Chapter 28
Gwendolynne
Unfortunately, I have no idea where to start looking, and neither does Heloise.
Despite the fact that we spend half the night fruitlessly scouring the internet, we cannot find an ounce of information about how to contact the Magical Liberation Organization.
I suppose being an underground extremist group requires utmost secrecy at all times.
At the dean’s lecture on Friday morning, Professor Pickering is running things—once again, Professor Kaur is off sick. It’s a little odd, to tell the truth. The dean seemed fine during clinics on Tuesday, and now suddenly she’s ill again?
Usually, she doesn’t get sick so often. In fact, apart from her paid time off, I have never known Professor Kaur to take a day off, ever. It makes me wonder if she’s just avoiding official events like lectures, for some reason.
The vice dean’s speech is so damn long that soon enough most of the student cohort have dozed off.
Those who haven’t are shifting in their seats, playing on their straps, or staring off into space, daydreaming.
At the end, to a chorus of audible groans and indignant whispers that echo throughout the hall, Professor Pickering informs us that the on-call rota will still apply even during exam week—no exceptions.
He waits for the rabble to die down before he adds an addendum: We should not be viewing on-call weeks as being disruptive, he pontificates, but rather an opportunity.
“It is, after all,” he says, “your best chance to have full involvement on a wide variety of cases before being unleashed into the wider world.”
Heli and I are only half listening, since we’re using the time to scroll through hundreds of social media profiles of people with alleged links to the MLO.
It’s when Professor Pickering is explaining, to one particularly disgruntled student, that we “shouldn’t expect time off, not even for exams, because animals still need medical treatment” and besides, we “need to get used to working nights and weekends” that Heli suddenly sits bolt upright.
She’s wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open, and when she finally glances up, she shuts it.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
Heli doesn’t answer, just tilts her strap screen toward me. It’s a profile picture from a social media account, framed by the glossy black casing of her latest-model strap.
The picture is angled weirdly, the focus is fuzzy, and most of it is out of shot—but it’s still recognizable. Familiar. The account name, though, is strange.
I raise one eyebrow as Heli scrolls through the hundreds—or maybe even thousands—of cat memes on the person’s profile. It’s all very innocuous. But then, why the fake name?
“Burner account?” I murmur, under my breath.
Heli and I both slide glances toward the far side of the hall, where the person in question is sitting—face bored, their head propped on their fist, completely unsuspecting that there are two people sneaking them surreptitious looks.
Pen? I think, shaking my head in disbelief. Pen Ferguson?
Sweet, unassuming Pen…part of the MLO?
I try to ignore the aggravating blond who happens to be sat behind them, slouched in his chair with his arms crossed.
But it’s difficult, since the shaft of sunlight that’s streaking across the hall is inconveniently spotlighting him.
The light glints off his golden hair, making him look almost… angelic.
I snort. Harrisford, angelic? Ha! What a bloody joke.
Suddenly, though, he looks up, his gaze snapping onto mine. Inadvertently, I gasp. My fingers curl around the seat of my chair, gripping it with desperate strength. It feels a bit like the floor has fallen away—and if I don’t hold on for dear life, I’ll fall.
Harrisford clocks my movements, and the corners of his lips quirk slightly. Not quite a smirk, but close enough. I narrow my eyes to slits and, with a huff, pointedly face forward again.
“It could be a burner,” Heli muses, thankfully distracting me from thoughts of Harrisford-fucking-Briggs.
“Or someone just impersonating them.” She lowers her voice to a whisper.
“Whatever it is, we should investigate. This account is following almost everyone we’ve got listed as potentially linked to the MLO. ”
“Miss Chan, Miss Chapman,” Professor Pickering barks, suddenly, from up on stage. His thin lips twist into a sneer. “Care to share with the group whatever it is that you find so interesting?”
“No, Professor,” Heli mumbles as I go red and slide down farther into my chair.
A few minutes later, when Professor Pickering has lulled us all back into a stupor, I sneak another look at Harrisford. He’s no longer looking at me. Instead, he’s watching the stage…but there’s an unmistakable tilt to his lips that suggests he’s suppressing a smile.
By now, Pen seems to have dozed off. Their head has slipped off their hand, their chin resting on their chest.
Once again, I turn to face the front. It really is hard to imagine Pen Ferguson being involved in the MLO. In fact, as recently as a week ago, I would never have believed it.
