Two weeks passed since Madam Asena's Magnificent Carnival vanished like morning mist, taking with it the only moments of practical freedom I had since Oliver's death. The familiar rhythm of Braxmond returned—smokestacks belching their endless streams, foundry hammers beating their industrial heartbeat, steam engines shrieking through the grey dawn. Yet something fundamental had shifted. More than half of the workers never returned to the factory floors. Moreover, Kuznetsov Industries had suffered worse with about a third returning. And there were more accidents and missing person reports—newspapers that still came would alarm and was my only escape from the estate.
"Another tutor has declined our offer." Mother set down her correspondence with a sharp click against the mahogany breakfast table. "That makes seven this week."
Father's knuckles whitened around his coffee cup. Dark circles shadowed his eyes deeper each day as his quotas have fallen behind. "What excuses this time?"
"The same whispered nonsense—that Rhylorin is cursed, that strange incidents follow him." Mother's voice was tense. "Lord Harwick's daughter apparently had nightmares after their last tea together. Complete fabrication, of course."
Through the dining room windows, I watched rain hitting the stained glass, washing away the soot in streaks of dark droplets. Fall thunderstorms had come down from the northern mountains and steam radiance danced in the mixture—somehow giving me peace in this constant hunt for a mentor. Also, anything to keep my mind of what Madam Asena told me in her tent was also becoming difficult.
"The Tundrathan contracts won't wait for superstitious fools." Father stabbed his fork into eggs that remained untouched. "Three airships promised by autumn, and we can barely staff one shift properly. We may have to downsize our comfort to ensure the factory does not go in the red."
"Perhaps we should consider—" Mother half-attempted to speak when she was cut off.
"No." Father's palm slammed against the table, rattling glasses and plates. "I won't hire replacement workers at inflated wages from other factories, and I certainly won't sell off the contracts—airships are of Kuznetsov Industries, period!"
"The boy needs education, Gregor," she bluntly said. "Those costs are a requirement. He cannot remain isolated and doing nothing indefinitely."
"I know that Elenya," Father's gray eyes fixed on me with familiar intensity but both parent's conversation carried out like I wasn't present at all. "Private tutors are refusing… even with double the rates. I was meaning other expenses regardless…"
I pushed eggs across my plate, appetite long gone. The workers' faces were haunted with fear when they looked at me, they whispered warnings about iron fangs and breathing metal. Even now, sitting in our pristine dining room, I could feel their nightmares pressing against the edges of my consciousness like shadows gathering at dawn. Whatever was happening to Braxmond, whatever curse or blessing flowed through my veins, it was spreading deep within the city's underbelly, and the Mortal Instruments held a strong control of the discontent. And I still didn't understand what I was becoming.
The void claimed me each night. Not sleep—something emptier, like falling through black water where dreams should thrive. I'd close my eyes at midnight and open them at dawn with no memory of the hours between, no sense of rest or restoration. Just absence, as if some essential part of me had been carved away.
"I'll attempt again today to find someone," Mother said. My mind refocused in this moment yet strangely felt like I was in a vision even at the table. "I'll triple the rates if none decide Rhylorin is worth being around, but we will find a good fit."
I decided any words from me would be useless, so I excuse myself from the table to make for our family library, now transformed into my makeshift study. Marble floors had stacked shelves stretched toward painted ceilings, filled with centuries of Kuznetsov knowledge—industrial patents, detailed maps of city districts and prominent family ownership, and the histories of Braxmond's rise from mining settlement to brass empire. Father had ordered the heavy oak desk to be moved here from his study, its surface scarred by years of contract negotiations and factory blueprints.
The tarot reading haunted me more than any nightmare could. Madam Asena's words echoed: approaching tragedy and learning my magic. I'd pulled every book that crossed my mind for the topic of divination from the dusty upper shelves, searching for rational explanations for what felt like cosmic inevitability. Literally nothing in this library made any mention of such a study until I found a tiny journal, holding the same engraved marking the pocket watch Mother gave me.
The personal log lay open beside my elbow; their pages yellowed with age. There was no author however one entry read "psychological manipulation exploiting natural human anxieties." Yet the cards had revealed truths that no stranger should know—my isolation among Academy peers, the weight of Father's expectations, the growing chasm between my privileged existence and the how the life I've known turned into dust. Also, the very fact that someone else, Ayla, confirmed I was in her dream makes it hard to ignore these supernatural things happening.
What approaching tragedy? Oliver's death felt like ancient history now, yet the punished seemed to many a far cry from what other would have suffered. The Mortal Instruments still plastered broadsheets with my likeness, calling for "justice against the privileged." Perhaps that was the loss Madam Asena had foreseen—not death, but exile from everything I'd known.
The brass clock chimed eleven as Mother's voice carried through the corridor, "Professor Aldwin, thank you for coming despite the... circumstances."
Footsteps approached—measured, academic. I straightened in the leather chair, closing the divination texts and arranging more respectable volumes on mechanical sciences across the desk's surface.
Professor Aldwin entered with Mother, a thin man whose thick glasses perched precariously on a narrow nose. His gaze swept the library's grandeur before settling on me with unconcealed nervousness.
"Lord Rhylorin." His bow was precise but shallow. "Hope you're not interrupted by my entry."
