by Marian Gray
“I’ve seen your face quite a bit in the Emporium this past summer.” Her voice was just as poised as her proper posture. “They haven’t been too kind to you.”
My stomach shriveled. She was the last person I wanted reading those grueling articles about me. “I had a rough start.”
“Well, considering you’re standing here now, I assume things have eased.”
I nodded. “You could say that.”
“Then I hope you’ll reconsider your statement about our shared family traditions.” There wasn’t a hint of jest in her voice. “It’s just a bit of competitive fun. Nothing serious.”
I scratched the back of my head. “I actually haven’t thought about it once since it was brought up in that interview,” I lied.
Her thin lips widened once more into her trademark polite smile as her eyes lightened in weight—like a trained politician. “Given that we have a class together, it’s not really as though you can avoid it. American academics is competitive in nature—student vs. student ranked by the grading system.”
“True.” She had a point. “But I’ll do my best to avoid it.”
“If you feel that you can.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll be amused watching you try at least. Also, nice wand. My grandfather will be excited to know handleless wands are back in style.” Her heels clicked as she took a step away from me and into the side aisle. “Anyway, it was nice to finally meet you. I feel honored to be able to attend Ivory with a Blackwood, especially one in my year. My family was quite jealous and excited over this situation.” Her foot lifted, stepping toward the classroom door. “I look forward to what this year brings us. Best of luck, Kim.”
My feet didn’t move as I watched her sway out of the room. I shook my head in protest. I wanted nothing to do with this family rivalry.
The thirty of us clumped together in an antiquated greenhouse. I tugged at the collar of my shirt, allowing more air to sweep down my humid torso. Trickles of sweat rolled down my back and hit the waistband of my pants. Every time I opened my mouth to breath, I felt like I was swallowing a gulp of water with the air.
“These are your basic tropical herbs.” The Slavic accent rolled off his tongue. His deadpan tone and unusual rhythm made it difficult to take notes and stay focused. “You all should be familiar with these four: lucridia, tamango, mapalle, and capocao. If you aren’t, look over your class required book: The Novice Botanist’s Field Guide. If you haven’t picked up a copy yet—shame on you.” Mr. Sirenko yanked off his dark, mud-speckled gloves and dropped them on the table. “Now, each of you is to claim a work bench. There should be two to a table. At your workstation, you’ll find these four herbs. I want you to cut them and store them as instructed in your alchemy book. If you didn’t bring your book to class, find someone who will share with you.” He sighed as the sweat dripped down his brow. “This is the only day I will let you share notes and books, so be sure to bring your materials the following times we meet.”
I whipped my hair into a bun before turning to find a work bench.
“Want to partner up?” Eddie asked as he passed by.
“Of course.” I followed him to the nearest available station. Atop the dirt-littered surface stood four different plants. Each were distinctive in their own right from leaf shape to petals. “One of us cuts, while the other navigates the textbook and directs.”
“Sounds like a deal.” He yanked his book out of his backpack. “Slap those gloves on, because I refuse to get dirt on me.”
“Is that your first-day-of-school outfit?” I teased, sliding the beaten leather gloves down my hand.
“Exactly.” He grinned and flicked his bright blue bow tie. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—are you going to the holmgang tryouts this Friday?”
A little part of me shriveled in sorrow. I didn’t want to just go to the tryouts, I wanted to participate in them. But with my tarnished record, I didn’t even consider it. “I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Well, the reason I ask is because Connor’s going to tryout, and he asked me to go and support him.” The spine of his book cracked open. “But I don’t want to be sitting there in the stands by myself. Would you be willing to go? Sara already said she would.”
I had planned to use that evening to prepare for the semester, but I didn’t want to miss out on the spectacle. “I’ll go.”
Chapter Sixteen
There was a range of years on the circular field, from bejant all the way to apprentice. Some students appeared nervous, others clueless, but a few stood confident. I assumed the more confident wizards were the older ones. Ones that had a strong grasp on their magic.
“Look.” Sara tapped my shoulder. “There she is.” Her arm stretched out, pointing at a raven-haired witch. Despite being on grass, her feet donned tan high heels that sunk into the soft ground with each step.
Eddie leaned forward. His mouth opened wide. “She looks way better in person than in pictures.”
“Who is that?” My eyes followed her around the grassy floor.
“Kinsey McGowen,” Eddie answered.
I shrugged my shoulders. “And why are we all staring at her?”
“You know your alchemical glasswear set?” Eddie turned to me. I nodded in response. “What’s its full, proper name? How did it appear on the school supply list?”
“McGowen Student Alchemical Glassware Set,” I recited without hesitation. I had read and reread all the documents and materials Ivory sent before the summer semester. “Is she related to this McGowen guy?”
“She’s his granddaughter,” Sara clarified. “She’s worth just over a billion arcs.”
“What?” I spat. “A billion arcs over a glasswear set.”
“Well, that’s not all they make.” Eddie shook his head. “The family cornered the brewing market. The original McGowen, I forget his name, he developed a way to enchant and temper the glass so that it won’t shatter no matter what potion or elixir you brew. Before him, you had to buy ten different sets that went with different potion families, and if you mixed them up—Well, you were going to have a big mess on your hands.”
