Illusion is Byron’s best class other than the bloom practicum where he gets to show off his glim. I don’t want to ask him for help, though. He’s already given me enough.
He comes into the room and sinks onto the bed next to me, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. “What specifically do you think isn’t working?”
“I don’t know.”
No, that isn’t totally true, I just don’t know how to fix it.
I sit up and tuck my arm around his while I gesture vaguely with my other hand. “I know the picture I want to create. It’ll really impress Professor Toft if I can pull it off. But when I try to paint all the pieces, it all starts feeling too flat and unreal… and then it dissolves like someone’s pouring water through tissue paper.”
Byron tips his head to one side, a thoughtful furrow forming in his forehead. “Is that how you normally think about illusions? Like a picture you’re painting?”
“Well, yeah. How do you think about them?”
“More like…” He scoots a little closer to me so he can slip his hand right around my waist. The solid warmth of his arm steadies me. “Don’t come at it as though you’re trying to create an illusion. Pretend you’re going to conjure the real thing. Pull the energy into every texture and shape and the way the light touches the surfaces, like they’re the whole objects just… hollowed out rather than substantial.”
Huh. “So basically you’re saying my illusions feel flat because I’m making them flat.”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Just try it.”
Staring at the cramped area beyond the end of the bed, I summon the imagery I was trying to create. I delve into the depth of it, willing my vision to unfurl in every dimension and fill out the space.
Flowers bloom from floor to ceiling, the multitude of colors vibrant with the sunlight glowing through their petals. A heady mixture of perfumes wafts off them. Then a wind gusts through. Half of the petals whirl off their blossoms and swirl around us in a flurry of color and fluttering sound.
Byron’s arm tightens around me. He must be able to tell what inspired my project. He presses a kiss to my temple.
When he speaks, his voice has gone rough. “It’s beautiful. Almost as precious as you.”
I blink, and the memory falls away with my last oomph of power before this Byron sets the pinwheel down on the ledge, ever so gracefully. As I let the flames snuff out, I glance over at him.
His expression has already shuttered. He contemplates the pinwheel as if checking for flaws.
Oh, well. I’ll see that awe again on the Byron I belong to when I can get out of this cursed place.
I tell myself that, but it’s hard as fuck shaking off the lingering effects of the memory and the tug that’s crept back into my chest. A guy who might as well be my match is standing right there in arm’s reach.
As I grapple with the urge to step closer, Byron rests one hand against his thigh with his fingers splayed. I recognize the way his knuckles flex ever so slightly, the way his gaze subtly ticks across the crowd.
In that moment, my instinct to show solidarity, to demonstrate that he’s being seen and accepted in this moment, overrides everything else. My voice slips from my lips at barely a murmur, the way I might have at home for just his benefit. “Nine in blazers?—”
I catch myself, but Byron’s already rounding on me. His jaw has clenched so tight the tendons stand out in his neck. “What did you say?”
His cold fury lashes into me. I back up a step, all the places scraped raw this morning stinging twice as hard. “I—nothing. Just talking to myself.”
If he realizes I know things I shouldn’t— For fairies’ sake, Elodie, you nearly blurted out too much with Salvatore yesterday too.
Byron doesn’t look convinced. His voice turns sharper, harder, with the clipped British inflection it takes on only when he’s especially riled up. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but you can fuck right off the mind games. I’m keeping my spot fair and square. All you are is a fucking terror. If I had my way, I’d have nothing to do with you.”
The vicious words hit me like a slap. My heart wrenches.
Fragments of cutting remarks from years ago tangle in my thoughts.
“Forget her, she’s nothing.”
“Who’d want to bother with a nobody like her?”
The class-ending chime rings through the courtyard. Byron strides away. As I get a grip on myself, I spot Stella ambling toward me and pretend I don’t.
I can’t talk to her right now. I don’t think I can keep up this façade for one more minute around the actual terrors Other Elodie called her closest friends.
