76. Seb
SEB
He wanted to stay there forever, or at least until June, even though he knew that the magic of this particular boredom lay in its fleeting nature.
Eventually they’d get sick of ceviche and rosé and probably each other.
Each day brought an endless stretch of glorious ennui, of “maybe we’ll sail around the cove and go snorkeling” or “maybe I’ll write some poetry,” and it turned into one of those things or another lazy afternoon nap instead.
With nothing to do, wasting time was a fallacy.
But even so, Seb was tragically bad at wasting time.
While Lily dozed on deck, the sun quickly turning her skin gold then golden-tan, he researched.
He’d promised her he wouldn’t talk about trying to break her curse, but he hadn’t promised he wouldn’t work on it.
It was a promise by omission, and it filled him with a gnawing guilt, but he couldn’t not—especially when he looked at her: sleeping, young, beautiful, and safe, and he thought about how much he ached to see her: sleeping, old, beautiful, and safe.
Chant had sent him some readings he thought might be helpful.
Some were scholarly articles behind a paywall, and some were facsimiles from illuminated manuscripts.
Anything approaching usefulness went into his journal.
Most of it seemed like nonsense and superstition, but Seb had begun reading about AEtheric energy and the theoretical physics of it—where it came from, where it went.
Those articles were like a door swinging open to reveal a vast landscape.
They made him feel small in the most significant way—not unlike the morning he’d woken up to find the yacht in open water with no land for miles.
He needed to finish his application for Oxford.
He’d been holding off to discuss options with Lily, but now there was no need.
Now the thought of fucking off to England in the fall and living like a Hermetic priest and studying magical energy while renting a leaking room under the eaves somewhere sounded like the only reasonable option.
The only other option seemed to be fucking off to the Lake District to become increasingly misanthropic and write shitty poetry like a bad twenty-first-century Wordsworth.
“What is this?”
The last plunge of light cut across the ocean, bathing Lily in mauve, lighting her profile like a flare.
Her body was heavy and warm in his arms, soft from wine and sun.
They’d snorkeled in the morning and spent all afternoon working on their dance, crashing together in the surf as Tori and Asher circled them like wolves with HD cameras.
Asher finished the verse he’d been singing, fingerpicking in stasis, as he answered, “Just something I’ve been working on.” The shadows turned his long lashes into violet feathers on his cheeks as he looked over at Lily, her expression more alert than it had been in hours. “You like it?”
Lily nodded.
“Here, give me your thoughts on the rough draft. Tori is going to lay down proper vocals at some point.” He connected to the speakers.
Seb glanced at Lily, then settled back to listen.
Galloping drums surged forward, followed by woozy synths wrapped in gauze.
By the time Asher’s falsetto, unrecognizable with reverb, piped in from another, sweeter dimension, Lily was already suffering a sea change.
She sat up, pin-straight, for the full song, her head tipped and alert.
When it was over, she turned to Asher and commanded, “Play it again.”
For his part, Seb lost himself in the words, the poetry of it spinning his head, cutting to the quick of everything he felt, had been feeling, for the last week. He’d strike any deal, sign his name to any contract, if only, if only.
Lily turned in his arms. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” he rasped.
“This is it.”
“This is what?” Tori asked, turning down the music.
“Our song. For our dance.”