84. Seb
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.
Asher crept back behind the door.
Hawthorn’s eyes gleamed. “I knew it.”
Seb froze.
“I knew you couldn’t possibly be debasing the Allsaires name.
We hear things, you know. Helena fretted herself near to death—she’s hoping you and our dear Violet will come together eventually—but I told her that you, Sebastian Allsaires, you of all Magicians, the best of your generation, couldn’t possibly have gone so wrong. ”
Seb blinked at the mention of Violet, trying to picture her anywhere but at the stables, talking about anything other than horses. He traced his thumb around the thin lip of the cut-crystal rocks glass over and over, the sharp pressure grounding him.
His voice was frigid; he couldn’t help it. The rage seethed, ice-cold in his veins.
“That would be a shock, wouldn’t it?”
Bellarius laughed.
Seb drained his Scotch, checked his watch, and stood. “Best get back to the charade, then. Wouldn’t want to arouse suspicions.”
Hawthorn clapped him on the back, accompanying him to the door, passing within inches of Asher, whose barely-there face was unreadable.
“Of course not.”
Seb rubbed his fingers together, sensing wetness. Glancing down, he saw blood sliding between his fingers, dripping a trail across Hawthorn Bellarius’s carpet.