Mother gestured toward the chair across from mine. "Your resume seems fitting for this position and as I mentioned, we'll be willing to pay over the rates of any school in Braxmond."
"Indeed." The professor remained standing, hands clasped behind his back. "Though I must confess, recent events give me pause. I'll remain mute on the topics but out of respect for my son's employment here—looking into the offer was proper. Do thank your husband for accepting him into the new flight school he has planned."
I met his gaze steadily, "I do not recognize you… where did you teach?"
"I teach in the Merchant's district," He adjusted his spectacles. "I am a man of arithmetic and worked serval years ago at the academy."
"Again, very delightful you came," Mother's smile never wavered through her words, though her fingers remained locked on themselves with nerves, "Rhylorin is an intelligent young man seeking proper education."
"Perhaps." Professor Aldwin studied me like a specimen under glass. "Tell me, Lord Rhylorin—what was your ledger prior to… well, umm… your current circumstances?"
"First mark in my class," I answered. "No disciplinary action and was accelerated in both science and mathematics."
Something flickered behind his spectacles—surprise, or relief. "Interesting. Most accounts suggest as much." He coughed slightly and pulled a napkin from his coat then wiped his chin, "Other accounts do suggest there is something dangerous about you. You understand my concern."
"Then most accounts are wrong." I leaned forward slightly. "If it is words of the Mortal Instruments that you lean on—they're wrong."
Professor Aldwin's posture relaxed fractionally. "A rational approach. Yes, I believe we might find common ground after all."
Professor Aldwin excused himself after an hour, citing urgent matters that required immediate attention. The relief in his voice was unmistakable—he'd done his duty by considering the position, but proximity to the "cursed Kuznetsov heir" clearly unsettled him more than gold could overcome.
Mother escorted him to the main entrance while I remained in the library, staring at the mechanical engineering texts we'd barely touched. Through the tall windows, I watched his carriage disappear into Braxmond's perpetual haze with unseemly haste.
"Out of his mind, that one," Mother's voice carried resignation as she returned. "Asking for five times the rates and in advance. That makes it eight because there is no way your father would accept such accommodation. Perhaps we should—"
A firm knock echoed through the entrance hall, followed by the housekeeper's muffled greeting. Mother's eyebrows lifted with curiosity as heavy footsteps approached the library.
"Lady Elenya?" The voice cracked with a familiar tone. "I trust I'm not too late to submit my application."
Professor Deyric filled the doorway like a thunderstorm contained in academic robes. His white beard crackled with energy, eyes bright blue-white beneath bushy brows. The scent of rain and old parchment followed him—head cocked and grinning with glee.
"Professor Deyric!" Mother's genuine smile was the first I'd seen in weeks. "What brings you here?"
"Employment, I'm afraid to disclose," he announced with oddly placed pride as he strode into the library with confident steps. "The Academy has become sour to me since recent events. Supporting one's students shouldn't leave fellow peers obtuse, yet apparently it does in these irregular times."
My body filled with unexpected excitement, "you're applying to be my tutor?"
"Affirmative, Lord Rhylorin," Professor Deyric's shouts. His gaze swept the bookshelves approvingly. "A mind like yours shouldn't languish due to institutional cowardice. Besides—" His eyes twinkled with mischief. "I've grown tired of teaching students who memorize formulas without understanding the forces behind them."
Mother clasped her hands together. "Professor, this is most generous, but the circumstances... the whispered accusations..."
"Pah!" He waved dismissively. "I've weathered stranger storms than teenage gossip and political posturing. The boy showed genuine genius in my class and those rare qualities that deserve development!"
"But surely the Academy provides better resources, more prestigious—"
"Resources?" Professor Deyric's laughter rumbled like distant thunder. "My dear Lady Elenya, look at your family's collection of knowledge. Surely, we have everything here for me to compile a lesion or two."
"I don't know what say Professor," Mother seemed to be nearly in tears as she went over to shack the man's hand. "And about the rates? You know we are willing to pay double for your trouble."
"No trouble at all," he dismissed. "Standard rates are just. It would be my privilege and honor to train the lad as his tutor."
Mother turned and gave me a smile and turned back, "well then, I'll make sure your contract reflects your accommodation. It will take a moment as most of the our clerks are tied up in business matters but by the end of the day—it will be ready to sign."
"Excellent," Professor Deyric cheered. "Do not exhaust your efforts on my employment Lady Elenya—trust your word as your bond and I'll be keenr to start this morning."
"Oh, well… I guess I'll leave the two of you to it," she said. "Rhylorin… do have a good day with your new instructor."
"I will Mother," I answered. "I love you."
"Love you as well," she responded then walked out of the library with a couple of house maids coming up to her.
For a moment, nothing was said then Deyric quietly went back out to the hall and pulled in a small wooden wagon. I became puzzled as he shut the door behind him and then proceeded to unhook a couple of latches holding a large chest closed in the wagon. When the box opened, the professor appeared to catch fire—tips of his electrified hair smoldering—eyes blazing with blue flames, and cloths radiating heat from the fabric.
"Divination is a curious topic," Professor Deyric laughed with a thunderous taunt. "Mystics of the Covenant by reason and fact, are the gatekeepers of the Gypsies and to transcend in your power—you must be taught by a master of sorcery. Just so happens that is what I am Lord Rhylorin and so… are you ready to begin?"