Page 125 of The Alchemists

“Qué?”

Lily mimed stabbing herself in the leg. Rafael got it instantly. His face crumpled into guilt as he shook his head.

“She didn’t bring it. We put it on the meal card, double-checked.”

Fuck.

She did the math. A healing spell was out of the question. Healing spells gave as good as they got, and she didn’t know anything strong enough to reopen someone’s airways. She could use her mother’s magic, but there were at least forty people watching her with laser focus.

But Adriana was dying in her arms. She’d fallen unconscious and her face swelled deep purple. When it came down to it, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

Lily closed her eyes, summoning her Words, calling up the magic that had circled her wrists her whole life. That was the thing about this magic: it responded solely to Lily—her instinct, her will. Lily commanded Adriana to live, damn it, pushing her hands into the other girl’s chest, and she felt the power flood beneath her ribs and into her lungs.

Adriana jerked into consciousness with a dragging gasp, her eyes flying open as the color fled her face, hands flying once more to her throat. Lily exhaled, letting her eyes drift closed, and slumped against a table leg.

Rafael dove for his sister, clutching her, speaking to her in rapid Spanish. He grabbed Lily’s hand, wringing it nearly white as he thanked her over and over. She nodded dumbly, her gaze pulled across the hall, where her grandfather stood, taking it all in, eyes narrow as a viper’s. Seb, red-faced and disheveled, stood at his shoulder. Before Lily could catch his eye, he tapped Hawthorn on his shoulder and said something into his ear.

Her grandfather nodded curtly, his eyes never leaving Lily, and beckoned Seb away. Lily stared after them, wondering what the hell she was missing.

SEB

Seb was not a good liar; he was, in fact, a spectacularly bad one. The only secret he’d ever successfully kept was himself, and that was a far cry from lying outright to a member of the Tribunal. The fact that his plan relied on him doing exactly that seemed like epically poor planning now that he sat in a leather armchair in Hawthorn Bellarius’s study.

The curse plant was not in the conservatory because it was here, sitting in the center of a built-in bookshelf behind the desk, glowing with ambient light, like it was a fucking prize bonsai and not his granddaughter’s death sentence. Seb wanted to throw up. Instead, he accepted Scotch he didn’t want from a man he could barely look at.

All he had to do was keep Bellarius talking. The rest was up to Asher and Chant. If it failed, they were so much worse than dead. Seb tried not to wonder what sort of curse Hawthorn Bellarius would put on them for trying to break a curse by stealing its source, but he was pretty sure Lily’s would pale in comparison.

He could see Asher standing frozen behind the door—a shimmering blur wearing a gaudy pendant around his neck—but Bellarius could not. Sweat licked down the back of Seb’s collar. Chant had done the preparation for the illusions, the work being far beyond Seb’s understanding and capability. He was sequestered now in a bathroom down the hall, maintaining it with every shred of his concentration.

“I have to say, Sebastian, I’m…surprised at your company for the evening.” Hawthorn gazed at him with his pale eyes. Lily was so warm—looking at her made him think of October afternoons, perfect fall days—how could she be descended from the glacial drift in front of him?

“Ah,” Seb chuckled lightly, swirling his Scotch for something to do with it that wasn’t drinking. His laugh sounded like a duck being strangled. “That. Well.”

Asher crept along the paneled wall. Seb looked anywhere but at him.

“It must be a disappointment to your parents.”

“They’re never going to meet her.”

“Oh?”

“She’s…well. She’s not a real Magician, is she? Do you know how I met her?” His lip curled into a sneer, the same kind he used to wear often when he was with Conrad, when everyone else was disposable or not worth knowing. It turned his stomach. “She somehow managed to make it into alchemy, and of course I got stuck with her.”

“But what are you doing with her now? Here? When there are so many lovely young women who’d kill to be on your arm?”

Asher was almost at the shelf. All he had to do now was touch the plant, and an illusory version would appear in its place.

“Well, it’s simple. I’m fascinated by her in the worst way. The more time I was forced to spend with her, the more I realized what a rare opportunity lay before me.” He leaned forward on his elbows and then, because he thought his heart might explode through his throat, threw back half the Scotch. “How often has anyone had the chance to study one of them? To go through methodically and follow each difference down to its roots?”

At the mention of roots, Hawthorn glanced over his shoulder at the shelf, where Asher hovered, unmoving. Seb coughed into his sleeve to draw his attention.

“To find out, empirically, fundamentally, what separates us from them? I’ve had all year.” He sprawled back in the chair as if he owned it. “I’m using it in my application for Oxford.”

Hawthorn leaned forward, and Seb met his gaze finally, without flinching, as Asher lifted the plant from the shelf.

“Are you now? She doesn’t know?”

Seb scoffed. “Of course she doesn’t. You have no idea what I’ve given, sacrificed for this work.” He shook his head, hating himself, wishing he could take back the words even as they spilled from his mouth. “It’s degrading, but what’s a little dirt in the name of the greater good? In the name of pure bloodlines and strong Magic?” If Lily could see him now, hear him now, she would never speak to him again. It made him sick that Asher was hearing it.