“My grandmothers originally couldn’t stand each other because of this. My paternal grandmother, the one that’s still alive, is a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to all things witchcraft. My other one was a stereotypical messy kitchen witch. She went through new brewingwear once a week.” Sara grinned.
“I remember those days,” Eddie commented. “They used it as a way to distinguish themselves. The witches and wizards that routinely broke their glassware were considered uneducated and barbaric, but those that didn’t were cultured and educated. My grandma used to sit me down and have me recite every piece and tell her which common potions the different sets could brew. It was madness. I cried.”
“Mine would do the same!” Sara’s voice sparked.
I sighed, and a slow sadness slid through me. I didn’t have happy memories of my grandmother because I didn’t have any memories of her at all. She had passed two years after I was born. Uncle Hank and my mother sometimes spoke of her passing, calling it a tragedy that she had died rather young—even for a flup. Then again, my great grandmother should still be around, but she died young too at sixty-three years old.
Wizards and witches were expected to live the longest when compared to mundies and flups. There was a theory that magic stretched the life strings and made it common for users to live up to a hundred and twenty-five. But the members of my family never survived past eighty.
A man with a blonde bun strutted onto the field from a tunnel that led to the underground. “Thank you all for coming out this evening,” he began, “My name is Elijah Harlow, and this is the official Captain’s Aide, Kinsey McGowen.” She whipped her long hair to the other side of her shoulder and gave a teasing smile. “I’m a casting apprentice and holmgang team captain. I’ve been on this team since I was a bejant and took up the yoke of leadership during my tertian year.” He paused for a moment as he scanned t
he crowd of hopefuls. He rubbed his lips before continuing. “I know this isn’t how we’d all like to spend our Friday evenings, but if you’re going to be a part of this team, you’ll need to adjust. We practice Friday and Wednesday nights as well as Sunday mornings. The season starts in the spring, so learn to manage your time this semester. It isn’t easy juggling a full schedule of classes, homework, practices, and games.”
“Remind me to never tryout for holmgang,” Sara muttered as she leaned back in her seat.
I didn’t share the sentiment. Watching those two hundred or more students gathered on the pitch, vying for a single spot on the team made my insides burn to compete. A bulb of resentment blossomed in my gut. If my family had taught me magic instead of hiding it away from me, I could’ve been standing on the field alongside the rest. My great grandmother joined when she was a bejantine, and I might have had the potential to as well. But now I’d never know. My chance had been robbed from me.
“We’ll start by warming up. Find a partner, spread out, and run through your prepared spells. In about thirty minutes, Kinsey and I will walk around the pitch and evaluate everyone. As a reminder, there is only one spot open on the team, but we do have several reserve and team aide spots available.” He clapped his hands together and more than a few students jumped. “Let’s get to work.”
“Kim, there’s a letter on your lap.” Eddie nudged my arm.
I glanced down to find an ivy envelope lying upon my thighs. “I didn’t even feel it.”
“I thought you had a hold on your mail.” Eddie eyed me with disapproval.
I shrugged. “I did, but not anymore.” I peeled the wax seal from the surface and a retrieved a small note, comprised of super sturdy cardstock.
Dear Kim Blackwood,
The staff and faculty of Ivory University of Magics would like to formally invite you to his year’s Cocktail Kickoff, featuring the greatest minds and biggest names in the wizarding world.
The letter provided further details about time, place, and dress. At the very bottom was a black line. But instead of an X, indicating the placement of a signature, there was an O. “What does the O mean?”
“Wow.” Sara stared at the invitation, transfixed. “You have to go!”
“It’s enchanted to recognize your voice so you don’t have to sign,” Eddie answered. “Just say your name if you want to go. If not, rip it up.”
“Why do I have to go?” I turned to Sara.
“Because everyone who is worth anything is going. It would be a career ender if you didn’t go.”
I lifted the note closer to my mouth. “Kim Blackwood.” The invitation vibrated in my hand as black ink spilled across the bottom, outlining every letter of my name. When the ink reached the end of the D, the note disappeared from my hand with a small flash and puff of smoke. Silver and gold confetti rained down me, covering my pants.
“Well, that was quite a show.” Eddie snickered. “I bet Cecil Greaves designed the invitations.”
“Wait!” Sara’s hand clamped down on my knee. “You didn’t indicate you would be bringing a plus one.”
“Because I have no plus one to bring.”
Her palm pressed against her chest. “I would have loved to go.”
Eddie shook his head. “Why? So you can stalk all the celebrities?”
“It’s better than staying at home and doing nothing.”
“That’s because…”
Eddie and Sara’s banter faded from my mind as my stare slid to Eli. I tried to peel my attention away, but I was transfixed. There was something about him that pleased me, that made my core heat. By just watching him, my chest tightened and my stomach felt flighty. And the more I was around him, the stronger the sensations grew. Even from afar, his smile stirred my blood and voice flooded my body with soothing warmth. The man was magnetic.
CRACK!
A bright eruption of smoke illuminated the field. Before I could mutter a word, an emerald comet launched from the chaos. It screamed as it shot, charging toward the three of us.
