“Why are you here?” I bark as he reaches for the door handle. “Why do you give a shit about this grant? What are you going to do with it that your family can’t fund anyway?”
“It’s not just about funding,” he says to the door. “This grant carries weight.”
The flames take me. The rage, the months of strain, all of it scorches through me and my mouth moves independently of my brain. “This is only aboutprestigeto you? Gods, that’s worse. Even if you win this grant, those of us out here in the real world will alwaysknow you didn’t deserve it; you got it because of your last name. You’re not capable of earning anything yourself, you pompous prick.”
His shoulders go rigid under that suit jacket that fits him like it’s made of liquid. Color stains the part of his neck not covered by his hair, a bright crimson that spreads up the side of his face.
Slowly, he pivots to me again. My hackles rise, that hindbrain awareness of a predator nearby.
His glower flits down my body, and when I shiver this time, it’s from feeling exposed.
“At least people will know me,” he says, eyes returning to mine. There’s no challenge in them anymore. Just excruciating hatred. “Meanwhile, you will remain an immature fuckup who will die in obscurity because you have nothing substantial to contribute to this world.”
He says it with such certainty that it knocks the wind out of me.
The restroom echoes with the door banging shut in his wake.
“Mr. Walsh, where have you been hiding?”
Professor Thompson claps my shoulder as I take my seat beside him. I discreetly shove my garment bag and satchel under the table, along with my Converse-clad feet. Luckily, everyone else seated at our table is engaged in conversation, chatting easily and snacking on bits of quiche and mini pastries.
The wide banquet room is lined with windows on one side, casting bright midmorning light on half a dozen circular tables set with linens and flowers, while buffet tables piled with brunch bites at the edge of the room billow out scents of syrup and bacon. Most of the guests are alumni and faculty of the Mageus Studies departments, but I clock the other applicants.
There are only four of us. Elethior and I are the front-runners, according to my faculty advisor.
Due to the oftentimes intensely competitive natures that tend to crop up in our field, the selection committee has only announced minimal details about each project. I have no real idea what the otherapplicants are hoping to use the money for, merely that Elethior’s topic causedquite a stiramong the selection board, as did mine.
My gaze snags on him, where he sits at one of the tables closest to the front podium, smiling amicably at a man seated with him.
I pivot back to Thompson. “Sorry, sir. I—”
Dr. Davyeras steps up to the podium at the front of the room. He’s on the university board and heads up the selection committee—and he’s in the Conjuration Department, but I try not to read too much into that.
He adjusts the microphone. “Thank you all for coming,” he says, and the crowd’s conversation dies down.
Thompson lifts one eyebrow at me. “Don’t stress about it,” he whispers. “We did all we could.”
He’s not only the professor I’m a TA for, but the one who recommended me for this grant and helped me fine-tune my proposal.
I shift on the chair and wish I’d had time to grab something to drink. My throat is sandpaper while I feel like I might sweat right through my blue button-down and gray suit. I did what I could in the bathroom, but I still probably look like I got swept up in a windstorm on my way to campus.
“We are pleased to present another Mageus Research Grant,” Davyeras says. “Every year, we are amazed by the quality of the proposals we receive. This year was no exception. The caliber of students gracing Lesiara University continues to be set by those who study in the Mageus programs.”
My knee bounces. I grip my hands into fists, my tongue caught between my teeth.
It’s happening. It’s too soon and not going fast enough and I can still feel the troubling amount of caffeine wreaking havoc with my blood vessels.
“There were two proposals in particular the committee wanted to call attention to.”
Can’t breathe. Won’t ever again.Here lies Sebastian Walsh; he suffocated at a brunch.
“The first came from Elethior Tourael—”
Ugh.
“—a graduate student in the Conjuration Department who plans to use his degree to continue the vital work his family does for our country, and across the globe, in magical defense.”
Magical defense.Sure. It’s that harmless.
