Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
GWENNA
“Scuse me,” I say, trying to thread my way through the handful of people standing near the entrance to Porter’s. “Sorry, I just—”
“You’re excused.”
Elena Shalott’s voice is entirely neutral.
I swallow hard and duck my head, praying to God I didn’t step on her toes or something by accident.
She’s there with a few friends, it seems, clustered by the door and not especially dressed up—afternoon beers to chat and catch up, not a big spangled social outing.
“Oh,” I say. “Hi. Um, how are you doing, Elena?”
Anytime, Morgan, I think desperately. Anytime you wanted to show up…
“Oh, you know.” Elena gives me a tight smile. “Trying to make it to the end of the semester. Just getting over that flu that’s going around.”
She shrugs, and I realize: that’s it. Small talk. A peace offering.
It’s honestly a relief.
“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” I say. And I mean it—I really do.
“Thanks,” she says, and it sounds like she means it too. She nods toward the back of the bar. “I think Morgan’s looking for you.”
When I asked Morgan if she could meet up, and she suggested Porter’s, of all places, I was surprised, but not opposed.
I hadn't actually been to the campus bar since the disastrous first cap of my fall semester. And now, in late afternoon fading to early evening, it actually appears quite cozy: the snugs’ warm wood lit by faux oil lamps on the walls, a fireplace flickering, the walls hung with sepia-tinted photographs of Caliburn University past.
Sure enough, Elena was right. "You look like someone who needs a drink,” calls a familiar voice. Morgan waves me from one of the snugs—not like it’s hard to see her, though, since besides Elena and her friends, there are barely ten other people in here. "Fortunately, I saved you my favorite booth.”
“You have a favorite booth?”
“Is that a surprise?” Morgan says. "I do have a social life outside of lending you clothes and helping my idiot stepbrother stop the apocalypse or whatever, you know.”
"Oh yeah, of course," I say, and feel slightly guilty, as I do.
Because, honestly, I've been leaning on Morgan so much—in general, and especially in the past few weeks, that it's hard not to feel bad, especially since I'm literally here to ask her yet another favor. I duck my head as I pull off my jacket, then slide into the booth across from her. “Um, what’s so great about it?”
"Oh, I think that's obvious," Morgan says slyly, and rolls her eyes cartoonishly at the photo on the wall inside the booth.
I look at it: a sort of class photograph from the mid-19th century. Men in jackets with beards, a women with her long hair scooped into a Gibson Girl poufs. "Classics and Medieval Studies Department" reads a spidery hand across the bottom.
"Oh," I say. “Very on-theme.”
"Well, sure.” Morgan clicks her tongue. “But look closer."
I do, and my eyes immediately fall on the lone woman, her white, ankle-length gown standing out amongst the suits. The recognition clicks physically before I can even put words to what I'm seeing, but when I do…
"Oh my God," I gasp. “It's her."
She stands at the very edge of the group, her dark hair, white gown, and faint smirk a stark contrast to the kind-eyed man in a long white beard and waistcoat next to her. She is proud, fully human, defiantly alive.
Vivian Thorne.
Morgan grins. "I know." She tilts her head at the photo and winks. "Hey Viv. How's it going, girl?"
"That's nuts," I say. I mean, I guess it isn't because she did study here, but still, the idea that the dark-haired coed in a photo taken when photographs had barely been invented and mystical ghost-like woman who appeared twenty feet tall over the surface of the lake are the same person is just…wild. I stare at her, amazed at how normal she looks. Although, I think, normal is all relative—being a woman in that group, at that time in history, would have to have been a novelty, at least judging by the look of sheer wonder the old bearded guy on her right is giving her. Like he’s astonished to have ever met such a creature.
"Time flies," Morgan says, her voice warm with nostalgia.
"Like an arrow," I murmur.
"Anyway.” Morgan shrugs. "Fun little Easter egg. Bit of Caliburn trivia.” She swigs her beer, and that’s when I realize she’s also ordered one for me, because she pushes it across the table. "What's going on? Lots of reading, I'm guessing?"
"Yeah," I say, distractedly. “Making about as much progress there as you'd expect, namely none." I keep my eyes glued to the table as if I don't want to look directly at Vivian in the photograph, like she's judging me for not figuring out the answer to her question already.
Who do you think you are, Gwenna?
"Actually, I had something else I wanted to ask you—and yes, another favor, kind of," I go on quickly. “I’m sorry.”
