I repeat their names in my head: Lockland Ventra. Bastian Mercier. Anthony Falco. Young Ironborn wizards who are close to the High Priest and the University's most influential masters. Ezebel would never sanction this kind of mission. It's too dangerous, too much of a risk. But I've had enough of spying on corrupt old men only out for themselves. Who cares what their association is with the church, who's pockets they're lining, what lies they say to the council? They're all the same. Powerless and weak. If we want change, we have to target those truly in control, not a bunch of pathetic sycophants. Or, if the true leaders are out of reach, their beloved students, sons, and nephews. Lockland Ventra. Bastian Mercier. Anthony Falco. The three are friends, recent graduates who still haven't found the line between flaunting their well-earned position and behaving like spoiled children.

I glance up at the runes engraved into the stone walls as I use my shoulder to push open the door. University buildings are all protected against the fae, but so far I've felt nothing but a slight twinge in the pit of my stomach as I pass their wards. My human parents gave me more than they realized.

The corridors of this building are wide and full of light. Students bustle about in their robes, iron bracelets tinkling. I am careful not to let a drop of the wine spill over the edge of the full pitcher I carry. I move up the first staircase I see. When I reach the quiet of the top floor, I look around once again for wards before lowering my eyes carefully to the polished tile at my feet, the posture of a proper servant.

"Excuse me, Master," I say to an older man with links of iron sewn into his robe. "I was told to bring this to Lockland Ventra, but I have forgotten which room and…"

The man looks up, blinking. He doesn't question my presence, despite only now noticing it. I remember when I used to struggle with that transition, remember yelling at soldiers who couldn't hear me, who were convinced I didn't exist. Years of practice has made these things easy, now. Control your power.

"I'm not a master," the man says, smiling gently. "Just a lowly professor. You're looking for Lockland?" He looks at the pitcher in my hands, the three goblets dangling upside-down from my fingers. A knowing nod, eyebrows raised slightly to show he doesn't quite approve. "I believe he's in the East Parlor with the other boys. Just keep down this corridor; it's the last door on the left."

I enter the room and wait for a moment by the door, taking in my surroundings. This is not like the parlors at the palace. The University uses the word to describe rooms more like studies or small libraries. There are shelves of books in rows at the right side, two long tables in front of the large windows straight ahead. To my left there is a fireplace and a handful of comfortable chairs and chaises. Plush pillows are tucked into little reading corners. Every remaining surface is decorated with elaborate rugs and tapestries.

I recognize the boys from the descriptions I've been told. Lockland Ventra is the son of Morton Ventra, the University's Master Enchanter and the man responsible for perfecting spells that control the minds of others by inflicting excruciating mental pain. From what I've heard, the lanky dark haired boy was not the most brilliant student. He is known to be lazy and entitled, preferring to take advantage of his father's status than prove his own merit. Even the way he wears his expensive robes is sloppy and indifferent, falling off one shoulder and open at the chest. He isn't even wearing shoes.

Bastian Mercier, on the other hand, excelled in many areas of study before he graduated. He has the short-cropped hair and posture of a soldier paired with a weary expression of boredom. I've been told he's the kind of person who wants to take everything apart in order to understand its function. Supposedly, he has a particular fascination for the workings of the human body. The girls at the city brothels are terrified to be alone with him.

And then there's Anthony Falco. Shorter and less traditionally handsome than the other boys, and no familial connections to any of the high-standing members of the University. If his father wasn't one of the church's lesser priests he would be considered peasant-born. When he first came to school people ignored him, so he made his reputation as a bully, using his stocky strength to knock a few heads together and get some of the attention he felt he deserved. Still, it wasn't until Bastian noticed his talent for transmutation and these three became inseparable that his peers saw him as anything other than a dumb thug. Now he's famous for being the one student who turned an annoying professor into a tadpole and got away with it. Apparently the stunt drew attention from Rogemere himself, who thought it was hilarious.

After another moment, I clear my throat softly to get their attention. "Wine?" I ask.

The three of them start, blinking at me in confusion.

"Where did she come from?" Anthony asks.

Lockland laughs. "Doesn't matter. Give me a glass, Girl!"

When they each have a glass, I go back to standing quietly by the door. It doesn't take long for them to forget I'm there. Not entirely, but enough to continue their idle chatter.

"The queen is under the weather," Bastian says, lazily spinning a sphere of glass in the air above his hand. "Master Ellerin was called."

"They suspect magical origins?" Lockland perks up from his spot on a nearby chaise.

"I assume the king is just being overprotective," the other boy says, rolling his eyes. "Magical healing does not mean magical illness."

"They wouldn't call in your uncle for a common ailment," Anthony says. "They have physicians."

"Who pester Ellerin for advice all the time. They're a bunch of incompetent rodents. I'm sure it's nothing. Girl! More wine."

It's hard to determine which of these boys is more narcissistic, but Bastian is by far the most demanding.

"It's disappointing that the king can snap his fingers and have the Master Pneumatist at the bedside of his peasant wife," Lockland says, sneering. "She was born no one; shouldn't she die like it?"

Anthony spits out a bit of wine, coughing.

Bastian looks between the two other boys. "My uncle does not care for the titles and station of one's birth. They're all bodies to him."

Lockland scoffs at that, but says nothing. Anthony glares at him. I notice he has a small iron ring pierced through one of his dark eyebrows.

"Speaking of bodies…" Bastian grins slowly. "Girl, come here!"

I don't move. I'm no one. I don't exist. A ghost, a whisper of wind. Don't look at me.

They all look at me.

