Page 93 of The Witch They Fear

Students in formal black are scattered everywhere. Some I recognize from class. Some are seniors I have never seen. Adults in expensive coats stand in clusters near the fire, drinking and laughing and watching us in a way that suggests we are still being closely evaluated. The whole quad is lit gold and amber and smells like burning oak and wine and someone's seedy perfume.

It is gorgeous. I can’t deny the pull of it.

"Stay near me," Nellie says. "Don't drink the punch."

"Why."

"Because the punch is doctored. I'll get you a cider. Stay."

She peels off into the crowd. I plant myself just outside the bright ring of firelight, where the heat lets up and the music is quieter. From here I can watch the whole thing.

Three classmates from Magic Theory walk past me without seeing me. Two upper-year vampires I have never met do see me, and their eyes catch on the sling, then the bandage at my neck, then on me, then they look away too fast to be casual. News travels. Of course it does. There is a dead Vasreaux in the library and a witch-shaped survivor wearing the receipts, and the entire campus has had three days to invent a version of the story that suits them.

Across the quad, near the fire, a flash of dark red hair I know.

Aamon.

He is in black like always, sleeves down for once, standing with two faculty members I do not recognize, a glass in his hand he is not drinking. Faculty presence. Mandatory. He is doing his job.

He is also not looking at me.

He is doing it carefully. I can clock it from forty feet away because I have gotten good at watching for the way he moves when he is regulating himself. He turns half a degree toward whoever is talking to him. He nods. He tips the glass to his mouth without drinking. His shoulders are level. Everything about him is level, and he has not glanced once in my direction in the four minutes I have been standing here, which means he knows exactly where I am and is choosing to give me a wide perimeter of space.

Say my name, he had said, and I will hear you through the door.

I wonder if he’d hear me call him right now.

I look away.

I scan the crowd because I cannot stop myself. Zeva is near the entrance to the quad, leaning against an iron lantern post with her arms crossed, doing her best impression of a person who is here for the cider. Corvin is further out—near the back gate, far enough that I have to find him on purpose. Corvin is further out—near the back gate. Far enough I have to look for him on purpose. I file that and keep moving.

Across the quad, near the cider table—Emric.

Dark curls pushed back, glass in hand, laughing at something a tall fae girl in dark green has just said to him. His hand lands on her shoulder. Light. Friendly. The way people touch when they have known each other a long time.

He has not seen me.

I really don’t have the standing to feel anything about seeing him talk with another girl. I’m the one who asked for a rain-check–even though besides Nellie he’s been the kindest face on campus. And not hard on the eyes either. He is allowed to have friends who aren’t me, I remind myself. The small twist in my stomach can shut its mouth.

I look past him.

A flash of pale green-gold hair, near the far end of the quad.

I look harder.

She is in a clutch of fae students I haven’t seen before, laughing at something one of them said. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. Her uniform is intact. Her eyes catch mine across the distance and her laugh stops for one half-second, and she nods at me—small, quick, thank you—and then she turns back to her friends and the laughter starts up again.

She is alive.

I did that.

Something in my chest goes warm. I focus on that feeling.

Nellie comes back with two flutes of something that looks like champagne.

"It's sparkling cider," she says when I look at her. "Don't insult me. Drink it."

"I'm not drinking anything tonight."