Page 14 of The Alchemists

As soon as his door swung shut, he buried his head in his hands.

Fuck.

A scalding shower and several attempts at breakfast later, he collapsed on Tori’s bed, her golden raw-silk coverlet cool against his cheek. She barely tossed a glance over her shoulder at him and continued editing the latest photo stream for her blog and growing social media empire. Every inch of it had been grown in sweat and too many screen hours without a single spell, despite her major in Magic and Technology. Magic and science loved each other for they worked much in the same way—they were the invisible forces that moved the world and could only be spoken to obliquely.

“And what does regret taste like this morning?”

Seb groaned. “This is your fault.” Then, “Strawberry lip balm and chickpeas.”

Tori turned and glared at him from within her satin robe and pajama set. “You did not eat all of my spicy chickpea puffs, Sebastian.”

He muttered into her duvet, “Gemma ate them.”

“You’re such a liar.” He could feel her eye roll. “I told you to stop drinking and you were an asshole. You deserve this.”

He sat up, pleading with his eyes. “I’ve thrown up three times already. Surely that’s adequate punishment. Fix me.”

“Fix yourself.”

“I can’t. I have a match later.”

Her forehead wrinkled as she calculated. He knew how much she loved Cantrèa and how much she lived vicariously through his career. “You’d seriously rather feel twice as bad later?”

“Obviously not, but I’d rather face the mother of all hangovers than lose to the lesser Braithwhite.”

It was Tori’s turn to grimace. “Fine. Headache or nausea? And—” She held up a hand to silence him as he opened his mouth. “You have to help me photograph my next three editorials.”

“Asher is⁠—”

“And don’t you dare choose now to dip your toes into the waters of faux humility. Three editorials, one symptom.”

“Headache,” he sighed.

He didn’t really mind helping Tori with her fashion work—he knew things he wouldn’t otherwise because of it—what cutting on the bias meant, how to properly drape silk charmeuse if anyone ever asked, how to choose the correct cravat for dinner with his grandparents, how to properly take and pose for photographs, how to curate a photo feed. The last two had paid out the most practical dividends thus far, and he always enjoyed the occasions when Tori used him as a model.

It was her love of fashion, women’s fashion, that had first lit the spark in Tori’s mind that she might be living in the wrong body, that had first put her parents on alert. He didn’t mind helping; he just…didn’t have the time. Any time.

“The future editor of Vogue Italia thanks you.”

He closed his eyes as Tori joined him on the bed and placed her cool fingertips on his temples. She wasn’t actually curing his headache, just tricking his body into thinking it was gone. Psycho-somesthetic spells like these were a devil’s bargain—they had a short half-life and came back twice as strong. Nevertheless, he sighed in relief as the pain flowed away.

True healing ability was inherent, not learned, and incredibly rare. Anyone who possessed the capability went to a specialized school in Copenhagen and was guaranteed a cushy career and paycheck for life. Supposedly, Windermere’s chief medic made almost as much as Dean Meade.

“Thanks.”

“De rien. Make sure you get a car wash, by the way; we need her for one of the shoots.”

He pressed his lips together as he turned and went to try for breakfast yet again.

* For further reading on the history of Dunmoody and the other major North American institutions of Ætheric learning, please refer to Appendix B.

LILY

Allsaires looked slightly green beneath his helmet. His normally warm skin had a sallow tinge that clashed against the navy of his plastron. Gemma, it seemed, had done a number on him. The snide voice inside her chuckled.

“Interesting place to be doing homework.”

Lily looked up at Professor Chant. He was wearing jeans and a fashionably faded, well-fitted T-shirt for a band Lily had never heard of. Blinking, she shut her book.