“Raven, I love you with all my heart, but people with money always say money doesn’t matter. It also doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re a natural magician.”
A hot blush rises on my face. My parents would say we’re “comfortable,” which Atticus has pointed out is code to meanhaven’t a care in the world, along with the “cottage” in the Hamptons(a ten-bedroom estate) and the London “attic” (a penthouse with river views). Dorian and Atticus don’t have the same luxuries, and despite what many “comfortable” people want to believe, innate magical ability cannot be bought. A small percentage of the population has innate magical ability, people like us. Different. Special. Gifted. Everyone else can learn magic from spell books if they’re accepted into a magical college, but for us, magic is like breathing.
I sigh, knowing it’s best to drop the line of conversation, and notice a group of older tourists wearing matching backpacks, their expressions confused as they look around. Their rapid-fire German makes my ears perk. At first, I don’t understand what they’re saying. Then something clicks, like a camera lens focusing, and all at once, I do.
The leader of the pack is staring at a map and shaking his head. “Ich—don’t know which way to go. Maybe we missed a turn?”
“Excuse me, do you need help?” I say in flawless German.
The tourists turn in my direction, then eyebrows shoot up. The man with the map stares at me, hopeful. “Oh! You speak German?”
I don’t have to look directly at Atticus to know he’s smiling. This is business as usual, even if he doesn’t understand a word we’re saying.
I answer them, providing the directions they need.
When I sit back down on the bench, Atticus is still smiling.
“Seeing you use your magic never gets old,” he says, chewing on the straw from his iced coffee. He waves his hand over my head, passing his fingers through the aura only he can see. It’s like he’s trying to touch an invisible cloud. “You’re shining.”
I’m what’s called a “situational polyglot,” confirmed when I was eight by a specialist who studies magical skills in children. Our high school, Wellington Prep, had a dedicated track for kids likeus. That’s how I met Atticus and Dorian. We were the only kids in the program.
My whole life has been working toward this moment. The instant I heard about Sibylline’s existence, my entire universe shifted. Nonmagical nerds can have Harvard and Yale. There’s only one Ivy that counts for the magically inclined, and that’s Sibylline.
It’s not the only school in North America dedicated to the study of magic, but it is by far the oldest and best. Other magical schools teach rudimentary magic, or magic history. They’ll help you pick up a minor spell here and there, but there is only one that instructs students in the mastery of the supernatural arts, one school with access to the oldest grimoires and the ancient wisdom they contain. In magic, knowledge is everything, and Sibylline guards its secrets closely. I want to know it all.
The envelope tempts me from the bench, so I slide it under my book.
“You’re gifted,” he says when he sees me hide the envelope. “They’d be absolute idiots not to let you in.”
“Not really in my control, is it?”
The only problem is that getting into the most prestigious magical university in the country is one of the hardest things anyone can do. The odds are not in my favor, with only a one-in-three-thousand chance, they say, 0.03 percent. Might as well buy a lottery ticket while getting struck by lightning in the midst of a plane crash. And it’s even worse for the three of us, not being the children of alumni. There’s a rumor that Sibylline hasn’t accepted nonlegacy admissions in generations, but the Supreme Court of Magicians ruled that there was nothing discriminatory in Sibylline’s policies.
“I’m not special in the ways that seem to matter,” I say. Even in the magical world, pedigree means everything.
“Well, you’re special to me, so that matters,” says Atticus. There’s that heavy-lidded smile again.
My chest swells so much it aches. Having a crush on one of your best friends is a unique kind of agony that makes every atom of your being feel like screaming.
Atticus lifts his head, as if called to attention, and his gaze snags on something in the distance. He takes in the slightest breath. “He’s here,” he says.
I turn to see Dorian coming toward us on the promenade, wearing his signature navy wool peacoat despite the summer evening. Blond-haired, green-eyed, and straight-browed, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.
When he spots us, he holds up his own envelope with a gloved hand. My stomach swoons at the sight of it, the anticipation before the drop on a roller coaster.
Atticus’s eyes light up when he sees him, and his smile widens. “You open it yet?”
“Didn’t even think to do it alone, Finch,” he says, calling Atticus by his nickname, as in the hero fromTo Kill a Mockingbird. Dorian’s voice is as buttery as the sunset sky. “I haven’t been this afraid to touch something in a long time.”
“If you touched it with a bare hand, could you intuit what’s inside?” I ask.
“With something this magical, most definitely.” Dorian drags his gloved hand through his hair, making it flop endearingly back into place, then he tugs at his kid leather gloves, making sure they’re up to his wrists. It’s a nervous habit. We’re all twitchy.
Our lives are already defined by Sibylline, whether we want to admit it or not. It’s the one chance we have of becoming real wizards. Otherwise kids like us get shuffled to basic magic programs and end up at some bank or accounting firm, using magic to sniffout whether people are lying on their loan applications. Boring and tedious work.
Atticus gets to his feet, replacing his pen and withdrawing his letter. “No matter what happens, I’m proud of us,” he says, looking at me and then at Dorian, his smile for him even more radiant, so that I get a tiny twinge of jealousy.
“Together?” Dorian asks, holding up his envelope, glancing at the both of us.
