Page 13 of The Alchemists

None of these kids knew she was a Magician; she was just another dancer suffering through pointe classes and rolling around trying not to laugh at their woo-woo teacher in Contemporary. Last year and the year before, she’d been the one in the white tutu with a sparkling tiara and glitter in her hair, doing the grand pas de deux with Adam Avin, who could do three stationary back handsprings and was now at school in Montreal. She’d been the one posing with weird little kids whose parents let them touch her even though she gleamed with sweat and smelled terrible, and it had been, incomparably, the best moment of her life.

Lily warmed up gooily, rolling around on the floor for a while before moving to the barre, and then into stretching. When she was dancing, Lily felt like herself. That is to say, she felt like Lily, a human being, instead of a collection of negative suppositions that people applied to her. She felt vital and alive—full of hot blood and heartbeat, hard pumping lungs, and Magic. She never felt Magic more than when she moved. She loved the shape of the secret language her body spoke when she danced, the patterns and forms it left in the air; the way it stirred the dust with new currents of energy.

She practiced until her back ached, until her legs shook under her own weight. Her bangs stuck to her forehead, her shirt to her stomach. Ravenous, she wolfed a protein bar and headed for the showers. She washed quickly and traded her whiffy leggings and tank top for jeans, a heavy flannel that had been her dad’s, and her canvas high tops. She let her hair free of its tiny ponytail and raked her fingers through the long bob. With a sigh, she hoisted her duffel into the milk crate on the back of her bike and rode for the Cantrèa complex.

She took a seat at the top of the stands as she always did. Daphne wasn’t much for Cantrèa, but Lily spied Gemma at the front of the stands, in her signature scarlet. Even from this far away, she looked hungover. Lily leaned back against the wall, flapping a reading assignment open on her knee as she waited for the match to start.

The opponents entered from opposite sides, Everton Braithwhite first. Allsaires entered with his usual sauntering grace, as if it was a given that the world would stop and wait for him. This time, though, the world didn’t wait.

Chin in her hands, Lily watched him lose.

SEB

He knew he was screwed from the moment he woke up and wished he were dead. Everything last night had been a mistake. Seb tried to trace his current predicament back to its roots but gave up when he lost track of the drinks after the first plastic cup of beer.

Sleeping with Gemma had been a bad idea. The sex was good—the perfect, sloppy distraction from the black hole swallowing light in his head, and that was the problem. Gemma shouldn’t have been a distraction. Gemma liked him. Seb threw an arm across his face as the light stabbed him in the eyes. The sun was its own punishment.

Fuck.

He sat up and Gemma stirred. So did his stomach. He barely made it to the bathroom before hurling his guts into the toilet.

“Jesus, Seb!” Asher’s face registered its disgust acrobatically as he emerged into the living room, towel around his waist, cheek pushed against the wall as if that would provide relief. “How late were you up?”

Seb pressed his eyes closed against the question, against the day. He vaguely remembered the microwave clock at three AM as he and Gemma knocked around the kitchen, hooked together at the mouth, searching for snacks.

“Fuck,” he said aloud.

“Fucked,” Asher corrected. “It applies to your recent past, present, and immediate future.”

He wanted to tell Asher to shut up. He was pretty sure if he tried, he’d throw up again. Asher’s girlfriend went to Dunmoody College of the Subtle Arts⁠* in Savannah. Dunmoody was a complex of mansions and courtyards tucked behind Spanish moss, high walls, and not-unfounded rumors of haunting. They’d met on exchange and broke up roughly every other month. Seb thought it was tied to a celestial cycle, but he wasn’t sure yet which one.

Instead, he returned to his room, which had acquired a musty, noxiously sweet aroma that did nothing for his stomach or his mood. He crossed to the windows, creaking one open, and began getting dressed, staggering slowly into a pair of briefs, then his Cantrèa sweats. In his bed, sheets twisted around her in a pythonic manner only a near-comatose person could possibly tolerate, Gemma woke.

She sat up with a groan and turned to face him, tugging the sheets around her chest, suddenly shy in the unforgiving late-morning light. Seb would have paid someone handsomely for an overcast sky.

“Hey,” she said by way of salutation, her caramelized-honey hair flattened on one side.

“Hey, uh…” He trailed off awkwardly, shirt in hand, flushing before someone who’d seen him in all sorts of unflattering positions the night before. He turned his back, tossing his shirt aside and rifling through his wardrobe to give Gemma time to find her underwear.

She slid into her pants, smiling demurely and tilting to display herself to best effect. “Want to get breakfast?”

Seb had braced himself for it, but he still felt the blow. The dagger of assholery slid neatly between his ribs as he settled on the bed, near but not next to her. He ran a hand over his face and into his hair, not hiding his grimace, knowing how it would be interpreted.

“I…honestly don’t think I could keep breakfast down.”

Gemma looked at her hands, now sandwiched between her luscious thighs. “Yeah, no, same actually.”

Here goes.

“This was…last night was…great.” Gemma closed her eyes, knowing, apparently, what was coming. Seb wished he could stop, wished he could want what she wanted, but he didn’t. He had no idea what he wanted; he just knew it wasn’t sitting next to him. “But.”

Gemma deflated.

“But I’m not in the market for serious, or even…consistent, right now. I’m sorry if that’s what you were hoping for.”

Gemma leaned into the out, as he knew she would, and somehow that was worse, watching her put pride above honesty, both of them knowing the truth. “Yeah, no.” She shook her head a little too emphatically as she searched for her shirt. “Me neither. It was just…yeah. Super fun.” She trailed her hand along his shoulder as she stood. “Good luck later, not that you need it.”

What?