As time rushed towards the end, Faith, like Ash, wrapped up the project most important to her: setting up Wester Haig to infiltrate the Church. Already he was reporting to her every week after my beginner fencing lesson, and I could see the effects in how he interacted with his fellow students.

That was, in how strategically he selected his friends.

Although one of the junior Penderyns, an affable, generous young man, was the first to welcome Wester and even made a point of integrating him into the young nobles, Wester soon distanced him to ingratiate himself with the Dunvils and Rowans. Most of that crowd were either attending or planning to attend Doskvol Academy, and their conversations revolved around what the application process involved, how low the acceptance rate was, and what university life was like.

“I’m applying to the College of Imperial Science,” one Dunvil declared, puffing out her chest. “My parents expect me to serve the Imperium after I graduate, of course.”

Her Rowan friend cast her a pitying look and bragged, “I’m applying to the College of Naval Command. Aunt Veretta has already promised me a post on our leviathan hunter after I graduate.”

For the benefit of Wester, whom everyone knew was my orphan and Mylera’s charity case, a Bowmore explained, “The Colleges of Imperial Science and Naval Command are the hardest to get into. Which one has the lower acceptance rate flipflops from year to year, so there’s a bit of competition between the two.” He smirked. “And by ‘a bit,’ I mean that they abhor each other. They solicit underqualified applicants just so they can reject them.”

“And get their coin, of course. Those application fees add up,” the Dunvil chuckled.

With a show of bravado that fooled his new friends, Wester announced, “Miss Karstas plans to send me to the College of Immortal Studies.”

Judging from the sympathetic expressions on their faces, that was the least prestigious school. (However, it was the one in which the highest percentage of professors had ties to the Church of Ecstasy – and the Spirit Wardens. Wester detested cults.)

“Ah, theology,” said the Rowan, testing out the word. “That’s…admirable.”

“No,” interjected the Bowmore, “Immortal Studies only started out as Doskvol Academy’s theology department. Now it also has departments for history, philosophy, spectrology, pre-Cataclysm studies, music, and theater. What are you going to major in, Wester?”

(Not theater, I’d guess – although he might want to minor in it.)

“Either theology or spectrology,” he declared. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, plenty of time to pick a major after you’re in!” Clapping him on the shoulder, the Rowan started rambling on about the houses at Doskvol Academy, which were apparently sort of like the dorms at Charterhall University but much fancier. They were actually repurposed mansions that hired elite chefs and even had their own ranking system. Doskvol Academy, it appeared, was all about prestige. “You need connections to get into the best house, but don’t worry – we’ll get you in with us,” she promised.

From the grim determination on Wester’s face, he was calculating how to maximize his chances of getting into the university at all.

But it would end up being easier than he thought.

While Wester was making the appropriately prestigious friends who would get him into the appropriately prestigious house, Faith was meeting with one of the official examiners. For the price of one coin, she bought a copy of the entrance exam itself.

“Now, I’m not a huge fan of cheating,” she simpered at Ash and me when she caught us poring over the questions and testing our own knowledge. “And by that, I mean that I’m not a huge fan of letting Wester know that he’s cheating. But if my curriculum just happened to be finely tailored to the exam….” With an elaborate shrug, she went back to preparing her lecture notes.

However, the exam (and the exam fee) were only the first hurdle. Supplicants who scored in the top tenth percentile still had to endure three rounds of interviews, the first in Brightstone, the second in Whitecrown, and the third on the hallowed grounds of Doskvol Academy itself. But at least thanks to human frailty, Wester would have no problem with the written exam.

As the young nobles had said, personal connections were very important, so Faith’s next step was to start Wester on a research project that would bring him to the professors’ attention. Assigning him a stack of books on pre-Cataclysm studies, she instructed, “Take notes and write down your questions as you go. I’m afraid I’m just a Strathmill House schoolmistress and may not be able to answer all of them – ” (if that were true, I’d infiltrate the Church for her myself) – “but I have a friend who’s a professor in the College of Immortal Studies. I can refer more advanced questions to him.”

The lie worked as expected: With guidance from Faith, Wester and the professor began to exchange letters that steadily increased in thickness.

As the day of the entrance exam approached, Faith brought in a consultant who specialized in getting commoners accepted to Doskvol Academy. “I don’t normally do things like this,” she assured Wester, “but I’m so excited about having a student who’s worthy of it! I went through my contacts and found someone who tutors non-nobles on how to present themselves appropriately in the interviews.”

The consultant gave Wester pointers on specific phrases and essay structures that the examiners tended to favor, and made final adjustments to his accent, enunciation, and manners. Wester then proceeded to sail through the written exam and the first two rounds of interviews. He did return from the final interview in a state of distress and confessed, white-faced, “Miss Karstas, I don’t think the interviewer liked me.”

Faith, whom I might have expected to scold him for falling at the very last hurdle, only smiled serenely. “Now, Wester, we shall see how much you impressed that professor you’ve been corresponding with.” Her face went severe. “You have impressed him, right?”

She had a knack for terrorizing students. Wester, who’d picked up many of the brash mannerisms of the young nobles, hung his head and scuffed his toe. “I…I think so, Miss Karstas?”