Morgan waves a hand. "Please. Think nothing of it.”
“But—”
“I was joking. Really." She scrunches down a little so that she forces herself into my field of vision and waves from the edge of the table. “Seriously, Gwen, I don’t mind. And I’m sure one of these days I’ll cash in all my chips with you and get a major favor back and we’ll be square. Okay?”
I exhale. “Okay.”
“Good.” Morgan sits back up. “So what’s up?”
I hold my beer a little tighter.
"It's Lanz,” I say. "You gave me that honey, and I made the drink for him like you told me, and then I totally forgot, but—”
"Oh my god, that's right," Morgan says, a single laugh escaping. "Yeah, in all of the…everything, sort of fell by the wayside, hm? But you made him the drink?" She leans in, interested. "Did you take a picture? What's it look like?"
“That's the thing," I say, shrinking a little. "I did. Well, I did make him the drink, but then—" I grimace, thinking of how stupid the whole thing is. "I dropped it. We were in his room and this bird flew right into his window."
Morgan grimaces.
"And I jumped and dropped it and the mug just cracked.
So I don't know what to do. I guess maybe if you have more honey, but honestly, I'm not sure I can get him to just drink a random mug of milk again.
" I pause, still gripping my glass, letting the few murmured conversations around us fill the air for a second.
"Callahan's really worried about him," I say. "I mean, everyone is. But..."
"Yeah," Morgan nods.
"And I think—I know—” The words rush out of me. "If I could just figure all this out and solve the riddle for Vivian and get the answer on how to fix things and do whatever needs to be done, maybe everything would go back to normal. You know, the Earth and him. But that all sort of depends on—”
“…on what's wrong with him in the first place," Morgan finishes for me. She gives a crisp nod. "Well. Did you get a look inside the mug, even?”
I lift a shoulder. "Yeah. But I couldn't tell you any of the patterns or, I don't know, symbols that were there."
"Hold up, hold up." Morgan waves a hand in the air.
"I'm not asking you to look for hieroglyphics or anything.
" She lets out a short laugh. "This is not that complicated a diagnostic, Gwenna. It’s less 23andme, more…pregnancy test, I guess. A yes or no kind of thing. You either are, or you aren’t, afflicted with some kind of magic. "
Afflicted. The word sticks in my mind, the memory of Emrys on that day of darkness in the Cameron house living room pushing back to the fore. "Like with a hex," I say, "or a curse."
Morgan bobs her head. "Exactly. So, you got a look. What did you see?"
I hesitate, not sure how to even begin to describe something I’d barely gotten a glance at anyway. "There was like a goopy little ring of frothy honey stuff stuck to the sides. I guess."
Morgan purses her lips. "Like all the way around?" she says. "A complete circle?"
I close my eyes briefly. Open them again. "Yes," I say. "Weirdly, yes. I don't know why I remember that. I guess I thought that maybe the honey was like extra thick or something, but—”
"That's not good," Morgan interrupts.
My stomach plunges. “It’s not?”
She shakes her head, rueful. “An unbroken circle around the cup means there’s some kind of influence surrounding him.” She makes a little circle with her fingers. “Binding magic. The bad kind.”
Shit. “And that’s why he looks so terrible.”
Morgan lifts a shoulder. “I mean, maybe. Or maybe caught that flu that’s going around and the magic is incidental. It really depends on the nature of the spell.”
I feel the tiniest flutter of relief at Morgan’s words—please, God, let it be the flu, I pray silently, a very strange thing to ask for. “But it’ll go away?”
Morgan’s silent a long moment. “It…might.” She sighs. “Again, depends on the nature of the spell. If it’s a hex, then that sucks, but those fade with time. Maybe some lingering effects, but nothing debilitating. Like…scar tissue, kind of.”
“And if it’s not a hex?”
“Like if it’s some kind of curse, you mean?”
I nod. Morgan suddenly isn’t meeting my eyes.
“Then it’ll keep getting worse. Unless it gets broken.”
“Okay, so?” I say, feeling a little frantic. “How do we break it? What’s that take?”
“Gwenna…” Morgan looks at me again, and when she does, her gaze is soft, almost pitying.
The sinking feeling inside me starts to feel like a black hole, and my throat gets thick, thinking of the very kind, very sweet boy with the bright blue eyes who does not deserve to fade away like this.
“Just tell me,” I say. “Please. It’s possible, right?”