Chapter 11 Tamsin
Tamsin
Lysander Rook deserves a round of applause for what a fool he’s made of me.
I should have had a zinger ready to lob back in Rook’s stupid face.
Something all those hungry-eyed, eager-faced reporters could churn out in hyperlinks for their requisite clickbait on the next magical world news cycle.
Something that would have at least made me look witty and thick-skinned, and not like a sensitive little girl who doesn’t know how to play verbal hardball with Lysander Rook, let alone stand across from him in a magicians’ dueling arena.
Instead, I did what I’d been trying to avoid doing for weeks.
I looked out across the sea of reporters, searching for the spot where I knew Samantha Chan would be standing on the periphery.
And sure enough, I found her face amid the lights: stark, strong bones, plain black ponytail and careworn hoodie, her mouth a tiny little O of dismay.
I couldn’t help but wonder, right then, if she was the one behind Lysander Rook’s poisonous words. If she told her champion to say the things he said. If that’s what Sam really thinks of me—that I’m nothing without Dad.
“What are you thinking about?”
I start and glance over at Sam. She doesn’t look so different from how she did at the presser. She’s still in what seems to be her uniform: oversized hoodie, ponytail, and sneakers. She’s not smiling, but her eyes are kind.
I’m not sure I can trust that kindness. I give her a wry look. “You want the polite, inoffensive answer or the awkward, honest one?” I ask.
Even as I speak the words, a weird mix of guilt and suspicion stirs my gut.
I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who sends out as many mixed signals as Samantha Chan.
One day, she’s full of graciousness, taking my hand as she earnestly tells me that all she wants of me is a good duel with her champion.
The next, she’s put up all her walls, cold-eyed and calculating, looking like she’d rather do anything in the world besides talk to me.
I never know which version of Sam I’m going to get, which makes me skittish about trying to pick up anything she puts down.
Sam huffs a laugh. “Well, if awkward and honest is on offer, I’ll take it.”
“I’m thinking about your champion,” I admit.
I glance sidelong at Rook’s second. “I’m thinking about what he said at the presser.
And about how he’d feel about his second cozying up to, what was it again?
Oh right, the nepo kid who’s nothing without her father.
” I exhale hard, and tear my eyes away from Sam’s face, which has settled back into that familiar, guardedly neutral expression.
“I can’t imagine he’d approve of the company you’re keeping. ”
“Let me worry about that.” Sam’s fingers slip into the crook of my elbow, unobtrusive and gentle. I’m pretty sure that if I shake her off right now, she’ll let me and pretend it never happened.
I don’t. The fingers remain.
“I’ve been handling Rook for nearly three years now.
I’ve dealt with a temper tantrum or two in my time.
I can manage him. Trust.” Sam’s voice is light, but there’s an undercurrent of bitterness lacing the words.
“Rook wouldn’t be Rook if he weren’t also a diva.
Forget him for a bit. Let’s just try to have fun.
Be teenagers instead of serious magicians, for once. ”
I laugh. “Okay, fine, fair enough. We’ll…be teenagers.” We keep walking toward Arcane New York in companionable silence.
It’s surreal to think about being a teenager without thinking about being a magician first. Still, Sam’s doing a good job of pulling off the vibe.
With her hand resting on my elbow, we could be any two girls hanging out on a cool weekend evening in the city.
We might even look like best friends. Or maybe we’re not familiar enough for that.
Maybe we’re still getting to know each other, a couple of kids on a date in the Big Apple.
Carefree teenagers in the first throes of a budding puppy love that might yet be.
We aren’t any of these things, though. The only reason I have the luxury of pretending is probably because Sam’s feeling bad about Rook’s behavior.
I still haven’t decided whether or not to trust her. But I can’t deny that I want to.
It doesn’t take us long to descend upon the section of the city dubbed Arcane New York.
It’s funny to think that this little piece of New York City—so steeped now in mysticism—was originally named by economic-minded magicians to drum up business for our industry: just an easy-to-remember, tourist-friendly name for a collection of streets off the beaten path where you can find a bunch of fun, sparkly magic shops.