“Then we shall see what happens.”

A few days later, he nearly bowled me over when he went tearing down the hall towards Faith’s office, clutching a fat envelope sealed with the crest of Doskvol Academy. Just before he knocked, he forced back his excitement and adopted a much more calm, aristocratic air. He rapped politely.

“Come in,” called her voice.

He did, holding out the envelope so she could see the seal. “Miss Karstas, I wanted you to know that I got in,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “And I wanted you to know how grateful I am for everything you have done for me.”

She smiled at him, almost warmly. “Wester, it was my honor,” she told him in a sincere tone that might not have been all fake. “You are an excellent student, and this was nothing more than what you deserved. I did not doubt for a moment that you’d get in.”

Caught off guard by her approval, Wester bobbed his head like one of the pigeons in Strathmill Park. “I’ll try to do you proud, miss.”

“Please do,” she commanded. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

Still disoriented, he babbled, “I’ll write. Often.”

She granted him a second smile. “Just remember: Make friends. You usually end up staying friends with the people you meet the first week of school, so keep that in mind.” (That must have been when she’d met Madame Keitel. Probably not Nyryx, though.) “Don’t be intimidated by their mannerisms or ability. You’re just as good as they are,” she stressed.

Looking more confident now that he knew she’d keep supporting him, Wester promised, “Yes, miss.”

“And come visit sometimes.”

“I will, miss.”

And, tucking his acceptance letter under his arm, he headed upstairs to pack.

As soon as he disappeared, I barged into Faith’s office and demanded, “Did you tell him that you’re planning to have him infiltrate the Church?”

Faith’s face had returned to its default expressionless state, but at my entrance, she recoiled. “He’s only seventeen, Isha!” she scolded, feigning shock. “A mere babe! He’s much too young for that sort of thing! Do you fling mere babes into hostile waters in Iruvia just to see if they can figure out how to swim?”

No – but more because the U’Du was a well of flames and not of water. Otherwise I was pretty sure the Houses would do it to all newborn to winnow out the unworthy.

Since I wasn’t passionately defending the honor of Iruvia, Faith rattled on, “Anyway, he’s going to be so overwhelmed for the first one or two years. His academic background is so weak compared to the other students’. He’s going to require so much extra tutoring. Isha, how could you have the heart to suggest that I would send him on a grand spy mission now?”

That was sensible – and also provided her with a way to continue to manipulate him. On the whole, my House would approve. “So you’re expecting him to come back here for remedial lessons, then?”

She grinned, baring lots of bright white teeth. “Eventually I’ll put him to work teaching the younger orphans too. It’ll reinforce his own knowledge.”

“You mean you’ll use him as free labor,” I translated.

“No! It’s entirely for his own good!”

Speaking of things for people’s own good, I vaguely remembered her taking out her vacuum device in the basement of the Crematorium, although I’d been too busy to pay much attention. “How’s your soul doing? Did you collect enough of Elder Rowan’s blood to fix it?”

She opened her eyes wide, as if appalled by the suggestion. (She must be truly distracted by Wester’s news if she were repeating a facial expression in a conversation.) “What makes you say that?”

“Ash said – ”

“Why is Ash spreading malicious rumors about me?” she screeched.

“Uh, because he does that about everyone?” I might have been just a little tad angry at him still for gossiping about my love life to all the children of Crow’s Foot.

Of course, as soon as I agreed with her, Faith changed tack. “I did,” she informed me smugly. “I’m something of a connoisseur of these things, and I’d rate Agravaine’s blood highly. Motes of fire and hints of brimstone, well balanced by a subtle longing for the joy of the alchemical craft.” She smacked her lips. “I didn’t know you appreciated these things, Isha! I’m sorry I didn’t save any for you. Well, next time!”

(Later, Ash told me that she’d more or less patched her soul back together, although it still had gaping holes from all the memories that Madame Keitel had torn out. Those weakened her grasp on humanity.)

“Oh oh! But that reminds me! That taste takes me back! I had a similar essence once. The fire and smoke bit? Wow, I must have been in Iruvia….”

It took all my training not to react.

Watching me very closely, she pursed her lips and mused, “I have a vague glimmer of a memory…. Sitting down outside a pillar of black crystal….”

I flinched in spite of myself. Grandfather’s smugness oozed out from the back of my mind to fill my vision with black tendrils. “What did Ixis want from you?” My voice came out harsher than it should have.

She shook her head so vigorously that her hair flew out in a cloud. “I’m sorry, I just don’t remember anymore!” she cried. “When I came back, I told Madame Keitel to erase every memory of Iruvia whatsoever! Plus I made her promise never ever to let me see those memories ever again! So I guess we’ll never know….” She bounced back a step and giggled.

Grandfather? Explain.

The tendrils of smoke stretched lazily. I thought she might prove a useful asset, Ixis told me, sounding unconcerned and reminding me that he tempted potential assets as a matter of habit. Alas, she declined.

Huh. Who would have thought that Faith and I saw eye-to-eye on such a fundamental level?