Page 93 of The Alchemists

“You’re right. At least you had the good sense to attack us off campus. I’ll make sure to drag you outside the gates when I murder you.”

Conrad laughed. “You always were so dramatic.” He dusted his pants off as he straightened. “Give your mother a kiss for me—I know she’ll be missing me terribly.”

He pushed past Seb and disappeared into the darkness. Seb counted to one hundred. Only a few other cars lingered in the lot, and the campus night was still and lifeless, cold and empty under the new moon. He got into his car and gunned the engine.

The whole drive to Falconstone, he ran the latest clue over in his mind:

With oblivion the past deceives

The mirage of a soul, presumèd known;

Trace light to dark between the sheaves

In a labyrinth of fallen leaves⁠—

A legacy of shame to bear

Revealed by only those who dare⁠—

In ink, and blood, truth shall be shown

And with the Chalice, claim my heir

Down where the spirit meets the bones.

He thought about the disc and the map that was of the library—but not of the library. It didn’t quite make sense, in the same way the whole Elumnara thus far hadn’t quite made sense.

The three previous games that he’d participated in had been nothing like this. There had been no signet rings in bonfires, no alchemical compounds, no treasures hidden in the walls. They had been a series of riddles, designed to test one’s mettle and command of Latin. The most illegal thing he’d done was some light after-hours trespassing.

Three hundred years ago, Windermere had planned for this. What was so important to him to have hidden it such that centuries of students would never find it? What was so important that it needed to be revealed now? He couldn’t even begin to comprehend the amount of foresight and power necessary to make this year’s Elumnara possible.

It was almost as if this year’s Elumnara was a completely different event, with a completely different aim from the others. This year it was impossible for every participant to stand on equal ground. How could it be, when its completion relied on gaining possession of singular objects? He wondered which was the true Elumnara and which was the sham, and he thought about Lily, back at Windermere, alone.

LILY

Lily had never missed anyone before. Even though Sebastian was only gone for a week, his absence drilled a permeating ache into her unconscious. Everything made her think about him; everything made her miss him. She’d thought she was made of sterner stuff, but here she was, moping around the house, wondering how time had managed to grow so endless.

His texts came in sporadic bursts. Sometimes her phone was silent for nearly an entire day, and then she’d get six notifications in a row. He was sorry. He was busy. He couldn’t wait to see her too. She felt like an anchor on the other end of his line.

She counted minutes, willing night to come faster so she could sleep hours away by the handful. But each night she stared at her dark ceiling, her bed and body feeling empty without his weight, even though they’d only shared a bed the once. When she closed her eyes, it was to imagine his hands on her stomach, his lips on her neck. When she dreamed, she dreamed of him, and letters she hadn’t read yet, and secret passageways she hadn’t yet found.

The renters were gone, and the house was quiet for the holidays. Lily made cookies with her Gran, putting exacting care into the decorating process, which previously she’d found a tedious chore. She went to the tree farm with her mom, and they sawed down a modest fir, feeling equal parts guilty and festive.

They decorated it, listening to Christmas jazz and drinking Prosecco. Lily hung her ornaments, the nineteen she’d acquired over the years—the baby-themed baubles morphing into animals when she’d gotten old enough to choose her own, then ballerinas, then back to animals.

This year she’d agonized among the rows of boxes in the store. After all, it was going to be the last one—one of the only things her mom would have left of her. In the end she’d chosen something simple: an infinite knot, styled like a tree branch, embellished with pale buds.

Her mom placed the star on top of the tree, and her Gran placed the final ornament, which was always the final ornament, with a trembling grief that had become closer to nostalgia over the years.

It was a photo ornament—an oval frame containing a faded photo of the father she’d never met. Lily contemplated it as her family cleaned the kitchen. In the photo, her father posed outside the old cottage. He was about her age, skinny and unfinished-looking. They had the same, rust-colored hair, the same slouch, the same predestined early death.

They went to the Nutcracker, and watching the pas de deux made her miss Sebastian all the more. She took photos with her phone and sent him a barrage of blurry images. Afterward, in the lobby, congratulating the performers, she felt like she’d fallen sideways into an alternate dimension—one she’d previously inhabited, but had no recollection of. Surely she hadn’t looked this gangly and coltish herself?

It snowed on Christmas morning, the first dusting of a storm that was supposed to ebb and flow over the next several days. When she woke up, she had a single text on her phone. Even though she was the early riser, Sebastian had messaged her a full hour earlier. It said merely, Tomorrow. She grinned, closing her eyes and listening to the flakes whisper against her windows. Tomorrow. One more day, with Christmas to distract.

She skipped downstairs in her favorite pink flannel pajamas and her coziest socks—one of the few pairs that didn’t have holes from too many piqué turns. When she arrived in the kitchen, her mother greeted her with a kiss and an eggnog latte. As they cooked, then settled in the living room, texts from Asher, Tori, and even Daphne trickled in, bringing with them a small, warm glow. No one had texted her last year.

There were too many presents under the tree. That was the first thing Lily noticed as she sat down. Presents in her family were rarely a surprise. Perkinses were practical people. Gifting was never a lavish affair. Each year, three lists hung on the fridge, populated by such extravagant requests as “new garden gloves,” “replacement hiking poles,” “black capri leggings.”