Page 7 of The Alchemists

No, came the reply, but isn’t that what magic’s for?

Lily was too keyed up now, too filled with an anxious energy to possibly study. She slid on her headphones and exhaled slowly as the music settled through her. She breathed with it, finding the rhythm, and then she moved to the center of her room, the old, worn boards creaking under her weight, and she began to dance.

* In addition to the Julian calendar, Magical Society observes a separate Hermetic lunar calendar based on the thirteen full moons that occur annually.

* Vaticination: The art of prediction and divination. From the Latin vaticinationem. Vates, seer.

Metapsychosis: The action of one mind upon another. From the Greek meta, change; en, in; psyche, soul.

SEB

“Which one?” Tori marched into his room holding up two outer layers: one, a poncho in tan, black, and red plaid; the other, a giant red and black buffalo check wrap.

Seb set his copy of Orlando face down on the duvet. “Which one will you be less upset about getting beer on?”

“Good point.” She sank onto the bed, piling the coats next to her. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

Tori narrowed her eyes at him. “Because I know you, Sebastian. You’ve been weird since the start of term. You haven’t talked about Lapland at all, you’re spending way too much time locked in your room, and you look like this every time I try to get your attention.” At this last part, she gestured vaguely at his entire being.

Seb sighed and pushed his hand through his hair, for something to do. Asher appeared in the doorway, summoned, apparently, by the promise of an explanation for Seb’s weirdness. “Look, I spent the summer meditating; there’s not much to tell. It was a lot of sitting in a sauna and contemplating the universe.”

“Those witches must really suck,” Asher said, “if you spent all summer contemplating the universe and smoking moss or whatever it is they do up there, and you’re wound this tight in September.”

“I already told you guys.” He pushed himself upright. “I’m taking that extra seminar, and I really need to focus on work if I’m going to make it into Oxford’s Ætheric Theory program—they only take⁠—”

“Ten people per year, yeah, we know.” Tori sighed. “Why are you even trying to get into that program, Sebastian? You should be going into the professional circuit. You love Cantrèa. You could go pro without batting an eyelash.”

“I can’t play Cantrèa forever.”

Asher laughed. “You don’t need to, that’s what trust funds are for.”

“So, what? I’m supposed to play Cantrèa for a while and then loaf around for the rest of my life?”

“Of course not.” Tori put a calming hand on his sock foot and squeezed gently. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. You’re incapable of doing nothing. I just don’t know why you’re insisting on killing yourself already when term is just starting! It’s Cert Year; we should be having fun.”

“I’m not killing myself.”

Asher raised a dark, skeptical eyebrow. “Fooled me.”

“Wow.” Seb scoffed. “Thanks, guys. You can leave now.” He snapped, and the door hurtled open further, slamming against the wall.

Tori and Asher exchanged another glance, then she picked up her coats, her voice edged in ice. “Désolée, Sebastian, for giving a fuck about you. Whenever you decide to stop bullshitting us about whatever you’ve got going on, we’re here for you.”

Seb set his jaw and stared at the wall with blurring eyes.

“Be ready to go by nine,” she said, after it became clear he wasn’t offering up any explanations.

“I don’t want to go to the fucking bonfire,” he said through his teeth.

“That’s another thing.” Tori’s voice lost its edge. “You used to love the bonfire.”

She shut his door quietly.

With great effort, Seb unclenched his jaw enough to swallow the ache that lodged in his throat. He fell back onto the bed, one hand gripping his mist-blue duvet. The late afternoon light slanted through the diamond panes of the Tudor windows in long, sharp strips of topaz, vivisecting the framed black and white poster that had come in the album liner of his favorite band’s latest release.

He let his gaze drift to the ancient plaster ceiling, forcing his eyes open until everything was hazy and insubstantial, until the cracks melted back together. When the iron bands clenching his heart eased enough to think beyond panic, he reached for his Words, like the witches had taught him in Lapland.