Eyes closed, not daring to breathe, I try to listen to my heartbeat, recentering my focus. I can't control my power when I let fear control me. I let out the air out of my lungs slowly, carefully, drawing in another breath and opening my eyes.

"What are you doing?" Lockland asks.

He's talking to Bastian, who is standing in front of me, inches away.

"Who are you?" Bastian asks, narrowing his eyes at me.

"Who?" Anthony asks.

Why is my glamour affecting them, but not Bastian? He looks down at me like I'm an interesting bug he's considering whether to crush beneath his boots.

"Who summoned this girl?" Bastian asks his friends.

"What girl?" Lockland gets up from the chaise, rolling his eyes. "What are you on about this time, Bastian?"

"The one who brought us the wine, you dolt." Bastian points to the goblet in his friend's hand. "Did you ask for it?"

Lockland looks down at the goblet, his expression of irritation turning to confusion.

Deep breaths. Focus. They don't know who I am. I am no one. There was never a girl in this room with them. Just a ghost, a shift of the light, forgotten.

"She's got silver eyes, Lockland. White hair. We've got one." Rather than angry, Bastian sounds excited. "Standing right here in this room."

I sink to my knees. Don't let your fear control you.

Anthony speaks up for the first time since my discovery: "I see her. She's using some sort of stealth spell. Invisibility."

"It's glamour," Bastian says. He reaches to his throat and pulls a thin chain from beneath his shirt. Hanging from the necklace is a glass vial with what looks like a scrap of cloth inside, as well as what looks like a thorny twig. "I used to collect four leaf clovers as a kid, trying to catch one of the sneaky creatures." He grins. "Who knew grandma's superstitions actually held some truth."

Lockland pulls a small leather pouch out of his pocket. "Hold her still. I'll set up a binding spell. Ant, get me some chalk! I'll need three candles, too." The other boy hesitates for a moment before scrambling to follow orders, knocking books and papers off tables in his hasty search for the required materials. Lockland starts to pull the edge of the rug aside to reveal the wood beneath.

I'm kneeling, wedged between the wall and Bastian's body. He starts to crouch into a wide stance, arms spread out on either side to prevent my escape. I have mere moments before I'm thoroughly doomed. I lunge upward, shoving the half-empty wine pitcher at Bastian's chest and snatching at the vial hanging at his neck.

He jumps backwards and exclaims, the force of his abrupt movement helping to snap the chain I grasp in my desperate grip. I stumble into the wall as it gives. Where the iron touches my palm there is a searing pain, but I ignore it. It's time to run.

"What happened?" Lockland asks his friend, scowling. "Since when are you such a clumsy oaf, Bastian? I was drinking that."

Bastian curses. "Just get me something to clean this up, will you?"

I glance back as my hand touches the knob of the door. No one looks my way. Anthony is staring in confusion at the chalk and candles in his hands.

I slip out of the parlor and dash down the corridor, not caring who may see my fleeing form. My training may be to walk slowly and with confidence, projecting the aura that I am where I'm meant to be and should not be questioned, but right now all my instincts are telling me to get out of the University walls as quickly as possible. They probably don't see anyone at all, just a swish of gray skirts or a skittering shadow. I am invisible.

Please, let me be invisible.

…

I drop the vial on Ezebel's desk, chain slithering out of my grasp.

She looks up briefly from the poultice she's grinding. "What's that?" she asks, hands busy with the mortar and pestle.

"Some sort of charm. Four-leaf clovers." I sink into the nearby stool, tucking my injured hand against my body and resting my head on the other.

Ezebel reaches for a jar of what looks like honey, letting a sticky glob of it fall into the leafy pulp she's already created and then stirring it with a small wooden spoon.

"Are you going to explain where you got such a thing?" she asks.

"Off a wizard." I won't lie to her, but I don't have to be forthcoming with the details. What I did was dangerous. I know that.

She looks up at me, eyes narrowed. Strands of wavy white hair are coming loose from her thick braid, giving her an air of wildness. "Who?" she snaps.

"Bastian Mercier. He noticed me, because of it. Saw what I am. So I took it."

She goes to a basin of water and rinses her hands, washing away bright green residue left from smashing together her leafy poultice. She dries them thoroughly with a clean towel, taking her time. Then she reaches towards me. "Let me see it."

She's not talking about the vial. I uncurl my throbbing hand and place it on hers. The iron left a blistering red welt across my palm, skin already broken and pussing where the vial dug the chain in a bit deeper.

"I didn't have another choice," I say, softly.

She grunts. I wait for a lecture, but instead get heavy silence. She takes a jar of ointment from a shelf behind the door and starts to smear it gently onto my hand. Then she wraps a bandage carefully around it, fastening it with a neat knot.

"Is…" I almost don't ask, not because Ezebel's angry with me, but because I'm afraid to know the answer. But I have to know. "Is Lady Katalyn alright?"

She looks surprised. "What?"

"I heard she's ill."

"From who?"

I wince. "The wizard. And his friends."

"Sindred." Her low tone is a warning.

"I went to the University. I wanted information, directly from the source instead of from the mouths of their squealing prey." At her expression I add, "I'm sorry."

I expect fury at my carelessness, and some sort of immediate punishment, but she saves her opinions of my actions for later. "What did they say about the queen? Tell me everything."

"They said Master Ellerin is treating her for some sort of ailment, but that it's not necessarily magical," I say. "The king might simply be overprotective and that's why he wanted her treated by the Ironborn. They didn't know more than that. I assumed you knew."

She seems paler than usual, slightly gray. In a whisper, as though speaking only to herself, she says, "Why would he not have told me?"