I stop, blocking the flow of foot traffic. “They were—oh, Finn.” I suppose I should have realized, or at least suspected, but he only told me they were dead. Suddenly, the fact that Finn appeared in the city out of nowhere, striving to make connections and immersing himself in magical society without forming any real friendships makes perfect sense.
“Have you . . . do you have any idea who did it?”
His eyes darken like a cloud passing over the sun. “No. I thought for a time it was Lord Downpike, but his alibi is airtight.”
“How?”
“He was in jail that evening. Picked a fight in a tavern and nearly killed two men.”
“But a man of his skills, surely—”
“They have special cells for the nobility. There is no way he could have been out that night.”
“But with magic, maybe he set something up? Did it . . . long distance?”
“It was . . . messy. Whoever did it took his time, and he did not use magic. Not for the end. It was personal for him. As near as I could tell, my father was killed first, and then my mother . . .” He passes a hand over his eyes. “It was not the work of someone uninvested in the outcome.”
“Finn, I . . .”
He looks down the sidewalk. His face is once again composed and carelessly handsome. “
This isn’t our concern right now. It will keep. I can’t be focused on it when other things hang in the balance. I never found the information I sought, but I find enough else to trouble me.”
Before he can resume walking, I circle his waist with my arms and pull him close, nuzzling my face into his neck. Here I was, bemoaning my fate for being drawn into a conflict for a country I don’t love. Finn has given up something deeply personal and tragic to protect others. He’s noble in the sense of the word that matters. “I am so sorry.”
His back muscles loosen, and he pushes his face against my hair, breathing deeply. “Thank you.”
A woman passing us clears her throat and whistles approvingly. Sharing a small, sad smile, we resume walking, nearly to the school grounds.
“She would have loved you,” Finn says. “They both would have.”
“I wish I could have met them. And I’m sorry you have to meet my father.”
We enter the building, the smell of ancient wood and dust and leather making me homesick for my cozy library carrel.
Outside Professor Miller’s office door, Finn taps his cane against the frame.
“Yes, yes, sorry, I am nearly done, just a moment, I have it right here for you, Lord—” The door opens, and my father’s squinted and puffy eyes open wider in surprise. “Oh. Hello.”
“Lord who?”
Professor Miller wipes his forehead nervously, a sheath of papers clutched to his chest. “What?”
“Which lord were you expecting?” Finn snatches the papers. I remember how his assertive airs used to infuriate me, but today I am grateful for how they cow my father. “This is another of your articles extolling the benefits of imposing Albion on the continent. Who are you giving it to?”
“I . . . we haven’t been introduced. Jessamin?”
Finn walks forward, forcing my father to stumble back into his office. Without asking, he crosses to the other side of the desk and begins opening drawers, looking through them. “I have no desire to be introduced to you. You don’t deserve your daughter, and I won’t do you the courtesy of pretending to be polite.”
Professor Miller stutters. “That’s private. You can’t be in here.”
Finn pulls on a drawer, but it won’t budge. He taps it with his cane, muttering a single word, and it pops open.
“Hey! How . . . you can’t, and I . . . I’m calling for the guards.” I let him walk past me. I don’t care enough to stop him.
“Interesting.” Finn pulls out a small pistol and lays it on the desk. “And more interesting.” In his hands is a bundled stack of envelopes. He pulls off the top one and hands it to me. In the corner, where a return address goes, is stamped: THE OFFICE OF HIS LORDSHIP, THE MINISTER OF DEFENSE.
“What does it mean?” I ask.