Chapter 3. Eloise
Eloise
I tap my foot from where I sit on the earthy wooden bench in our auditorium, which reminds me of a giant tiered sauna.
Maggie suddenly appears to my left, dissolving her invisibility spell—a rare talent her parents hope will make her a candidate for University.
Even so, the prejudice against Laboring families is so strong that they moved all the way from Ireland because the American Academy is less competitive than the European one.
Maggie has really honed her skills over the last four years, though, and I’d say she’s a shoo-in. Now, if only I can get in with her.
I don’t flinch at her sudden appearance. I’m used to her antics by now.
Maggie takes note of my tapping foot. “Are ye scared or excited? Or so nervous ye wonder if you’ll sneeze wrong and a little wee will come out?”
I snort despite myself. Because I know she’s saying it for my benefit. She can see how tightly I’m wound and she’s helping in her very Maggie way.
“I just need my spell to be good enough.” There’s that word again. Need.
Maggie scoffs. She’s tall and dancer-like with the mouth of a drunken sailor.
“Don’t ye dare give yourself a hard time, Eloise Belrose.
You’re an absolute legend, ye are. We’re both graduating today.
We’re both getting into University. And we’re both moving our families the hell out of here. Nothing less.”
“Nothing less,” I repeat—a pact Maggie and I made after the Lawless raid last year that killed Grandad.
Maggie nods, like I’m seeing reason. “Watch, ye will even get recruited to be one of those terrifying Guardians with all the pointy things strapped to their belts and the I-eat-people expressions.”
I smile. “That’s the goal.” I link my arm through hers and rest my head on her shoulder. “I just wish I had your calm.”
She raises an eyebrow like it was an exclamation point. “Calm? Can ye not guess why I appeared outside your bedroom window this morning like an enchanted siren? Had a fecken panic last night and tried to come see you then, but Ma wasn’t having it.”
My mother wouldn’t have allowed it, either. Traveling after dark where we live is risky.
I don’t ask her why she didn’t text me, because I know the answer.
We’re all forbidden to talk about anything that involves the magical world over the phone.
Not because of the magicless, who explain away anything they witness as faulty vision or bad memory.
But for the Lawless, who use our communications against us.
That’s the one real rule our community has, not to aid the Lawless in any way.
And there’s no flexibility or forgiveness.
If you break the rule, the punishment is death.
But before I can reply, the doors of the auditorium fling open. Our instructors walk down the tiered aisles and file into the benched rows in front of the stage. The atmosphere shifts. Everyone can feel it—the thrum of power that suddenly billows like thick smoke.
Magic recognizes magic.
The High Mage Council has arrived.
“Here we go,” I say, and Maggie slides her hand into mine, giving my fingers a squeeze.
As the room falls silent, the stage curtains open, revealing the eight members of the High Mage Council and the High Chancellor himself.
The Mages are in high-backed wooden chairs that form a U, centered around a gossamer spell sparkling on the floor like dancing fireflies.
“The discernment spell,” I whisper in awe. The ancient spell that evaluates each candidate’s magical abilities and conjures an image representing their assigned guild.
Each High Mage is a formidable talent with a specialty in Illusion, Alchemy, Botany, or Elemental magic.
Then there’s High Chancellor Stone who excels at all those things—Grayson’s uncle—a celebrity whose legendary power is adored by all.
Except Gran, who claims she never met a toilet as dirty as a Mage.
High Chancellor Stone stands, adjusting his sleek black suit.
He’s tall and terrifying, wearing confidence like a second skin.
“Today will decide your mettle,” he says with a booming voice, his words amplified by magic.
“It’ll determine if you have what it takes to attend the University—the seat of all our greatest secrets and knowledge.
” He pauses. “And if you have what it takes to protect Mage society against the Lawless.”
Around the room my classmates nod and murmur their agreement, some of us desperate for the freedoms and safety that come along with being a Mage.
The High Chancellor gestures at Headmistress Divya, and she moves to the front of the stage. “American Academy of Magic graduates, I’ll be calling you forth one by one.” She sweeps her gaze over the room. “The first student to be tested is…” When she lands on our section, nerves grip me.
I can’t go first.
But her gaze keeps moving.
“Bastian Santiago. Step forward,” Headmistress Divya says, and I exhale audibly.
Bas stands, pushing back his long surfer hair and winking at his friends as he makes his way up to the stage.
We all hold a collective breath as he approaches the edge of the discernment spell, fluttering like a blanket of stars. But when he licks his lips and steps into it, I lean forward. The entire auditorium does.
“Begin casting,” High Chancellor Stone commands.
Bas nods and his hands trace an intricate pattern as vines sprout by his boots and curve upward creating a giant pear-shaped bubble around him. They twist and turn, forming two giant arms and legs and a head resembling a forest troll.
He gives the creature big vine ears and a dopey grin, all the while remaining inside the thing’s stomach. Big poppies sprout for hair and the creature rubs its belly right before Bas bursts out of it like a newborn troll baby.
Everyone laughs and Bas bows with poppies on his head to match his creature.
The eight High Mages and Chancellor Stone give nothing away. No praise or critique. Instead, they all activate the discernment spell in one synchronized movement.
