Page 41 of Avalon Tower

Mentally, I translate that he’s just invited her to a banquet.

“Uh.” Serana fidgets. “I’d say…”

“Le pléksiúr mo stór,” I whisper at her, hiding my lips with my hands. I’d be happy to, sir.

“Le pleksisigur mo sotror,” Serana shouts.

Amon frowns. “I don’t know what my uncle has to do with it, and he would never do that to a cow. Nia, since you seem to know the answer, what would you say?”

I clear my throat. “Le pléksiúr mo stór. Ani rak gúna nua de dhíth.”

He raises an eyebrow and asks me in Fey, “You already know some Fey?”

“A bit,” I answer back in Fey. “I’ve been told my accent isn’t great. I learned from books, and it doesn’t have much similarity to other languages I know.”

“How many other languages do you know?”

I start counting on my fingers. “English, French, Italian, Spanish, and some Arabic. I like languages, and there were so many language books in the shop where I worked.”

“Language is the cloak of the gods,” he says.

It’s a line from a Fey poem, and I answer with the next line, doing my best to make my accent sound like his. “But silence is their true form.”

There’s a hint of a smile underneath that beard of his. “Well,” he says, “I don’t know if you were told, but this is a very basic class. I think you belong with my more advanced students.”

CHAPTER 12

I’ve been summoned to see Raphael. My nerves flutter as I stand outside the aged oak door to his office. It’s true that I have magical skills MI-13 needs, but for the past week, something has become clear: I don’t have the knack for almost any of the spycraft skills.

I’m only good at one thing: languages. Everything else is a disaster. I can’t follow someone without him noticing, or pay attention to specific signals, or plan complex subterfuge missions. When physical strength is required, I get crushed. After every self-defense class, bruises cover my ribs and thighs. During obstacle course training, I almost broke my leg. By this point, most of the cadets are wondering what I’m doing here.

So, the moment Raphael summoned me, I knew what it was about.

Standing outside his door, I’m gripped by a growing certainty that I’m about to be kicked out of the academy.

I hadn’t wanted to join the academy at first. And I’ve spent the past week getting screamed at by Viviane every morning at six. Tarquin and his band of Pendragon bootlickers make a point to leer and mock me at every chance. There goes the transportation, everyone gets a ride… And now that I’ve proven myself bad at everything, everyone agrees I don’t belong here.

I should be delighted at the prospect of getting out of this place.

But honestly? I like it here. I have new friends, plural. Not only that, but I have the chance to be someone important, to change the world for the better.

And besides that, I get to live in a literal castle.

Here, I’m not just Nia Melisende the lonely, broke bookseller anymore. I have the chance to become a godsdamned Sentinel.

And now, standing outside the door, I imagine leaving. Returning to a one-bedroom apartment to live with Mom, lacerating, soul-destroying loneliness my only companion as I watch her pass out every day and take drugs all night, then get sick in the living room.

I really need to knock on his door at this point, because I’ve been standing here like a weirdo for ten minutes.

Even the entrance to his workspace seems intimidating. Leering gargoyles are carved over the gothic arch, and a metal knocker in the shape of a hand hangs on the door. I force myself to grab the knocker and bang it against the wood.

“Come in.” His deep voice penetrates the door.

When I step inside, I find him sitting in a leather chair before his mahogany desk. A fire crackles on the hearth, and light slants through the narrow windows in the stone wall. It’s cozy in here, with the warmth from the fireplace and candles burning in a candelabra. The light seems to caress him, highlighting his muscular form and rolled-up sleeves.

I absolutely will not think about what he looked like without a shirt.

He’s frowning at a paper on his desk.