“We can’t do it in here,” she says, soft, urgent. “We’ll have to go to the bathroom.”
The strap of an ivory coin purse slips over her bony wrist before she grabs the doorknob—
But I shove the toe of my boot against the door. “What if someone sees us?”
It’s not exactly quiet down there in the parlour and the corridors of the dorms. Not on a Sunday. And any sightings ofme and Serena moving through the halls with packed bags and coats buttoned around our outdoor clothing, well that’s just not helpful to the whole running away thing.
Serena is unfazed. “Then they see us.” She turns a grim look on me, mouth tightened into a slanted line. “It’s better than anyone seeing two male masters coming out of this dorm room. That one is far more suspicious than two seniors heading to the bathroom with bags.”
She kicks aside my boot, then whips open the door.
My heart jolts.
I look down the spanning corridor—but it’s empty.
I loosen a breath, and it’s all the time I get before she’s tightening her grip on my hand, then hauling me down the corridor.
Her words catch up to me when we reach the second staircase. “Did you saymalemasters?”
Our boots thud down the wooden steps, uncarpeted like the main lot that lead down to the grand parlour.
“It’s only an illusion,” she assures me in a hushed whisper, then veers us off the stairs for the door to the cigar room.
Her reassurance silences the moment we’re inside, and the few students lounged around look up at us for only a beat before returning their attentions to the crackling fireplaces, the books in their hands, the faint murmurs—
But Serena is utterly still.
The door tries to close on her, pressing into her side for a heartbeat, then she steps back out into the hallway.
With a glance thrown up and down the passage, she ushers me back onto the staircase. “We’ll have to do it here. Quickly.”
She shoves the coin purse into my hands.
It rustles, as though stuffed with paper, but there’s a soft jingling at the bottom, like there’s a sprinkling of diamonds.
Serena’s chest swells with a deep inhale.
She brings her hands to my temples—and hovers them.
A tingle rinses down my face.
Not in the flesh, not in the bones, but like a weak shower drizzle running down me.
And it goes down.
Serena crouches, her hands descending the length of my body.
The trickling sensation descends with her, all the way to my boots.
I curl my toes.
But as I look down, I see no change, no difference.
I still look like me.
Serena doesn’t agree.
She steps back, eyes me over closely for a moment too long, then hums an approving sound.