Surging to life, the ancient magic engulfs Bas. Tiny sparks of light swirl around his body, dancing along his golden-brown cheeks and over his hair. And with a bright flash an image forms a foot above Bas’s head—a birdcage of flowering vines holding a potion bottle—the symbol of the Botany Guild.
People cheer. Bas grins. He did it. He got into University.
Next the headmistress calls Naomi, who doesn’t hesitate. She glances at her mom and lifts her chin, placing herself in the center of the spell.
A smile tweaks her lips as she casts her Elemental spell, one that sends flames shooting up the two main aisles.
Flames so hot, students throughout the room throw up shielding spells and curse.
But the flames rage only momentarily before she douses them with water, splashing people unlucky enough to sit on an aisle, including Maggie.
Maggie shakes out her damp hair. “Naomi’s a grade-A gobshite.”
But the discernment spell disagrees, forming a water droplet overlaid with a lightning bolt above Naomi’s head. Just like that, she’s in the Elemental Guild. Her friends congratulate her as she saunters off the stage, like there was never any other conclusion.
Headmistress Divya’s voice once again echoes through the wooden auditorium. “Eloise Belrose. Take the stage.”
I throw a desperate look at Maggie. I have to go after a goddamn vine troll and a room full of flames?
“I believe in ye, Eloise,” Maggie whispers, giving my hand a squeeze. “Let them see what eighty hours of hard work a week looks like. Nothing less.”
“Nothing less,” I say, and stand.
I don’t make eye contact with Naomi as I pass her row, but I can feel her smirking at me.
Get bent, Naomi.
Instead, I keep my gaze trained on the steps up to the stage and on the High Mages whose power radiates like bass in a speaker.
My boots click onto the polished wood, the sound loud in the silent room.
It’s now or never. This is it. This is for my family.
I roll back my shoulders and step into the fluttering spell, which is soft and probing, like summer grass on bare feet.
“Begin casting,” Chancellor Stone says in a disinterested tone.
I hold my hands out with a deep inhale and begin humming, channeling my magic through my fingers and directing it to my will.
I focus on the stage floorboards, bending them and pulling like a vacuum hose.
My song guides the magic, and like a teardrop falling in reverse, a square of wood the size of my hand pops through the floor and hovers in the air, leaving the boards below it undisturbed.
A small thrill shoots through me, because the first hundred times I did this spell, I broke the floor.
So far so good.
Alchemists don’t create mirages like illusionists; we transform one thing into another, using our environment as our canvas.
I send the wooden block higher until it’s hovering at eye level, pinching and shaping it with my spell, throwing my very being into crafting its beauty.
I give it a rosebud lid and carved sides, a polished interior and smooth hinges.
And when it drops into my palm, perfect and complete, I stop singing, my chest swelling with pride.
My eyes flash to my best friend. As our gazes meet Maggie throws her fist victoriously in the air. I feel her joy as if it were my own.
But with her cheer, also comes scoffs. “Is that it?” and “A tiny box? Does it even do anything?”
As quickly as my pride swelled, it now stings. My spell isn’t flashy like the others, but it’s complex and detailed and I’m proud of it. Still, I’ve never felt so vulnerable, my raw need laid bare as I face down the biggest moment of my life. There is no reapplying. There are no second chances.
The discernment spell starts to swirl, tendrils of light wrapping around my legs and tickling the skin of my hands and face. It swirls faster, moving up into the air above my head.
Please.
Please.
I’ll do anything.
I crane my neck upward to follow the course of the spell—wishing, hoping, needing.
I appeal to that mythical part of the spell that’s said to be sentient.
I tell it that it’s BS so many kids from Laboring families are cast aside.
I tell it I’m worthy. We all are. Our society is broken and so are its wards, and I promise that if it gives me a shot, I’ll do everything in my power to change that.
Suddenly, the spell stops. Only it’s not a symbol that’s formed above my head but a hazy globe of light, unspecific and unformed.
My heart pounds at the strangeness of it. Is it possible the spell heard me? And I don’t know why, but I have a profound urge to reach above my head to touch it. Only as my fingers graze the warm swirling light, people around me startle, like it’s the Mona Lisa and my hand’s covered in motor oil.
Is she trying to interfere with the spell?
Embarrassing. What does she think is going to happen?
As their words register, I realize with sudden clarity that my action must look unhinged.
That this spell belongs entirely to the High Mages, and that it probably didn’t hear my plea any more than the floorboards did.
Embarrassment blooms in my chest and I yank my fingers back from the enchanting sparks of light.
There’s a rustling behind me from the High Chancellor shifting in his chair, and suddenly the discernment spell starts moving again. Rushing to form an image as though it were making up for lost time.
My entire future.
My family’s safety.
The lights reveal their shape.
For a flash of a second, I cannot believe my luck. Because it’s not the spinning gear of the Labor Guild. It’s a dragon eating its tail, representing the cyclical nature of all things—from life to ash and back again—the symbol of THE ALCHEMY GUILD.
I did it.
I actually did it!
My chest expands so quickly that my eyes brim. This is a win for Laborers. This is a win for my family. And the joy that follows is impossible to contain in my body. Without even intending to, I rain down glittering confetti onto the stage, pulled from the mica in the light fixtures.