Chapter 4 FIRST LIES FIRST TRUTH

Thursday slid in the way important days usually do,,wearing the mask of an absolutely normal one.

Seraphine spent the days before building her routines with the kind of precision you use when you’re setting up a life, or a lie. Morning commute. Office. Lunch at the deli on Prentice Street, the chickpea stew, honestly, was worth getting up for. Then the same path back home to the townhouse. Every night, she read through the files Cassiel left for her, slipped onto the kitchen counter with a casual air that said, “no pressure,” but also said, “read these.”

And she did. She read them all.

She’d been a fast reader since she was six, ever since her mother and that word always made her pause now, it made something inside her recalibrate because her mother wasn’t dead, sat her down and said, “If you’re going to spend your whole life around people who talk, you need to learn to handle a lot of information.” Even the old ghost that once haunted their house agreed. She thought it made sense.

The files were:

The Boundary Accords: Four hundred pages of legalese that tasted like chewing notebook paper, but she powered through. It was the foundation for everything.

The Conclave: Who ran it, who made up the factions, plus Cassiel’s notes in the margins. The notes helped more than the official documents.

Hollow Speaker details: Abilities, classifications,stuff that confirmed what Cassiel had already said, then took it further. She finished reading and had to just sit quietly for a while, letting it wash over her. The scope of all she’d done, without ever really knowing, kind of left her breathless.

The Regulation Sweep, from eleven years ago. Partial file. Parts were missing but she was good at reading what wasn’t there as much as what was.

She was halfway through her notes on the Sweep when her phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. The Warden would like to discuss the arrangement in person tonight. The townhouse, 7pm - C

She thought about her own rule: my schedule, not his. She replied: Tell the Warden the townhouse is my space. If he wants to talk, he can suggest a neutral spot. I’m free Sunday evening. Three minutes of radio silence.

Then: He says Sunday is acceptable. He’ll send the address. Also, the symbol on your windowsill is a Veil Ward. It’s for protection, not a threat. The diplomat put it there herself.

Seraphine looked at the photo on her phone, then stared at the ceiling. Tell him, she texted back, I’d have liked to know that two days ago before I started worrying about it.

He says: noted.

She put the phone down. In the corner, the Eastern Courts diplomat’s ghost made a tiny sound, amused, or as close as a ghost can get.

“You put a ward on the window,” Seraphine said.

The ghost looked at her. Like, obviously.

“To protect the room.”

Again: What else do you think a ward is for?

“So... who were you protecting it from?”

That wiped the amusement away. The ghost went still. Something ancient settled in.

“From him?” Seraphine said, “Vayne?”

The ghost didn’t say yes, but she definitely didn’t say no. She just turned away, which in ghost speak meant: we’re not having this conversation.

Seraphine made a note. Mirela Voss, now, she was exactly what you’d expect from the Academy’s leading expert on Boundary Accord powers if you pictured a seventy-year-old exploding with energy, reading glasses perched on her head, forever delighted by her work like a child with a magnifying glass and an anthill.

“Sit, sit,” Mirela said, ushering Seraphine into a room that was one part library, one part lab, and completely overwhelming. Books lined every wall. One whiteboard was crowded with diagrams Seraphine couldn’t even guess at. “You drink tea? Of course you do. I have excellent oolong.”

The Academy looked from outside like some fancy school. Inside, it was that, plus classes on supernatural powers and something called “cross-veil competency training.” She found a brochure in the hallway and pocketed it for later.

Mirela sat across from her at a cluttered table and studied her, eyes sharp and curious. Like a scientist who’d just found something entertaining.

“Hollow Speaker,” she said. “No supervision for twenty-three years. How many ghosts are you carrying around, right now?”

Seraphine blinked. “Carrying?”

“As in, hosting. Partial presence?”

She hesitated. “There’s Marcus in my office building. The diplomat, at the townhouse. My grandmother checks in sometimes, off and on. Sometimes random people, ghosts on the street, but they usually don’t stay. Is that what you mean?”

Mirela nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “They follow you because your field’s open. Like you’ve left the door cracked, and they wander in. Any of them ever become full presences? Ever been fully possessed, on purpose or not?”

“No. Never.” She paused. “Is that even possible?”

“For untrained Hollow Speakers, yes. For trained ones, only with consent.” Mirela looked up. “You’ve been lucky. Or just very intuitive. Maybe both.” She set down her pen. “So, tell me what you think you do.”

Seraphine accepted the tea, Mirela was fast, like she lived on the stuff.

“I hear them,” Seraphine said. “The dead. Not always in words, but I get images, feelings, sometimes it’s just like talking. I can answer. They hear me too. And apparently, I let them hitch a ride sometimes, without really noticing.”

“The lip thing,” Mirela said.

“Cassiel mentioned that.”

“Partial anchoring. You let them in just a little, let them speak through you for a few seconds. Your body becomes a medium. Honestly, not many figure that out on their own,,it’s advanced stuff for someone untrained.” Mirela paused. “The Conclave cares a lot about what you’ll be able to do, not just what you’re doing now.”

“Like what?” Seraphine asked.

Mirela peered at her over her glasses. “You know how communication works with the Veil, the line between life and death? Usually, there are rules. The dead can anchor to sensitive people, leave messages, and show up in the right conditions but a fully developed Hollow Speaker does more. You can carry them back across. This is not full resurrection or forever, but you can bring a consciousness over, give it form,let it move, speak, and be present for a while. That’s rare. The Conclave wants access. There are things on the other side they want to question, witnesses, knowledge. And frankly, there are people who’d pay a fortune to talk to the dead properly.”

“I’m not a hotline,” Seraphine said.

“No, you’re a lot more than that.” Mirela almost smiled. “But you can see why people with power see you as valuable.”

“Asset.” Seraphine rolled the word around, not liking it. Cassiel had said it. She was pretty sure Vayne thought it, too.

“The Lord Warden,” Mirela said, carefully, “has his own interests. They overlap with the Conclave’s, but not perfectly.”

“What does he want?”

Mirela was silent, considering. “That’s his story to tell.”

“But you know.”

“I’ve got theories.”

“And you won’t share?”

“I think he should, not me.” She picked up her tea. “He’s complicated, Seraphine. The old ones always are but he’s consistent. In my experience. He does what he says.”

Seraphine remembered his steady voice, his gold eyes. The way he answered questions like every word cost him something.

“Does he lie?”

“He withholds.” Mirela didn’t mince words. “He’s had centuries of practice but lying outright? I’ve never caught him. Maybe he’s honest or maybe he’s just that good.”

“Great,” Seraphine muttered. “Really comforting.”

“I never promised comfort,” Mirela said. “I said education.” She set her cup down. “Now, let’s focus on what you actually are, what you can do, and most importantly, how to avoid dragging forty ghosts into a Conclave gala and terrifying everyone.”

Seraphine leaned in. “I’m listening,” she said.

Honestly, it might have been the truest thing she’d ever said.