Which meant the Inquisitor, when she regained consciousness, would have the image of Princess Ariadne and the canary imprinted in her mind. She would need no time to find out that Princess Ariadne had never owned a canary in her life.

And then she would remember that she and Titus had not been entirely alone in the Inquisition Chamber.

It was only Kashkari, Wintervale, and Iolanthe for tea.

“His Highness is still puking?” asked Wintervale.

“Not anymore,” said Iolanthe. “All the same, he doesn’t want to smell fried sausages. He’ll have a few water wafers in his room.”

Wintervale gestured at the spread of food on his desk. “Well then, tuck in.”

“How was your trip home, Fairfax?” asked Kashkari. “And will your family come for the Fourth of June?”

Iolanthe took a sip of tea, buying herself a few seconds to think. At least she knew for certain her family would not be coming for the Fourth of June, whatever that was. “They start for Bechuanaland this week, actually. And you, gentlemen, how is life away from home?”

“I am always in favor of life away from home,” answered Wintervale with a sigh.

“What do you do on holidays then?”

“Wait for school to begin again.”

What did one say to something like that? “Is it as bad for you, Kashkari?”

“No, I miss home—a round trip to India takes six weeks, so it’s only during the summer that I get to see my family. I wish I didn’t have to attend school so far away.”

“Why did you decide to attend school so far from home?” She’d seen a few other Indian boys in uniform, so at least he wasn’t the only one.

“The astrologer said I should.”

“Astrologer?”

Kashkari nodded. “We have these complicated charts drawn up when we are born. For every major decision in life, we consult the astrologer—preferably the one who drew up the chart—and he tells us the auspicious and sometimes the necessary paths to take.”

It sounded remarkably like what mages did with their birth charts. “So you are not here because you want to be, but because it was in the stars.”

“One doesn’t argue with what has been preordained.”

Something in Kashkari’s voice reminded her of the prince’s, when the latter spoke of the futility of trying to escape one’s destiny.

Wintervale reached for a piece of sausage. “I think you put too much stock in the stars.”

His elbow knocked over his tea mug. They all leaped up. Kashkari reached for a towel next to Wintervale’s washstand. Iolanthe lifted a stack of books out of the way.

Behind the books stood a small, framed picture—a family portrait, a man, a woman, and a young boy between them. Iolanthe nearly dropped the books. The boy was obviously Wintervale nine or ten years ago. His father looked vaguely familiar, but his mother’s face she recognized instantly.

The madwoman who’d tried to suffocate her in the portal trunk.

“Your family?” she asked, hoping her tone wasn’t too sharp.

“Except my father is no more. And my mother hasn’t been the same since he died.”

That was one way of saying his mother was a murderous lunatic. “Is that why you don’t like holidays?”

“She’s actually all right most of the time. I just never know when she won’t be.” Wintervale took the towel from Kashkari and wiped away the spilled tea. He tossed aside the towel, poured more tea for himself, and sat down. “I think we should do something about your bowling technique, Fairfax. You’ve great attack, but your arm and shoulder don’t quite align as they should.”

Through Titus’s half-open door, the din of thirty-some boys at leisure washed in wave by wave: boots and brogues stomping up and down the stairs; junior boys hauling trays of dirty dishes, plates and silverware jangling; the house officers, in their common room across the passage, debating the differences between the Eton football game and the Winchester football game.

He sat on his bed, his back against the wall. The Crucible lay open on his lap, and a stranger’s face stared at him. If he had ever doubted the efficacy of the Irreproducible Charm that had been cast on Fairfax, here was his proof. He was usually competent with pen and ink, but the rendering he had attempted of her face was outright unrecognizable.

He tapped his wand against the page. The ink lifted from the illustration in a swirl and returned to the reservoir of his fountain pen. Sleeping Beauty now lay on her bed without a face, amidst all the details of dust and cobweb he had added over the years. He tapped his wand again, and her original features returned, pretty and insipid.

A rap at his door. He looked up to see Fairfax closing the door behind her. She pointed at the wand in his hand. He set a sound circle.

“When were you going to tell me that the woman who tried to kill me is Wintervale’s mother?”

He enjoyed the sight of her on the warpath, her eyes narrowed with indignation—a girl who emanated power with her very presence.

“I did not want your views of Wintervale, who is perfectly sane, colored by what you think of his mother.”

“What would have happened if I were to run into her?”

“You would not. She does not come to school, and none of us are ever invited to visit her house. Besides, even if you do, she has no idea what you look like.”

She was far from mollified. “Is this something you would have wanted to know, were you in my place?”

“Yes,” he had to admit.

“Then extend me the same courtesy.”

He sighed. It was difficult for him, having so long held everything close to the chest, to share all his secrets and hard-won intelligence. But she had a point—and not everything needed to wait until he was dead.

“Besides, you give me too little credit if you think I am going to judge a boy by his mother. If I can bring myself to see you in a sympathetic light, Wintervale has nothing to fear.”

Warmth crept up the back of his neck. “You see me in a sympathetic light?”

She drew back and cast him a scornful look. “Sometimes. Not now.”

He patted the bed. “Come here. Let me change your mind.”

She made a face. “With more fairy tales of your wand’s powers?”

He smiled. Her arrival might have turned over the hourglass on what remained of his life, but before she came, he never smiled. Or laughed.

“You are still my subject, so sit down on the command of your sovereign. He will show you his domain.”

He taught her how to get in and navigate the Crucible by herself—not only the practice cantos, but also the teaching cantos, which she hadn’t even known existed.

The teaching cantos was a small palace built of pale-pink marble, with clear, wide windows and deeply receded loggias. Inside, a double-return staircase led to a gallery that encircled the soaring reception hall. Along the gallery marched doors of different sizes, colors, and ornateness.

The first one they came to was black and glassy, an entire slab of obsidian that glittered with grape-sized diamonds arranged in constellations.

“This is Titus the Third’s classroom.”

“Titus the Third himself is inside?”

Titus III ranked as one of the most remarkable rulers of the House of Elberon, alongside Titus the Great and Hesperia the Magnificent.

“A record and a likeness of him. He was the one who constructed the Crucible, so his is the first classroom.”

Next to the obsidian door was a plaque that that bore Titus III’s name. And beneath that, a list of topics that stretched all the way to the floor.

“He was an expert on all those subjects?”

“Most of them—he was a learned man. But his knowledge was for his time.” The prince tapped on the list, and a bramble of annotations spread over the original engraved letters.

Iolanthe peered closer. On the subject of Potions, a number of comments had been left.

Archaic recipes. Go to Apollonia II for simpler, more effective recipes.—Tiberius.