Chapter 3
Harrisford
She’s hiding something. I have no idea what. All I know is that Gwendolynne Chan is most definitely hiding something.
I watch as she stalks off in the direction of the Heywood Residential Halls.
She has something stashed beneath her cardigan—an abomination of knitted acrylic if I ever saw one—and, perhaps I’m imagining it…
Perhaps the thought of tonight’s impending tedium is going to my head, but I could have sworn that it actually moved.
I am immediately suspicious. Is it something she’s using in an attempt to best me at our final exams, which are in only a few weeks’ time?
Maybe she’s gathering ingredients to make a potion that will somehow incapacitate me.
I wouldn’t put it past her. For almost seven years, she’s been my most bothersome rival, the one student at Seamere who I find impossible to beat.
Everyone else is easy, with rather obvious human weaknesses.
All it takes is for me to root these out so I can determine how to exploit them.
To tell the truth, when it comes down to it, I probably shouldn’t be one of the top students at Seamere.
Yes, I’m clever, but not necessarily the cleverest. It’s just that I have two things that give me an edge above all the others: one, the motivation—my father would absolutely slaughter me if my grades ever slipped.
And two, I know people. I’m good at figuring them out, at finding out what provokes them, what distracts them, even what gives them joy.
Not with her, though. Gwendolynne Chan is infuriatingly private, cagey, and closed off, keeping everyone at a distance and barely ever socializing. It’s as though no one can get close enough to her to even find out her weaknesses.
Irritation flares, hot and pestiferous, in my chest. Good god, she is exasperating. What the hell was that bulge beneath her clothes?
The strap on my wrist buzzes, jolting me from my speculation. I check the wide-angle screen. It’s Father. Two words: You’re late.
No “How are you, son?” or even a “Hello.” It’s been a week since we last spoke and as usual, all he can do is point out my failures.
Scowling, I recommence walking to the front gates, where my father’s vehicle is waiting.
It’s a monstrosity, sleek and black and far too large to be suited to city streets.
There is a chauffeur leaning against the passenger door, even though he’s somewhat superfluous, considering the car is powered by magic.
Like everything my father does, it’s all for show.
I hitch up my cloak and climb into the cool, leather-lined interior. Mozart is playing softly from the speakers and there are bottles of sparkling water nestled in the ice bucket.
The car starts, its magic-powered engine making no noise whatsoever.
As we glide through the streets, we somehow dodge pedestrians who don’t even seem to see us.
We narrowly avoid oncoming vehicles, slipping past bright red double-decker buses on narrow, one-way roads.
We squeeze through alleyways and gaps in traffic that a car this size has no business fitting through.
It takes mere minutes to reach the Natural History Museum, right in the midst of London, even though Seamere is well outside the city.
So many magecredits go into powering this car: into making it faster, more malleable, more invisible.
Too many credits, really. Honestly, I could have just left earlier this evening, and we could have driven at a normal speed without spending the extra money.
But I know Father considers the car a tax write-off.
As chief financial officer of Magecorp, he’ll just put it all on the company expenses.
It’s lucky I left later, anyway, since otherwise I would not have run into Gwendolynne, and I wouldn’t have seen that she was up to something. My jaw clenches, the muscles tight and painful. What the hell is she playing at? I’ll have to figure it out before our first exam.
Get a grip, Briggs, I chide myself. I’m not scared of that mediocre witch, and whatever nefarious plans she has to thwart me being rightfully awarded the top spot.
Except she’s not mediocre, is she? a spiteful voice within my mind whispers.
Immediately, I shut that thought down. I should not be thinking of her, or her pathetic plans. Not tonight. Tonight I need to focus on what truly matters: my future.
As soon as we pull curbside, the chauffeur promptly jumps out, earning at least part of his wage by opening the car door for me.
I quickly sequester my bearded dragon into an inner pocket of my tuxedo robes before climbing out.
“Thanks,” I mumble, and he nods, the movement stiff because of his high-necked uniform.
The museum’s ornate, gothic towers jut up into the amethyst sky, the two arched entrances glowing like twin mouths of hell. As expected, Father is waiting for me at the top of the stone steps.
He looks positively unimpressed. Exhaustion clings to him like a mantle—the grim lines that bracket his downturned mouth are even more pronounced than usual, and there are dark smudges beneath each eye.
“Decided to finally grace us with your presence, have we?” he sneers as I trudge up the stairs.
I sigh, my shoulders involuntarily slouching. “Hello, Father.”
“I hope you’ll leave that attitude outside, Harrisford.” His frown deepens. “Do not forget that tonight I am—”
“Doing me a favor.” I finish his sentence for him, since I have it memorized. There’s no way I could have forgotten since he has reminded me around ten thousand times. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Tonight is ostensibly a charity gala, but Father says he’s only throwing it for my benefit.
Since I’m nearing graduation, he wants me to rub shoulders with the best and brightest of the magical community: ministers and MPs, CEOs and celebrities.
“It will be an opportunity to network,” he’s told me, over and over again.
“In case you don’t get that job at the Ministry. ”
I will, though. I will get the job. I’ll ace my examinations and come first, and no gutter-born witch from Manchester is going to stop me.
We join a line of magical folk, and I can’t help but notice that Father is acting twitchy.
He crosses his arms and drums his fingers on his biceps as we’re waiting to clear security.
He jumps when a man in minister’s robes taps on his shoulder to greet him.
His eyes dart around as though scanning for something, and small pinpricks of sweat are dotted along his receding hairline.
Now that I think about it, he’s been acting strange for a while now. Months, in fact.
It takes me a while to place his emotional state: He’s nervous. Which is strange. My father is never nervous. Angry, spiteful, sardonic, disapproving, yes—but I have never seen him nervous, not like this.
