Page 10 of The Alchemists

“I’ll come with you,” Lily signed back.

They watched Gemma saunter toward the pack. Beaumont wore a gorgeous red and black wrap, her straight dark hair so shiny that it acted as a mirror for the flames. Vis’s lanky frame and tan-brown skin, his copper flask, the deep bow of his lips, the gold-dusted tips of his hair, caught the light as well, making him look like a god of autumnal debauchery. Beside him, Allsaires looked above it all in a dark shirt rolled up to his elbows, a jacket tucked over one arm, and leather cap-toe boots that were far too nice to wear to a bonfire. His hooded gaze was a million miles away, as if he couldn’t possibly be bothered with such mortal affairs. It snapped to Gemma as she approached. Lily looked away.

They found the cider and filled red plastic cups, careful to avoid being jostled by lacrosse players who’d already done one too many keg stands. Lily handed over Daphne’s cup and stepped backward, directly into someone who hadn’t been there a moment ago. Sticky, lukewarm cider frothed down her front. Trembling, she turned to face Hawleyhurst, who wore an expression of sorrowful disbelief.

A few feet away, Daphne inhaled sharply. Lily set her face in stone and brushed a hand down her chest as if she were wicking away a few drops of moisture, though she was soaked through her bra. Cider trickled down her stomach.

“Oh jeez, Lils, I’m so sorry.” Conrad’s voice throbbed with regret. “I’m such an oaf.”

Lily kept her face blank as his golden eyebrows knit together, as the fire flashed in his blue eyes and turned them violet. He seemed sincere, and that was the most terrifying thing. She wanted, so badly, to believe him, which was of course what he wanted.

“It’s fine.” She tried not to wince as wet fabric clung to her stomach.

“No, no, it’s my bad.” Hawleyhurst shook his head. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”

There it is.

A tiny part of her was relieved, now that she knew the objective of his humiliation. Around him, his friends sniggered. Daphne, a few paces away, looked between them, mouth pressed in concentration as she tried and failed to read the conversation on their lips in the dark. She didn’t like to use the psycho-somesthetic⁠* spells that helped her understand non-signing people at parties, as it was too hard to separate the signal from the noise, but Lily knew she was trying to augment an existing spell to filter better.

“I know Braithwhite would love to help you get dried off.”

Tripp Braithwhite, prime lackey, elbowed Hawleyhurst, doubling over. “Ew man, not with lepers.”

Conrad shot Lily a keen look. “I know she can’t be picky.”

“Fuck you,” she mumbled, before she could stop herself.

Hawleyhurst laughed, stepping forward. “Is that an invitation?”

He reached for her, his fingers just brushing her stomach. Instinctively, Lily brought her arms up, blocking her face and smashing the inner edges of her forearms together, the twin bracelets there digging into her skin. Light exploded from the impact, hurling Conrad and his nearest cronies backward. He would have landed on his ass if he hadn’t been thrown straight into half the lacrosse team.

“What the fuck!” He spat, but Lily was already running, threading through the crowd, flowing into the gaps between people.

She disappeared into the darkness on the other side of the festivities long enough to dry her clothes, before collapsing miserably onto a hay bale near the Metaphysics fire. Every inch of her wanted to go home, to crawl into bed, but as terrible as this handful of moments was, returning this early and having to explain why, or lie, to her mother was impossible.

Her mother was her secret power. The two delicately woven bands on her wrists had no clasps. They’d been with her for her entire life, growing with her, and they contained nearly all of her mother’s magic. The best way to store spells—or other powerful magic—was in objects, and when it became clear that Magnolia was going to suffer for her transgressions, she’d siphoned nearly all of her power into the bracelets as protection for her unborn daughter. It was brilliant. It was completely illegal.

Lily had nearly twice as much magic as any one person should possibly possess, and much of it was available to her spontaneously. It was her most closely guarded secret, more powerful and more important, even, than her Words. If someone found her Words, they could hurt her if they used them against her before she picked new ones. If someone found out about her bracelets, her whole family would be tried and executed.

And she’d nearly outed herself, used them against Hawleyhurst.

The thought soured, bilious in her mouth, and she let the fire burn her rage away until there was nothing left.

* Psycho-Somesthetics: The study and practice of augmenting the mental and physical senses through Ætheric means. From the Greek psyche, soul; soma, body; aisthetikos, perception by the senses; -ikos, pertaining to.

SEB

Immediately the bonfire got off to a bad start. Something in Asher’s cocktail rubbed up unpleasantly against his not-enough dinner, and he was off-kilter and lightheaded even before they got to the back fields. Tori looped her arm through his, even though she’d worn riding boots instead of heels. More than once, they’d been mistaken for siblings, and Seb could see it—both dark-haired, though his was soft and wavy, and hers was thick and preternaturally straight; both with gold-flecked eyes, though his were hazel and hers were a deep amber.

He clenched his jaw as they passed through the senior apartments. They’d chosen the on-campus suite on the ninth floor of Millay Tower because Tori didn’t want to walk so far on heels every day, but Seb didn’t mind their housing. Their suite was spacious enough, with a combined living room and kitchen, and his room had a bay window with a seat from which he could look out over all of campus and the blue smudge of the Catskills rising beyond that.

Nine was early by bonfire standards. The cantrips were only just getting started, the kegs only just rolling out. No one had started throwing things on the fire that melted instead of burned.

Even so, the haze of magic hanging over the field was almost too much for him. Alcohol had stripped away his buffer, and his senses were overloaded on cheap cantrips. He could taste them, thick and cloying, almost plasticine, on his tongue. It was nearly impossible to comprehend that other people couldn’t see ambient magic—its outlines and intersections—the way he could. Biret had told him that his sensitivity was a strength, proof of his connection to Magic, but in this moment it felt like a curse. Just when he thought he was safe, he remembered the last bonfire. It snuck in, in an unbidden flash, and then it was gone.

He fished the copper flask out of the pocket of his jacket and drank deeply. Asher had filled it with something he’d brewed on the stove. Seb tasted whiskey, cinnamon, nutmeg, honey, and magic. The whiskey didn’t even sting at the back of his throat; instead, combined with the magic, it warmed all the way down to his toes and filled his head with a golden, drowsy sweetness.

For a moment, as he savored the autumnally spiced nectar, he forgot. He forgot how he had felt on midsummer’s eve—cracked apart and bleeding through his seams, the pain so all-consuming it rendered him senseless. He forgot that he’d tried to dull the edges of it with weed and drinks far less sweet than what he held in his hand. He forgot his puffy eyes and pounding head—the dull, wet-cotton ache from a body that wouldn’t stop crying even though it had no more water, only salt, for tears. He forgot the burning yawn that scraped in his chest every time he thought about talking. He forgot what it was like to feel so flayed open that death would have been a welcome gift.