“Weird that he ran into you right when you were at the archival tree. Do you think he was there for the quill?” Meadow kicked her boots casually as she sat on the barstool near the counter. I could hear the faint thud of them each time they hit the wood.
“There are lots of reasons he could have been there,” Callan said cautiously. “Hard to know what his motivations are. His loyalties are tied up.” He watched me as I mixed the dry and wet ingredients, and he held out the cake pan when I was ready to pour the batter inside.
“What do you mean?” I asked. Alex had been foremost on my mind when we were fleeing the tree conservatory, but my curiosity about Callan’s brother was intense.
Callan sighed. “My brother works for an… organization. He’s beholden to their directives, not his own moral compass.”
“Way to be cryptic,” Meadow said with a snort.
“Seriously,” I murmured, smoothing the batter then sticking the cake into the oven.
“Throw us a bone,” Meadow said. “Wyatt used to be fun growing up. Then he just disappeared.”
Callan’s gaze dashed to Hollis, who was building a pine needle castle at the dining room table but listening to our conversation. “My brother is… an interesting person. He’s hyper intelligent but not always emotionally so. He made it into a position he’s always wanted, and now, he is jockeying to climb the ladder further. He’ll use anyone—and any scrap of information—to make that happen.”
“What kind of position?” I asked. The previous year, Callan had said he didn’t have the clearance to talk about his brother’s job—or something along those lines. Was that still true? Had anything changed in what we could talk about now that I was part of the Root and Vine Society?
Callan studied me, seeming to consider his next words.
I beat the butter and sugar for the frosting, holding my breath in anticipation of whatever he was going to say next.
“My brother works for the Department of Botanical Intelligence, the DBI.”
Meadow whistled, and the kicking against the counter ceased. “Didn’t see that coming.”
I considered the name and whipped the frosting more quickly. “Intelligence… What? You mean like the botanist’s version of the CIA?”
A ghost of a smile touched Callan’s lips. “Kind of. Without the life-or-death stakes, usually.”
“What kind of work does the DBI do?”
“They keep tabs on the greatest threats to the plant community. My brother is on the team that combats smuggling of rare species.”
“That’s a thing? I’ve heard of animals being smuggled but… plants?”
“Oh yeah,” Hollis pitched in. “Succulents, orchids, cycads. There are massive underground operations for these things.”
I mulled it over as I finished whipping the frosting. Each time I thought I was understanding this world, new information would knock me down several pegs.
“All right, now that we all know Wyatt’s a big shot, are we ready to check out this quill?” Hollis asked, effectively halting our conversation. But I tucked all the information about Callan’s brother away, hoping to discuss it with Callan at a less intense time.
“Thought you’d never ask.” Meadow jumped from the stool and went to Callan’s backpack. She removed the quill from the protective bag and set it on the table. “How do we activate it?”
“A connecting Floracantus. That’s what the old botanists used to tie their quills to the books. Saying it again should refresh it and get the quill to respond,” I said, pulling all the information from what I had researched.
Callan nodded in agreement. “Go ahead, Briar.”
I readied myself, drew on all of my affinities, then said, “Simul sumus,” and the quill shivered.
We each stood completely still as the quill spun slowly on the table. For one moment, it seemed to bobble toward the southeast, but then it began to spin again, occasionally switching directions erratically. My hopes deflated so quickly that I could practically feel them leaving me, like oxygen from a plant’s stomata.
“I take it that didn’t work?” Hollis asked, his question directed at me.
Callan shook his head. His eyebrows were deeply furrowed.
I gathered myself and leaned closer to the quill, reaching out to the oak gall that made up the ancient, preserved ink inside it. There was a snag on my power, and I stilled. Something wasn’t right.
“What is it?” Callan asked, picking up on my use of magic.