But this week? Everything’s changed.
And I have to remember that anything—anything—is possible.
Later, when we knock on Pen’s dorm door, they open it so it’s only slightly ajar.
“Oh, hi, Gwen, Heloise.” They exhale, seemingly in relief. The door swings open wider. “D’you need something?”
I smile at them. “We need to speak with you.”
A pause. “About what?” they say slowly.
“About the MLO,” Heli says.
Pen’s face flushes red, and they go to slam the door shut.
Heli’s too quick, though. And strong. She catches the door handle and keeps it cracked open. “Hey! We’re not gonna get you in trouble, you know.”
“We’re just searching for information about the MLO,” I add. “We thought maybe you could help.”
Pen just stares at us, red-faced. Heli and I exchange a look, then turn back to them, both of us sporting our most winsome smiles.
“All right, all right!” Pen’s flustered, their words coming out all tremulous. They shoot a nervous glance up and down the empty hall. “Just stop saying it out loud!”
“Saying what?” I frown. “ ‘ML—’ ”
“Shush!” Frantically, Pen reaches out, grabs both our shirts, and drags us into their room. The door snicks shut behind us with an audible click.
Pen’s dorm is absolutely crammed full of electronic equipment. Given their retro style of dress and their romance book obsession (I’m pretty sure they’re a book influencer in their spare time), I hadn’t expected anything so…tech heavy.
But in complete contrast to the electronics, their decor is all vintage.
Fussy, even. Large-print floral curtains, crocheted rugs, and lace doilies, all in tones of pink and green.
Books cover every surface. In the center is the pièce de résistance: a shiny, chrome-legged 1950s-style laminate table with four matching hot pink chairs.
It’s incredible, because two weeks ago I’d never ventured into anyone’s room at Seamere except for mine and Heloise’s. Since then, I’ve been inside Harrisford’s, Conall’s, and now Pen Ferguson’s room. And I think, of all of them, this one might be my favorite.
Pen shifts a stack of books off their sofa to clear a space and gestures at us to sit. They’re still looking rather harried.
I sink onto the green velvet surface and pull up the picture we’d been staring at during the lecture. “Is this you, Pen?”
Pen doesn’t answer immediately; they just give a nervous laugh. But finally, they say, “Well, go on, then. How’d you find me out?”
“It’s clearly you,” Heli says, suppressing a smile. “The cardigan, the tattoos—”
“The cat memes,” I add.
Pen pulls a tissue from a lace-covered tissue box and mops at their sweat-sheened forehead.
“Jesus, I’m bad at this. I only used that pic because I’ve only just joined and I thought it would be helpful to other members to know who I am because otherwise they’d not accept my follow requests, you know?
It’s all so hush-hush and I just really want to be involved… ”
My insides give a leap, as though I’ve swallowed a live fish. “So it’s true? You have joined the MLO?”
Pen doesn’t answer for the longest time. They just stand there, their face mottled red, twisting the tissue in their hands. “Y-you’re not going to report me, are you?”
“No! Of course not. We’re just—”
“I know you think I’m not the type.” Pen cuts me off, and continues rambling, all in run-on sentences, as they try to explain.
“I just…I’ve never agreed with the way the corporates restrict the supply of magic.
It disproportionately affects marginalized folk, like you two, and Conall, and Alice, and Danny…
and me, of course. And I don’t want to go through life just accepting that, you know?
” Pen’s making short work of the tissue; it’s almost disintegrated to pieces.
“Since I’ve been book blogging I’ve discovered how powerful it is to have a platform and now we’re so close to graduating I figure I should leverage that platform, it’s almost my responsibility, I mean I want to be a good vet, of course, and all I wanna do is work with cats, but also I feel really strongly that—”
“It’s okay, Pen.” I hold up a hand to stop their panicked monologue. “We understand. Trust me, we’re not looking for any trouble. We just want to go to the next meeting.”
Their expression immediately brightens. “Oh! You want to join?”
Heli says “Yes” at exactly the same time as I say “No.” I grunt as Heli elbows me painfully in the gut.
“We’re thinking about it,” Heli says, giving me a pointed look.
Pen’s shoulders drop in relief, and they crush the tissue in their fist before tossing it into the bin. “Oh. Well. I can definitely help with that.”
They cross to their desk and start scribbling something down on a piece of paper. As Heloise and I both wait, my mind turns over everything that Pen just said.