“Move!” Sara shrieked, as she and Eddie dodged in opposite directions.
I stood to leap, but my legs locked from fear. I was stunned still. The rocket bolted toward my chest, mere yards away from slamming into me.
With a quick draw of breath, I swept my unwieldy wand upward and whispered, “Rem.”
The emerald torpedo vaporized into black and white wisps that tickled my skin.
My heart pounded in my chest and an anxious sweat painted my hands. The grip around my wand tightened until my knuckles whitened. I stared forward through the dissolving fog, terrified to move.
When the opaque curtain lifted, all eyes centered on me. Nobody murmured a word.
Elijah darted up the arena steps, skipping two or three at a time to reach me. Pieces of his hair fell from his bun.
“Kim, are you okay?” Eddie mumbled. He still laid where he landed.
I turned to him. The color drained from my face and emptied into my toes. My mind couldn’t process the event.
“Please tell me you’re all right.” Elijah approached us.
Cold slipped down my spine. Nothing hurt or was broken. “I’m fine.”
“That was incredible!” His face lit up, and a smile widened across his mouth. “In all my time here, I’ve never seen anyone defend against a broken spell.”
“A broken spell?” I had never heard the term.
Elijah nodded his head. “That’s why her wand snapped in two.” His hand rose to his mouth and rubbed his bottom lip in contemplation. “I don’t expect you to do it now, considering what you’ve just been through, but I want you to tryout for the team.” There was a distinct twinkle in his eye as he awaited my answer.
Chapter Seventeen
For the first hour of the university mixer I suffered through small talk about my flip-flop grades, boisterous aunt, and reclusive uncle. I don’t remember most of the names I shook hands with, just the odd ones, such as: Corriandra Pickle, Brusaurus Buckwheat, and Tatarina Tatra. It was an odd blend of people with the only requirement for attendance being that you were rich or prominent in your industry.
“Excuse me.”
My head whipped to the right. A man in a white tuxedo with a large camera in his hands stared at me.
“Could you join in, please?” He nodded towards a group of three, who stood together. Their shoulders hunched to avoid contact, and their stares danced around the room rather than at each other. “It’s for the Emporium.” His volume rose at the end to be heard above the small orchestra.
My lips flattened into a straight line of hesitation. I didn’t want my name in the paper, but he wasn’t asking for a quote, just a picture. My eyes shot to the others, who were all waiting upon me in their wizard finest. Bright colored evening gowns filled the ballroom, each had some glittery or shiny attachment: a sash, a sleeve, gloves. And their hairdos were stacked with feathers from birds of every continent.
“Well?” The photographer pushed.
I caved. “Yes, sorry.” My heels clicked across the parquet flooring as I joined the group of middle-aged women.
“Closer, please,” the photographer requested.
I took a step in, but the proximity was awkward. None of us knew each other. We stood shoulder to shoulder like a row of soldiers. One angled her body inward, and I followed suit—it was a flattering pose. A few quick bursts of light flooded my eyes as my fake smile built across my face.
“Thank you, ladies.” He nodded and turned to rally another group of strangers into a photo.
“Well, that was embarrassing.” One of the women rolled her eyes. “Let’s hope that one doesn’t make the paper.” Her short blonde hair was so deeply curled, the ends formed perfect rolls that rested upon her jaw.
The others giggled their agreement before sauntering away with their feathered hair swaying side to side.
“You’re Kim Blackwood, aren’t you?” The blonde turned to me. Without breaking eye contact, her ha
nd struck out and nabbed a champagne flute from a passing tray.
“Yes.” I nodded.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but even if I had never seen your face in the paper—I would have known it was you.”
She was odd, but this small exchange already held my attention. The evening had been filled with simple pleasantries and fake sentiments that I yearned to converse with someone genuine. “How so?”
The flute touched her lips, but she pulled it away to respond. Bright peach lipstick stamped the brim. “You’re the only one here dressed like a mundi.” I knew from her matter-of-fact tone that she didn’t mean it as an insult but the words still sliced. “That doesn’t matter though. I like it. It’s exotic.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?” With Chamber employees and Emporium reps mingling in the crowd, I had to be on my guard.
“I didn’t.” She grinned. “The name’s Ann Darby.”
“Ann Darby?” The name surprised me. “You’re the author of that sorcerer book.”
She nodded, pleased I recognized her. “Psychology of the Sorcerer. That’s me.” Her mouth drained some of the drink from her flute. “I see you’ve browsed the bookstore. You wouldn’t believe the strings my publisher had to pull to get my book on the featured tables at some of the stores.” She shook her head. “I can’t fathom how mundi bookstores are failing. I guess ours are just more ruthless.” Her weight shifted from one foot to another. “Did you crack it open by chance?”
“Yes, I actually found the content to be intriguing. Particularly your chapter about Mad Merlin Syndrome. Do all sorcerers eventually succumb to this?”
Ann’s eyes glittered, sparked to life. “In all of our observed cases, those that routinely practiced magic developed Mad Merlin Syndrome.”
“That’s rather tragic. I guess it also explains why the Chamber goes to such great lengths to suppress the sorcerer community."
