Page 158 of The Alchemists

It had taken every shred of his self-control not to unravel at the seams these last months, to be solid and strong, as big as his tree for her—the way he was when they moved together—so that she could unravel like a tugged thread again, and again, and again. She knew now, but it was too late because they were out of time. She could see midnight out of the corner of her eye, and there was no more time to apologize, to let him know how much he was to her, which was everything.

Tears pricked her eyes as he spun her into his arms for the last sequence, and she was crying freely as she threw herself upward, and he released her, for their final move, only to catch her, because he always caught her.

And then it was over, and they were breathless, pulling themselves apart by force, eyes still trapped together, fingers entwined, never letting go as they bowed, and the audience howled like a hurricane hitting land. The digital clock, just in the wings, declared, crimson and hateful, 11:59.

Seb tugged her hand, dragging her to face him. His face shone with sweat and tears. His chest heaved. His eyes were an apology she didn’t understand.

“Lily,” he said desperately, and then he collapsed.

His weight dragged her down, and she barely caught his head as her knees slammed into the stage. Magic rose from him like a cloud of dust as they hit the floor. She blinked at him for a second, terribly confused, while her brain caught up. She took in his closed eyes, lashes dark on his cheeks, his limp body. His head drooped lifelessly in her lap.

This is wrong, she thought desperately.

This is wrong, she knew, as she caught sight of the clock, blinking midnight.

The cheers stilled, turning into worried murmurs that quickly became exclamations of horror. From somewhere very far away, she heard her mother calling her name. Chant sprinted toward the stage.

“Seb,” she croaked, because shock had stolen her voice.

His head lolled. His chest was still. The magic wasn’t rolling off him like waves of honeysuckle made visible.

“Sebastian!”

She cast her gaze wildly around, looking for help, for answers, but Chant had been swallowed by the crowd, and she was pinned in the spotlight. She saw Asher just offstage, frozen in fear, saw Tori’s face, bone white, in the second row.

No. No.

How could you?

She didn’t know how he’d done it, what he’d done, but he’d done it—swapped their places somehow, made a deal with God or the devil.

She almost laughed with the suddenly perfect clarity of her earlier realization. Don’t you understand that it’s so much worse for the one left over?

Chant was there, at her shoulder, her mother too. They pulled her back, trying to extricate her from Sebastian’s body, and she knew vaguely that she was losing her mind. Then she was in her mother’s arms, glued to her chest with a strength she hadn’t known her mother possessed. Chant crouched over Seb, casting, eyes closed, feeling for a thread of Seb’s life, but it didn’t come.

The theater silenced as Chant bowed his head, his sigh projected into the cheap seats by excellent acoustic design. Slowly, he got to his feet and turned to Lily, his entire body an apology. Lily tried to run away but only buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. She rocked her, making soothing noises that whispered like the sea.

Lily had never wanted to die more in her life.

Someone in the audience gasped, and she turned.

Seb was moving, barely, his eyelashes fluttering.

Lily rushed to him, breaking free of her mother’s arms, stumbling past Chant to her knees, and bowing over him, gathering him to her.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and gazed up at her.

He swallowed, and she had never been more relieved in her life. She tried to help him sit up, but he shied away, fixing her with a look of sneering suspicion.

Blinking, he said, “Who are you?”

PRIMA MATERIA

EPILOGUE

SEB

He stared at the cursor flashing on the blank page for a few more seconds before closing his laptop with a sigh and gazing absently out the window of his flat to watch the sun set over the domes and steeples of Oxford. Already the moon had risen, a perfect waning crescent. He’d been doing this for months now—failing to put what he felt into words. He’d always been best with paper and pen, but now words were elusive.