Page 56 of The Alchemists

“I think I’m okay. She’s great, though. Why?”

Her face was screwed up in thought. “I’m just imagining the possibilities for a photoshoot. Perkins is cute—slap some contouring on her, do anything with that hair and it could be epic.” She pursed her lips. “Her curse aura doesn’t show on film, right?”

Asher, suddenly engrossed, turned to her, ignoring Seb completely. “Up by the herb gardens, maybe? That symmetry.” He turned to Seb. “Can you lift her up?”

Tori whipped out her phone and started typing furiously. “Do you have videos? We could⁠—”

“Stop, stop—you’re not upset?”

Tori shrugged, spearing a piece of tomato. “I wish you’d told us earlier, but no, not upset. Especially if you make it up to us with a spread.”

“Us?” Asher rolled his eyes, then faced Seb. “I’m thrilled that you’re dancing again—you never should have stopped. But yes, a shoot would be very cool.”

“I’d have to ask Lily. I don’t know that she’d go for it.”

Tori narrowed her eyes. “I’m not above bullying. So, what have you found out about the Elumnara?”

Seb topped off his wine and told them.

The weekend passed in a blur of half-frostbitten hedonism. The wind shrieked mercilessly off the St. Lawrence and into every crevice of their coats. When their legs were too frozen to keep walking the steep hills of Old Québec, they ducked into restaurants for poutine and cider spiked with brandy. They browsed overpriced shops; Tori bought bespoke mittens; Asher bought a set of tiny brass scales etched with hieroglyphics.

On their second night, cozied up into a leather booth in a stone-walled restaurant, it started to snow. They took a cab back to the apartment and watched the snow fall like shards of stars, caught in the black-and-white projection running on a loop against the wall of the library across the street.

The next day, as the snow fell thick and unrelenting, they piled into the car and drove, wipers sweeping frantically, across the Pont de l’Île as the crosswinds slammed them from side to side. Seb held his breath the whole time, clenching the wheel in a death grip, until the front tires touched down on Île d’Orléans, the rural island home to a thriving viticulture and Savarelle.

They spent the morning sampling cider and cassis on the northwest side of the island before risking the five-mile drive on one of the isle’s only crosswise roads, a narrow track through cornfields and stands of sugar maples. When they got stuck in the snow halfway across, it took three cantrips to free the car, and then Asher insisted on taking photos in the whipping snow as the cornstalks bent sideways in the gale. Even though he was wet and wind-raw, Seb had to admire Asher’s eye, especially when he placed Tori in profile, her scarf and long dark hair unfurled like twin banners behind her.

Seb heaved an audible sigh of relief as they passed under the grand wrought-iron gate of Savarelle and parked the car among the austere brick buildings that had stood against the brutal winters for two hundred years. They warmed themselves with cantrips and cocoa and ate lunch with Tori’s cousin and the few friends she’d retained since her transition. When they returned to the apartment in the afternoon, the snow fell more thickly still, and they drank tea while taking turns napping and shooting pensive photos sitting in the window, watching the snow as dusk gathered in gray folds around them.

LILY

“Hello?” She fumbled for her phone and pressed it sideways to her ear. “Sebastian?”

“Lily.” His voice was a sigh, thick and immediate, in the dark.

“Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

She checked her phone, wincing as the blue glare speared her corneas. “It’s two in the morning, why are you awake?” That was what she said, anyway, her voice strangely low, even though there was no one to hear her. What she meant was, “Why are you calling me right now?”

“We went out.” That was it, she realized, the extra warmth in his voice—alcohol. “I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I can’t stop thinking. I just lie there, all of my thoughts running together; it’s like this endless circle. It’s worse when I’m drunk.”

She muffled a sad laugh into her pillow. “That’s anxiety, Sebastian.” He didn’t respond. “Do you have an anxiety disorder?”

He paused, and she heard a dull thunk that sounded like his skull hitting a wall. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He fell quiet again. “Probably.”

“What were you thinking about?” She lay on her side, in an old T-shirt and stretched-out underwear, phone illuminating the two inches in front of her face in cold light. With her eyes closed, she could almost forget that he was hundreds of miles away in a foreign city.

“You.”

Oh.

They both went quiet. Lily’s mind edged around the implications, trying to swallow its hurt, trying to remind itself that she didn’t want him to want her. Under her blankets, which had been cozy moments before, she suddenly felt hot, suffocated.

“Sorry for causing you anxiety,” she said finally, unable to really commit to tossing it off.

“That’s not what I meant.” He sighed heavily as he fished for the words. “I was thinking about…” He swallowed. Her pulse betrayed her. “About how things used to be. About Conrad, and…” It was a thousand degrees now underneath her comforter, but his words pinned her in place. “About the Elumnara, and that letter.” Her heart stuttered at the mention of the letter, and she thought again of those words.