Page 20 of The Alchemists

He couldn’t even begin to process the potential implications of that statement. His only goal now was to get away without making a further fool of himself.

“I haven’t danced in years.”

“It’s just like riding a bike.”

He huffed. “You know it’s not.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, turning toward her portable speaker. “I’ll only judge you a little, if you’re telling the truth.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then you remain the person I’ve always assumed you were, only a little shittier.”

Seb had an idea of who Lily Perkins might think he was, and it was exactly that shame that tipped the scale. She gave him another sharp non-smile as he met her eyes, and he realized that she’d chosen her words very deliberately. Whatever else she might be, she was clever. Her aura, doubled in the mirrors, darkened the space. All the Æther that had hung so heavily around her before had vanished.

He dropped his bag and kicked off his sneakers, scuffing his sock feet against the vinyl flooring to test the slip. He shrugged off his track jacket. At least he was already warm and loose from practice. The whole time he felt Lily’s eyes on him, and his heart burned with too many emotions to name. He crossed to the middle of the floor.

“Is this the song?”

“Do you want it to be?”

Honesty. Be honest. “No.”

“Well, then.”

Seb expected her to pick up her phone, but she didn’t. Instead, she closed her eyes and brought the first two fingers of each hand to her lips. She crossed them, murmuring something he couldn’t hear as she cast. The song skipped ahead, and a violin screeched quietly, followed by a double beat from a tom drum. He closed his eyes, reaching for Magic—his Words whispering through his mind—just so he could know it was there.

He drew his arms up and began to move, jerkily self-conscious at first, following the beat of the drum, gradually expanding outward, his motion smoothing as the female vocalist began a shuddering croon. He looked anywhere but at Lily Perkins.

He told himself it was just like Cantrèa, and his mind, biddable for once, emptied itself. The music pulled him across the floor. He rolled to his knees, his thighs, down across the bow of his torso, letting the momentum take him into a backbend and then back to standing. It had been years since he’d done that, and the success of it, of something his body had been deprived of but secretly craved, made him forget that Lily Perkins was ten feet away, leaning against the barre before the mirror, “judging him a little bit.”

I’m sorry, he whispered to his body, how can I make it up to you?

He relinquished control fully then, letting his sinews and tendons and muscles think for him. They pulled him into spins and into slides, once into an ever-tightening spiral he would never have escaped from had the verse not ended. The singer rasped, and he followed her voice into the deep woods of his unconscious mind.

When the song ended suddenly, he staggered to a stop, nearly tripping from an excess of inertia. He stared at the floor, lungs burning, terrified to look up. After full seconds had ticked by in silence, he swallowed and lifted his head. Lily was looking at him, her expression impenetrable. He pushed a hand through his now-dripping hair and gazed back.

“It makes sense now.” She peeled herself off the barre and took a step toward him. He discovered, as she stepped forward, that he was terrified.

“What does?” His voice shook from nerves and lack of oxygen.

“The way you play Cantrèa.”

“Ah.” He blinked. So far nothing she’d said in this night-couched moment had been remotely what he’d expected. “Thanks,” he said, before he realized it might not be a compliment.

He crossed to his bag and snagged his water bottle, only to find it empty. Lily threw hers at him, her aim either very good or very bad. Only his Cantrèa reflexes kept him from getting smashed in the face. He caught it and squeezed some into his mouth, careful not to touch the spout.

“I don’t actually have leprosy, you know.” Her voice was light, but he heard the snag underneath.

“I was just trying to be polite. Maybe I have a dirty mouth.”

She uttered a short laugh. Finally, he thought, then found himself taken aback at the realization that he’d been trying to keep up this whole time, looking for something that could crack her. He tossed the water bottle back. It landed neatly in her hands.

“So,” she said, as he sat down to put his shoes back on. “Why did you stop dancing?”

Seb froze, shoe halfway on. He spoke to the floor, to his untethered laces, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I was informed that it was gay.”

He waited for a response that didn’t come and spoke through the panic tightening around his chest, just for something to push him forward.