“Is everything all right?” I venture, when we’re finally checking our cloaks.
“Everything’s fine,” he says, curtly, as he shrugs out of his outerwear and tosses it at the clerk.
A pause. “It’s just…you seem tense.”
He stares at me for several long, uncomfortable moments, before he finally speaks.
“You have one job tonight, Harrisford,” he says.
His voice has taken on a didactic tone, as though he’s delivering a lecture.
“To meet important people. To ingratiate yourself with them and make a good impression. You do not need to be concerning yourself with anything else—and certainly not sticking your nose where you’re not wanted. ”
A flash of anger, white and sharp, knifes through me, and my heartbeat kicks up in my chest. I open my mouth to respond, but my father is already striding off—uninterested, as always, in what I have to say.
I tear off my own cloak and shove it at the clerk. I don’t know why I continue to try, why I continue to attempt reaching across the chasmlike space that divides us.
When I was younger, he was always too busy.
Too busy to go anywhere, to play, or to spend any time with me at all.
I had half fancied that when I grew older and mature enough to follow his interests, perhaps things would change.
But no matter how much I tried—modeling my hobbies after his, reading about current events he seemed invested in, even dressing like him—he never bothered to treat me as anything but an inconvenient waste of space.
Ignore him, Harrisford. The voice in my head interrupts my dour thoughts.
This is your night; don’t let him ruin it.
Since we’re not technically supposed to bring familiars, I’m hoping no one will notice the reptile-shaped lump talking to me from my chest pocket.
It’s lucky that human-familiar communication is conducted mind-to-mind.
I sigh, shove my hands inside my trouser pockets, and stomp in after my father.
As much as I don’t want to be here, I have to admit that tonight, Hintze Hall does look magnificent.
The vaulted roof, the ornate archways, and the illustrated panels on the ceiling are fancy enough at the best of times, but tonight the event planners have gone all out.
Thousands of floating magelights hover in midair, like tiny suspended fireflies, and live pine trees sprout right through the tessellated tile floors, festooned with more lights on strings.
Tonight, it’s a Winter Wonderland theme. Stalactites are suspended from the high, domed roof, and waitstaff glide around on ice skates that float a foot above the floor. Snow—presumably enchanted to never melt, considering how warm the room is—lines the balcony railings.
The ceiling too has been enchanted to produce flurries of actual snowflakes.
They spin in the air currents, floating gently to the floor before disappearing altogether.
The magelights illuminate their icy fronds as they flutter down, light beams scattering into iridescent rainbows that wink and spark through the air.
And finally, above us, the hanging blue whale skeleton has been enchanted to move, undulating as though it is actually swimming.
I’m impressed, in spite of myself. To charm something that heavy to move for an extended period would take some considerably advanced magic. I squint up at it, trying to figure out the mechanics. Truly, it’s an extraordinary feat of engineering.
The whole place is glittery, and magical, and utterly pretentious, especially since we’re currently well into summer.
That’s Magecorp’s modus operandi, really: doing the most ostentatious thing ever—such as holding a winter-themed ball during one of the hottest months of the year—just to prove that they can.
The overpowering smell of too much magic permeates the room.
Father’s nowhere to be seen, which is absolutely fine by me. I grab a drink from a passing tray. The champagne explodes, fizzy on my tongue, tasting like the promise of memory loss and oblivion and an actually enjoyable night.
“Is that alcohol, Harrisford?” someone says from behind me, and I turn to see Samuel Sloane, talk show host and B-list celebrity, gesturing at my drink.
His usually tanned skin is matte with white powder, which has collected in the creases, and he’s wearing the corpse of a polar bear as his costume, his face peering out of its wide-open mouth.
As he draws closer, the polar bear’s eyes blink at me and it roars.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Magic tricks, of course.
“On a school night, too.” Samuel sticks out his lower lip in an exaggerated frown and shakes his head. “Tsk, tsk.”
“I’m twenty-five,” I snap. “And I’m only having one.” Samuel is one of Father’s friends. I’ve been to countless parties with him, and he’s always trying to befriend me.
“Pity.” He winks. “That’s even more disappointing.”
Ugh. He’s looking to get me drunk. Again. I start to nudge my way past him, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Let me go, Samuel.” I try to shrug his hand off me. He doesn’t move, just leans closer and closer until I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
“Why?” He’s already slurring. “You afraid of getting drunk around me?” His fingers dig harder into my shoulder.
“No, I—” Then I stop, for I’ve noticed something about Samuel’s polar bear hat.
It’s sparking. Not just sparking, but thin plumes of smoke are spiraling up from both its eyes. And the boozy smell of Samuel’s breath is being replaced by something far more sinister…The acrid tang of singed fur.
“Get off me,” I bellow, shoving Samuel away from me. “You—you’re on fire. Take that thing off!”
“On fire?” His unfocused eyes fix on me, his forehead creasing. “Whatever do you mean, Harrisford—”
I point. “Your hat. Take it off. Unless you want—”
I never get the chance to finish my sentence, because the next moment Samuel’s entire polar bear hat has gone up in flames. Spontaneously combusted. Conflagrated. He screams, trying to bat at his head, then screams again when he burns his hands in the process.
Without thinking I toss my drink over his head before diving for a pitcher of water on one of the nearby tables.
And it’s immediately after I’ve dumped its entire contents over Samuel’s head that I notice: The entire room is starting to shake.
The magelights are quivering. The branches of the pine trees rustle, even though there is no wind.
And the blue whale skeleton hanging suspended from the ceiling trembles, the bones clacking together.
“GET DOWN!” I shout as I dive to the floor and cover my head with my hands…
Just as the explosion hits.