Page 94 of The Alchemists

Lily knew, for example, that the lumpy package near the front of the pile was the sweater in a Faroese pattern that her Gran had been knitting for her for months now. She did not know what the flat box, sleekly wrapped in matte charcoal paper, was, nor the artfully arranged bag that seemed to have an entire ornament as the gift tag.

“Where did those come from?” Lily said through a mouthful of food, jerking her chin at the mystery items.

“They were on the porch this morning.” Her mother’s smile was too knowing.

Lily gaped.

“I thought we said no presents,” Lily said desperately over the phone as her new laptop installed its operating system. Absently, she fingered the disc, which she’d looped onto a chain around her neck.

The laptop was the same one Seb had—slickly designed, top of the line, with all the attendant bells and whistles—complete overkill and completely wasted on her. It sat accompanied by a small pile of presents from Tori and Asher.

“I know. Sorry. Not sorry.” She could hear his grin through the phone.

“I don’t have anything for you!”

“It’s fine,” he assured her.

“It is not.” All day she’d been trying to imagine what she could possibly do for him on such short notice and such a short budget. Each of her ideas felt painfully inadequate. “And I definitely don’t have anything for either of them. I can’t possibly accept these.”

“Sure you can.”

Lily groaned. “Anyway, how’s your Christmas? I can’t believe we haven’t gotten to actually talk until now.”

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice acquiring that sudden distance that it always did when he talked about his family. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Still want to check out the library?”

She let the redirection slide, too excited about their reunion and their next phase of exploration to press him. Around her, the afternoon darkened into dusk.

SEB

When he arrived, he sat in the carriage house for a long time before gathering his suitcase and walking up the stone steps. The heavy door swung open under his touch, and he stood alone in the entrance hall, blinking at the twenty-foot spruce that was more tinsel than tree, nestled in the bow of the imperial staircase. He hated spruce. They always left the pointiest needles.

“Hello?” he called into the emptiness, grimacing at his own reflection in the gilt mirror on the wall.

No one responded, not even the housekeeper. With a sigh, he slid the telescoping handle home and dragged his suitcase up the marble stairs, letting it clatter and bang because there was no one to tell him not to.

A note on his bed informed him, in his mother’s perfectly slanted cursive, that she was out running errands, that his father was at work, and that Reg and Priya would be arriving in time for dinner. It went on to outline all of the holiday festivities that Sebastian was expected to attend over the week. It was a very long list.

He brushed the note off his bed and then collapsed on top of the duvet. The last three years he’d made the drive from school with Conrad. They would spend the first week of break with Seb’s family, Conrad would take the train home for Christmas, and then Seb would join him in Boston. From there they’d ping along the New England coastline, following the parties.

The time spent together in each other’s homes had felt like a delicious game. How loud could they be without anyone noticing? How well-made could the guest room bed remain before someone mentioned it? How much could they make each other squirm below the dinner table before someone saw? Thinking about it now made Seb a little nauseous. The duvet beneath him was the same one they’d nestled under.

Furiously, he ripped it off the bed, trekking barefoot through the maze of his home to a guest bedroom where he could swap it. He returned upstairs, texting aimlessly with Adriana, dissecting footage of one of her recent bouts. Finally, he took a nap, setting his alarm for twenty minutes before dinner.

“Salut, Sebastian,” Reg said, lifting a Sazerac as Seb made his way into the gallery, a portrait-filled room that filtered guests into the dining room.

He blinked at his brother. He hated Sazeracs.

“Hi, Sebastian,” Priya said, giving him a half-smile. He half-smiled back and poured himself some bourbon for something to do with his hands. He took a sip to steel himself against small talk.

“Hey, Priya. Nice dress,” he said, because it was, and instantly regretted it as Reg mouthed “fag” behind Priya’s sleek head. “How’s the PhD?”

Priya’s PhD was mostly avocational. Her own trust was massive, and as the future wife of the Allsaires heir, she was signing up to chair committees and host dinner parties, not slog it out in a research chair.

“It goes. Slowly. My advisor thinks I need to narrow my dissertation topic, but the field of evocational amplification is already so narrow. I feel like I don’t have anything unique to add to the conversation.” She sighed. “Are you still applying for Oxford?”

He cringed inwardly as his father appeared, summoned, apparently, by the word “Oxford.” Fabian Allsaires wore a navy suit after hours in his own home. His dark blond hair was still full despite his being nearly fifty, and it was perfectly coiffed. His eyes were merciless.

“That’s the plan,” Seb said, trying not to sound smaller, trying to pretend he didn’t see his father out of the corner of his eye.