Sam
They arrive the next night at Oxford, where their black car takes them through the university’s ancient streets to the front gates of Magdalen College’s main quad, which has been closed all day to visitors in preparation for the evening gala. Term ended a week earlier, and all of the students are already gone, home for the long Easter holiday. Still, the quad is bustling tonight, and a glimpse of flickering golden lights from within entices curious passersby. A cluster of people mill around the entrance, necks craning, their figures making way occasionally for the black cars as they continue to drop off their passengers.
There are no photographers allowed. Phones too are confiscated at the gate. The college’s ivy-covered walls are nearly hidden from view behind an intricate lattice of curling iron, a massive, transmuted reception pavilion towering as high as the college itself. Through the elaborate ironwork overhead, Sam can see the dark sky beyond, and hanging from its ceiling are dozens of lanterns, their firelight casting trembling light and shadow on the guests below. Now and then her gaze settles on the grimaces of the stone statues adorning the college’s cloisters, their sightless eyes trained on the scene below. Polemists stand on either side of every stone arch and open door, gold pins winking on their collars.
As they wander the square, Sam admires the other guests. They are dressed as well as the attendees of a fashion show, graceful figures gliding by in lace and chiffon, silks and cashmere. Some have made alchemical modifications to their appearances—blue hair richer and more uniform than any artificial dye could produce, long lashes that sport a gradient from black to pink. Many are likely on sand, too, skin glowing, smiles snow white, their looks as perfected as they can be. She’s glad that she can at least pretend to fit in, grateful that Will had the foresight to dress her properly. And what a vision she is: a pale, backless blue dress accentuatingher waist and draping prettily to the floor, her skin flawless, her silver hair piled high and cascading down in a straight, glossy tail. She wonders if Will is going to comment on her appearance. He doesn’t, but when he offers her his arm and she takes it, she feels the warmth of him through the fabric of his suit, and when he opens a door for her, she feels his hand slide down her bare back. Even if she weren’t here tonight on a hit, she would have taken sand just to calm her nerves. She can feel the familiar sharpening of her wits and the confidence that the drug brings, knows that because of it she looks more dazzling than she really is. The irony is that the more sand she takes, the better she looks, but the less people notice. She tells herself it doesn’t matter tonight, because Will sees her, and he’s the only one who matters.
Every guest wears a gold pin. Sam sees gleaming crests of peacocks and krakens, elephants and basilisks. There is one of a stallion, tail in a high curl; there is a dragon, its jaw open in a noble snarl. Belle Epoque, she notes quietly, and Neuewelt. Will exchanges a cordial greeting with a woman from Pirenne sporting a kraken pin. They navigate through a maze of alchemical politics.
And Lumines. The fox is here too, gliding through the crowd. If Will notes them, he doesn’t show it any more than he does for the other guests. He acknowledges the occasional Lumines alchemist when they step close enough to be unavoidable, and they greet him in return, their eyes darting briefly to his winged lion crest before returning to his face. They all murmur their polite greetings, then go their separate ways. But even though they don’t cast them a second glance, Sam can feel the unspoken tension in the air and knows they’re watching Will for signs of weakness, how much he has or hasn’t recovered from his injuries.
She searches for Ari. Chances are high that he’s here, given his rank, but he’s certainly not here right now, or she would see a cluster of guests around him.
Many of the guests recognize and greet Will. He smiles politely and greets them back, talks about the weather. Mentions names that Sam has never heard of. No one looks at Sam. When they do, their eyes glaze in disinterest, and they smile distractedly before returning to Will. Some bump into her and murmur apologies in surprise, unsure why they didn’t see a person there in the first place. Security guards see her and turn their heads away, keen to look elsewhere. She follows along quietly, resplendent in herfinery that no one seems to notice, and feels her invisibility fold around her like a blanket.
They make their way inside one of the guarded entrances and down a vaulted hall lined with banquet tables. As Will talks business with others, Sam looks around the dim space, the stained glass and carved stone, and feels the buzzing in the back of her head, the tickle she gets whenever there is more to the picture than she knows. She thinks of the sand now coursing through her veins, of the bathroom at Minnow and the wail from the man who knew he was going to die. She thinks of her lessons in how to strip life from something and cast it out into the empty spaces of the world.
By the time they make their way back out to the pavilion, piano music fills the night air, and some guests are dancing. Here, a couple wearing stallion pins stop to shake Will’s hand.
“It’s been over a year since we’ve seen you, Constantine,” one of the ladies says with a warm smile. “Far too long.”
“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Hypatia,” Will answers. He nods at the woman on her arm. “You’ve been in the country for over a month, I hear.”
Sam realizes that this must be Eleanor Mien, who leads Belle Epoque, and her wife, Hanya. The exchange is both polite and a warning; Will is letting them know that Grand Central is aware of their movements. Eleanor’s smile stays even, although her gaze turns careful. “We’re finishing up a deal with a supplier in Manchester,” she reassures Will. “The same deal you helped broker.”
“Of course,” Will replies. “I hope it’s been working out?”
“So far. It helps to have good terms with you, of course,” Hanya adds, and Will acknowledges the praise gracefully. Sam shifts on her feet, and the woman glances at her in disinterest before turning her attention back to Will. “We’ve been meaning to have a conversation with you here about your support of our work building a new train line between our suppliers.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Is your mother here?”
“Diamond unfortunately has some business to attend to in Angel City,” Will replies. “I’m here in her place.”
“Very well,” Eleanor says. “Would you mind sparing us a few minutes, then?”
Will steps away from Sam, and for a while she stands alone in the crowd,careful to keep him close and yet not to encroach on his discussion with the Miens. The chatter around her blends into a single rolling din.
Sam senses him behind her before she sees him. Or, perhaps, she just happens to turn at the right time.
Ari is at the edge of the courtyard, talking with a young woman. He’s leaning down toward her, and when she whispers something in his ear, he smiles and laughs a little.
Sam’s breath catches. A tingle rushes through her body. She’d been searching for him, but she still wasn’t prepared to see him. He wears a suit of deep maroon, and his fox pin gleams on his collar. Her eyes go briefly to his companion. She, too, wears the fox pin on the strap of her yellow dress, and has the kind of smile that comes easily and genuinely. Now and then, they are interrupted by someone coming up to introduce themselves, and Ari always pauses politely to exchange a few words.
“Dance with me.”
Sam turns to see Will back at her side. He holds a hand out to her. Her heart leaps into her throat as his other hand comes around to press against the small of her naked back.
She takes his hand and lets him pull her closer, trying in vain to still the rapid beating of her heart. He keeps a polite distance as they sway, him guiding her easily, her following along as best as she can. As they turn, she notes where Ari was. Ari is gone now, but his companion remains, speaking lightheartedly with a small cluster of people.
“Are the gatherings always here in Oxford?” she asks Will as they turn away.
“Often,” Will replies.
“Why?”
“The university has known of and protected alchemists for centuries. It became a safe haven for syndicates to congregate, a place where you could set up meetings in its lecture halls and work in its labs without persecution. Diamond recruited our first philosophers from among their student body.”
“Are there other conferences?”
“Are you asking because you want to attend them?”