Beneath the fashionable veneer of arcane history and lore, the shops in Arcane New York mostly sell supplies for magicians active on the dueling circuit: everything from special recovery creams for spells gone awry to instructional tomes on the most effective dueling strategies.
“I think this counts as having fun,” Sam decides, staring at one of the shop fronts. “We’re being very good teenagers, I’d say. Isn’t this what other kids our age do to hang out with each other? Go shopping?”
“I can’t actually tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”
Sam finally smiles at me. She’s got a surprisingly goofy grin. “People tell me that’s part of my charm,” she deadpans.
“I don’t know if it counts as shopping if neither of us buys anything.”
“Don’t say that.” Sam’s gaze drifts across several other shop fronts. “That’s too much temptation in one sentence.”
I follow her gaze. I see immediately what she means.
The store window displays on this street are a honey trap for magic enthusiasts everywhere.
One shop front boasts the latest in magicians’ fashions.
Mannequins have been outfitted in dueling robes in a glorious array of colors, from a lustrous midnight blue to a shade of pink so delicate, it looks stolen right off the petals of the palest cherry blossoms. Sweat-wicking compression gear is advertised in the next window: sleek bodysuits worn like a second skin beneath the robes, some in classic monochrome neutrals like black or white, others boasting patterns and artwork in a burst of color.
I catch myself eyeing one of the bodysuits, a pretty lilac number with a subtle crisscross pattern of shimmering gold over the V-neck bust, and immediately jerk my gaze away only to have it caught by the next shop front, which is running a sale on rare instructional tomes.
I drift that way, almost unconsciously, scanning titles for familiar names: Maurice Ibrahim, who’s considered the foremost authority on using defensive shielding to create offensive openings; Robin Suzuki-Carlisle, one of the most prolific writers in the magical community, who’s credited as the father of modern dueling rulesets for today’s magicians; and of course, Anna Maria Kim, who wrote the book—literally—on magical enhancements to physical hand-to-hand sequences in a duel.
Some of their earlier books are out of print, but perhaps—
Sam clears her throat behind me—very loudly. “Are you feeling sufficiently distracted from that presser?”
I tear my eyes away from the shop fronts. “Is that what this was about? Cheering me up?”
That’s almost, well, sweet.
“No,” she tells me mulishly. “It’s about having fun.
” I don’t miss the way her own gaze flicks back toward the shop front—nor do I miss the faint look of longing behind her eyes.
Even Samatha Chan isn’t immune to the capitalistic charms of Arcane New York, it seems. “I think it counts as having fun, even if we’re just window shopping. Girls at school do it all the time.”
I laugh. “You talk about girls at school like they’re exotic alien creatures.”
“They might as well be.” There’s no heat or defensiveness in how Sam says it.
She’s still staring at the bookstore display.
“We’re the same age. Same demographics. But we live completely different lives.
Aside from like, three hours in the day where we share the same physics lab and maybe a couple study hall periods, what do we have in common? ”
From anyone else, a statement like that might have sounded lofty or dismissive. Another cringey, self-important I’m not like other girls–style speech. But that’s not what it sounds like coming from Sam, though. Coming from Sam, it sounds like yearning.
I know because I’ve felt it, too. Yearning born from too many hours studying magic with Dad, born from missed slumber parties and rejected birthday party invitations.
Magic always came first. I stare at the mannequin display, trying to remember the last time I had another girl my age to go shopping with.
Another girl who knew me well enough to want to.
“I don’t know,” I tell Sam at last. “Do you know how to have a conversation with other girls about anything other than magic?”
“Nope.” It’s bluntly said, without regret, but she offers me a curiously sad smile. “I wish I did.”
Damn. I bite my lip. I’m pretty sure I just put my foot in my mouth, but if I apologize—it’s so hard to curb the constant instinct to apologize—I’ll just draw even more attention to my faux pas.
I glance back at the bookstore display to escape Sam’s gaze, but I’m not really taking in any of the titles.
“Let’s check some of these out,” I offer, hoping I still sound sufficiently chipper.
“I want to see if they’ve got any of the other Maurice Ibrahim titles.
Who knows? If they’ve got some of his earlier stuff, it might actually be worth splurging on. ”
“Can’t argue with that. Lead on, Tamsin Blackwood.”