The words burst out of me before I realize what I’m going to say. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
My friends fall silent.
Mia’s forehead crinkles with confusion. “What do you mean, Elle?”
I’ve stuck my foot in it now. Might as well wiggle it around.
“Just…” I motion my hand vaguely in the air. “The constant competition. The way we’re judged. It feels like the academy is all about how good we can make ourselves look and whether we say things the professors want to hear. Isn’t the point of magic supposed to be how we can use it to make a difference?”
Cadance raises her eyebrows. “Wow. What did Byron say to you that’s gotten you all worked up?”
I can’t stop myself from glowering at her. I bet shelikesthat her family’s standing comes with so many inherent advantages. It’s not that she doesn’t know the playing field isn’t fair—she wouldn’t want it to be.
None of them would.
My voice comes out short. “He didn’t say anything. Is it really so bizarre that I’d want todosomething useful with this power we have?”
Madison is staring at me like I’ve grown a second nose, but Stella clears her throat delicately and shoots me a quick smile. “I think Elodie has a point. When we’re working in the community after graduation, what ranks we had here at the academy aren’tgoing to mean much. Mistakes will have a real impact. How we can handle our magic should matter more than anything else.”
Cadance huffs. “Easy to say when you’re already in the top five.”
Is it? Or is Stella only agreeing with me to see what other rebellious remarks I’ll say so she can hold them against me later?
I consider her, and she looks right back at me with her bright brown eyes. Her expression offers nothing but its usual cool composure.
I stab at a piece of cucumber on my plate. “Sometimes it all feels like a stupid game. But never mind. I’m obviously in a gloomy mood.”
Mia lets out an awkward giggle and pipes up about the Chelsea boots some fourteenth year was wearing that she’s now totally coveting. I gulp a bite of lettuce that scratches its way down my throat.
Would it be too much to ask for the poet Virgil to show up and guide me out of this hell?
I switch to my soup instead, stirring the thick liquid with my spoon and leaning over as I bring it to my lips. The creamy, sweet flavor washes over my tongue—and bristles into something sharper as I swallow.
Sharp… like ginger lemonade gone rancid.
The flavor jolts me through time and realities to those cramped spaces where I’d crouch, tilting a vial to my lips. To the searing burn that would crawl all through my body.
The taste bites deeper with a first jab of pain in my throat, and my pulse stutters. An icy wave of panic floods my veins.
I wrench myself around, double over, and shove my finger as far as it’ll go into the back of my mouth.
My gag reflex activates, and my stomach heaves the little bit of lunch I’ve eaten back up. I cough and sputter over the floor, chewed food and stomach acid souring my mouth.
Again. Again. Until I’m vomiting nothing but spittle.
My head spins. Claws rake through my abdomen.
I might not have been fast enough. I might not?—
Uncle Nik said we used that one because it didn’t take much. Because it worked fast.
Raised voices warble all around me. Someone’s gripping my shoulder.
“Elle! Elle, can you talk to me?”
Salvatore’s baritone rumbles with an implied threat. “What happened to her?”
“What does it matter to you? Get out of here, Cosgrave.”
