5. Lily
LILY
Immediately the bonfire got off to a bad start.
She met Daphne and Gemma outside Daphne’s dorm, and they walked the winding path past the observatory, past the senior apartments and athletic center, to the back fields.
The main fire, as well as the three satellite fires representing Metaphysics, Matter, and the Mind, were already blazing, and people were already drunk.
Someone had thrown a couch on the main fire, and it sent acrid smoke into the sky.
With classes over, people threw cantrips with abandon.
Showers of sparks would fly up and form shapes and words, or the whole fire would blaze purple or pink.
As they passed the Metaphysics fire, green smoke curled itself into the words “Professor Chant can get it.” Next to her, Gemma and Daphne exchanged a glance.
The bonfire was an officially unofficial tradition.
Somewhere on hand were a few high-level Matter professors to make sure nothing got out of control, but other than that it was a free-for-all at which the administration turned a blind eye.
“I’m going to get a beer, want anything?” Gemma said, signing it as well, as she spied a keg, and near it, Allsaires and his pack.
They reminded Lily of wolves: sleek, lean, powerful, hungry for blood. The destruction of weaker things was in their nature. One couldn’t blame a wolf for taking down a lame deer.
“I’m going to look for cider; happy hunting,” Daphne signed quickly, rolling her eyes in the direction of the keg.
“I’ll come with you,” Lily signed back.
They watched Gemma saunter toward the pack.
Beaumont wore a gorgeous red and black wrap, her straight dark hair so shiny that it acted as a mirror for the flames.
Vis’s lanky frame and tan-brown skin, his copper flask, the deep bow of his lips, the gold-dusted tips of his hair, caught the light as well, making him look like a god of autumnal debauchery.
Beside him, Allsaires looked above it all in a dark shirt rolled up to his elbows, a jacket tucked over one arm, and leather cap-toe boots that were far too nice to wear to a bonfire.
His hooded gaze was a million miles away, as if he couldn’t possibly be bothered with such mortal affairs.
It snapped to Gemma as she approached. Lily looked away.
They found the cider and filled red plastic cups, careful to avoid being jostled by lacrosse players who’d already done one too many keg stands.
Lily handed over Daphne’s cup and stepped backward, directly into someone who hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Sticky, lukewarm cider frothed down her front.
Trembling, she turned to face Hawleyhurst, who wore an expression of sorrowful disbelief.
A few feet away, Daphne inhaled sharply. Lily set her face in stone and brushed a hand down her chest as if she were wicking away a few drops of moisture, though she was soaked through her bra. Cider trickled down her stomach.
“Oh jeez, Lils, I’m so sorry.” Conrad’s voice throbbed with regret. “I’m such an oaf.”
Lily kept her face blank as his golden eyebrows knit together, as the fire flashed in his blue eyes and turned them violet. He seemed sincere, and that was the most terrifying thing. She wanted, so badly, to believe him, which was of course what he wanted.
“It’s fine.” She tried not to wince as wet fabric clung to her stomach.
“No, no, it’s my bad.” Hawleyhurst shook his head. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
There it is.
A tiny part of her was relieved, now that she knew the objective of his humiliation.
Around him, his friends sniggered. Daphne, a few paces away, looked between them, mouth pressed in concentration as she tried and failed to read the conversation on their lips in the dark.
She didn’t like to use the psycho-somesthetic* spells that helped her understand non-signing people at parties, as it was too hard to separate the signal from the noise, but Lily knew she was trying to augment an existing spell to filter better.
“I know Braithwhite would love to help you get dried off.”
Tripp Braithwhite, prime lackey, elbowed Hawleyhurst, doubling over. “Ew man, not with lepers.”
Conrad shot Lily a keen look. “I know she can’t be picky.”
“Fuck you,” she mumbled, before she could stop herself.
Hawleyhurst laughed, stepping forward. “Is that an invitation?”
He reached for her, his fingers just brushing her stomach.
Instinctively, Lily brought her arms up, blocking her face and smashing the inner edges of her forearms together, the twin bracelets there digging into her skin.
Light exploded from the impact, hurling Conrad and his nearest cronies backward.
He would have landed on his ass if he hadn’t been thrown straight into half the lacrosse team.
“What the fuck!” He spat, but Lily was already running, threading through the crowd, flowing into the gaps between people.
She disappeared into the darkness on the other side of the festivities long enough to dry her clothes, before collapsing miserably onto a hay bale near the Metaphysics fire.
Every inch of her wanted to go home, to crawl into bed, but as terrible as this handful of moments was, returning this early and having to explain why, or lie, to her mother was impossible.
Her mother was her secret power. The two delicately woven bands on her wrists had no clasps.
They’d been with her for her entire life, growing with her, and they contained nearly all of her mother’s magic.
The best way to store spells—or other powerful magic—was in objects, and when it became clear that Magnolia was going to suffer for her transgressions, she’d siphoned nearly all of her power into the bracelets as protection for her unborn daughter.
It was brilliant. It was completely illegal.
Lily had nearly twice as much magic as any one person should possibly possess, and much of it was available to her spontaneously.
It was her most closely guarded secret, more powerful and more important, even, than her Words.
If someone found her Words, they could hurt her if they used them against her before she picked new ones.
If someone found out about her bracelets, her whole family would be tried and executed.
And she’d nearly outed herself, used them against Hawleyhurst.
The thought soured, bilious in her mouth, and she let the fire burn her rage away until there was nothing left.
* Psycho-Somesthetics: The study and practice of augmenting the mental and physical senses through AEtheric means. From the Greek psyche, soul; soma, body; aisthetikos, perception by the senses; -ikos, pertaining to.