I stare at him because his voice sounds strained—he’s gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles blanched, and his ears have gone the tiniest touch pink.
I turn to face forward again, shaking my head. Harrisford Briggs is seriously weird.
We spend most of the drive in silence, me chewing my lip and watching the scenery slide by the window. It’s summer proper now, andthe air has grown even thicker and muggier than it’s ever been before.
All I can think about is how irresponsible this is; now that we’ve finished exams, I really should be trying to figure out, once and for all, how to access the Void. Conall, Heloise, and I had spent every night during the exam period puzzling over blueprints and twisting the unmarked dials and knobs on the black box Percy stole. But nothing seemed to work, and Percy—though he’d witnessed the procedure many a time—didn’t know anything beyond his vague, cat-biased recollections. Nathaniel, it seems, had been careful to shield his thoughts whenever he’d deemed it necessary.
It’s only two days until the graduation ceremony. After that, we’ll all go our separate ways. I’ll lose access to Conall’s brilliant mind, and Heloise’s smarts and steadfast support.
The others are planning to go to the party anyway, I tell myself, trying to assuage my guilt.You can work on it again first thing tomorrow.
We drive past paddocks with grazing unicorns, their silver foals frolicking through the grass. The meadows are bathed in sunshine, butterflies (or are they cabbage moths?) flitting around the wildflowers. But I can barely appreciate it. First, because the surges—and the inaccessible Void—are still hanging over my head. Second, I’m ruminating over all the things I might have messed up in my exams. And third…
I still don’t understand what Harrisford is doing.
The last time I saw him, he’d called me perfect, then made me come, spectacularly. The time before that, he’d been flirting with the nurse at the London General Magical Hospital—a woman whose name he’d forgotten mere days later.
And the time beforethat, he’d insulted me at the qílín paddocks and basically laughed in my face when I brought up the surges.
Which is the real Harrisford? And which version is the act?
Eventually, the countryside gives way to the city, and before long we’re pulling into the car park beneath a restaurant. Inside, it’s dim. The place is decked out all in black, multitextured layers of velvet seats, black-stained hardwood, glossy lacquered feature walls. The only sources of light are innumerable flickering candles, which are simply wicks inserted into little jars of liquid magic, and there are at least twenty pieces of cutlery laid out at every setting.
“We have a booking under Briggs,” Harrisford says at the front desk, and my stomach does a little somersault at the careless way he’d saidwe. The maître d’, also clad all in black, leads us to a table tucked way up in the back. I’m feeling out of place because I’m not wearing black, and also because I’m tragically underdressed. The only redeeming factor is that Harrisford is dressed casually, too.
Harrisford calls for the wine list as soon as we are seated, donning his reading glasses to peruse the menu. I watch him, studying the little indentation that appears between his eyebrows when he concentrates; at the way he absent-mindedly runs a finger back and forth across his full lower lip while he’s reading. When he looks up, he raises his eyebrows at me, having caught me gawking. I bite my lip and look away.
Stay on your guard, Gwen.I cannot let myself feel. I cannot let myself get caught up in Harrisford’s twisted games.
“Do you want white or red?” he says.
“Red, please.”
He orders, and when the bottle arrives, he pours me a glass. I frown. “Aren’t you having any?”
“No. I prefer white.” He nudges my glass toward me.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You should order some, then. It seems unfair to have me drinking, and you completely sober. I feel as if it’s putting me at a disadvantage.”
He rolls his eyes but gestures to the waiter, who at Harrisford’s request brings a second bottle.
We clink our glasses and drink, eyeing each other across the table. I still haven’t asked why Harrisford has brought me here. It might be petty, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I’m curious. So instead, I just say to him, “We really can’t agree on anything, can we?”
He had seemed lost in thought, but my question jerks him out of his reverie. “Whatever do you mean, Chan?”
I take a sip of wine. “Red or white. Mag.fam, myth.creat. Curry or vinegar. BBC or the 2005 version—”
He scoffs, cutting me off. “I’m sure we can find something we agree on.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, challenging. “Let’s try, then. Dark chocolate.”
He shoots me a scandalized look. “White. It’s so much sweeter.”
“Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee,” he says, then flushes. “I know that you prefer tea.”
“Beach or snow?” I say, and at precisely the same time I say “beach,” he says “snow.” Of course he’d like snow, since he’s posh, snobby, and stupidly rich.
