punishing her, the other worrying over her, and the next dismissing her.

“What do you mean home?” She stood and at least relished in the missing weight of the Teir on her chatelaine. “With Mother gone, I’ll just be in some dorm room.”

Behind his desk, Zeynel sank into his armchair, and it creaked under his weight. His back faced the view of shadowed towers and turrets on a cloudy night. “I’ve made arrangements for you to stay in the flat until the end of the quarter.” His hand rose to the glass screen. He was done with her. “But maybe you should’ve gone with her.”

With half the Teir in her pocket? As if he wanted that to happen. Probably wouldn’t have been a job well done if she hadn’t brought it back. This was the outcome he’d wanted. She shouldn't take any blame for putting the Teir in danger by bringing it back. The blame was entirely his.

Malou left him to his meeting, closing his office door behind her. If he thought this would keep her away from whatever secrets he was keeping from her, he would discover that he’d made her want to find out what he’d been hiding even more.

“Laure, I want your recording of that in my inbox,” Malou said, following the hallway and kneading her fingernails into her palms. “Along with all of our other conversations. Especially the ones when we talked about the Teir or Dad."

“Easy enough. “

“And I want you to watch the cams for him going forward. Obviously, he’ll disable them if whatever he’s doing is important enough, but that’s all I need.”

“Quite the stalker you’re becoming,” Laure said, but Malou didn’t care.

“Also, if you could compile everything Dad has said told me about the Teir and magic—” She opened the giant doors to the foyer, only to face Zeynel’s mother, Premier Aina Casals, and her perfectly pulled back gray hair.

“I’ll have it transcribed for you to read through later,” Laure said, and Malou couldn’t have been more thankful.

“Malou,” Premier Casals said, sweeping Malou into a hug—one so tight and so complete that she could feel the older woman’s strong cheekbones crushed against her own. “What a surprise.”

Premier Casals was one of Malou’s utmost favorite people, the kind of person whose smile brightened anyone’s mood. Although she had the same eyes as Zeynel, the older woman had the most regal air about her, from the angle of her chin to the gentle way she held a teacup. Except when she was doting on Malou or talking shit about Zeynel.

When the older woman pulled away, she released a chuckle. “How’re you, sweetheart?”

“Tired. I was just heading home. Or whatever it is I should be calling it.” Malou hadn’t intended to speak her mind like that. Maybe she was more bothered about her mother leaving than she thought.

“You can call it whatever you want, sweetie.” Premier Casals tilted her head, likely assessing Malou’s expression as easily as Zeynel had when she’d first stepped into his office. She was Malou’s grandmother in all but blood and knew her as well as he did, if not better. “But if you want my opinion, and of course you do, that flat hasn’t been your home in a long time anyway.”

Maybe it never had been. They’d moved on campus after her father had died—her and her mother and Gavriel. Before that, all four of them had lived closer to the Valois Manor, in a house with a name she couldn’t remember, since primary school. That had felt like home.

They even used to travel to Rielha every summer for her father's research, and she'd roam the sweltering streets with the son of Zeynel's cousin. She called Estravenza University home the short while they were there. Moving there wouldn't bring back that time, either.

“Besides,” Premier Casals continued, “you know I have a spare bedroom ever since I kicked out Zeynel and would love the company. I love you dearly, like my own grandchild. I might even love you more than my own brat. And I will always be here for you. Now, give me another hug before I go. As much as I enjoy pissing off the fruit of my labor, he gets rather annoying if I’m too late.”

With the premier grumbling and rolling her eyes, they shared a quick embrace. The premier opened one side of the double doors for Malou, sent her off with a playful push and a lyrical laugh. They exchanged words of affection, and then Malou was finally alone.

Her anger from earlier hadn't dissipated, but her mind was clearer. If she didn't need her mother to keep her safe, she didn't need the truth from Zeynel. She'd find it herself.