Chapter 28 #2
I’d always thought of the MLO as being radical extremists; apart from the occasional news story, I’d never had much reason to think about them.
But lately, all I’m hearing about is the MLO.
The MLO this, the MLO that, and—considering what I suspect they might be doing with human tethers, it’s honestly surprising that someone so, well, nice—like Pen—would think to associate themself with them.
My thoughts are interrupted when Pen thrusts the piece of paper into my hand.
“I won’t be going to this,” they mumble.
“I’m too behind on study. But I’ve written down the address—it’s a place called the Galloping Gytrash.
It’s tonight, at eight…You’ll find them in the back room.
The password to enter is ‘codswallop.’ Just…
don’t tell anyone it was me who said, okay?
I’m giving this to you because I trust you, but the others don’t know you, and… ”
Heloise raises her eyebrows as she scans the address on the paper. “I know the Gytrash. I’ve been there before.” She lifts her head and looks at Pen. “And don’t worry, we won’t say anything.”
Heli and I both stand to leave.
“Thanks, you two.” Pen turns their attention to their strap, unlocking it with shaking fingers. “I guess I should change my profile pic. And maybe delete the cat memes.”
Good idea, Percy mutters. He’s been listening in on the entire conversation. Those memes are horrible, slanderous, blasphemous things, full of lies and untruths and…
Percy doesn’t stop ranting until I’m back in our room and he realizes I’m about to feed him. He tucks in immediately, eating and purring, all thoughts of cat memes instantly forgotten.
It’s been a long week, and I really don’t want to run into Harrisford Briggs.
It’s easy enough to avoid him during classes, since he’s myth.creat and I’m staunchly mag.fam, but the common areas are a different story.
Today, apart from the dean’s lecture, I’d seen him exactly one other time, while Heli and I were crossing the courtyard.
Panicking, I’d yanked her behind a pillar in an effort to hide from him, but he’d seen us both crouching there, much to my chagrin.
Luckily, he’d made no effort to approach me, or even make eye contact, and had just kept on walking until he was well out of sight.
Now it’s teatime, and I really don’t want to risk running into him in the Heywood Hall dining rooms. And since I have a few hours to kill before the MLO meeting starts, I decide to take a plateful of food and wander down to the paddocks—to eat and check on the qílín foal.
Earlier, I’d seen the gangly little creature capering about his mother, looking none the worse for his ordeal.
But I want to take a closer look, make sure his vitals are okay.
The grounds staff have modified the main paddock to accommodate the qílíns—since they refuse to walk on grass, tarpaulins have been laid all around the perimeter with only a small patch of green exposed at the center.
The air is muggy, hanging heavy on my skin like a wet blanket, and the evening sun sprinkles the grass with gold.
As I approach the qílín and her foal, though, I realize there’s someone else there, someone who is also seemingly avoiding the dining rooms at Heywood Hall.
It’s Harrisford, of course.
He’s inside the paddock, sitting on one of the tarpaulins, his back propped against the reinforced wooden fence.
His long legs are stretched out in front of him, and he has a plate balanced on his knees.
In his hand is a half-eaten apple; as I watch, he takes a final bite and then holds it out to the qílín, who is nuzzling at him hopefully, letting out little whoofs of air that blow his golden hair about.
The qílín snatches the apple core off him and crunches it noisily, and Harrisford laughs.
I scowl at the scene. Harrisford was right. The idea that qílíns are only drawn to nice people is grossly misrepresented.
Hastily, I try to retreat—but too late. He’s spotted me. Raising his head, he stares as the qílín continues to nose into the crook of his neck, as though he might be hiding more sweet treats there.
I don’t want to go over, I really don’t.
But equally I don’t want him to get the wrong impression and think that I am afraid.
After he’d left me, bereft, at the gala, I’d worked hard to convince myself that I truly did not care.
That, in my quest to untangle the mystery of Magecorp’s saboteur, it means nothing to me whether Harrisford comes along for the ride.
If I run away again, after he’s spotted me, then it’ll negate the laissez-faire attitude I’ve been carefully cultivating for days.
It had irked me all afternoon that he’d got the better of me in the courtyard.
Hiding hadn’t felt like a victory. It had felt like defeat.
So I steel myself. Raising my chin, I grip my plate, straighten my shoulders, and approach.
“Chan,” he says when I’m near enough to hear, and his voice has become all lofty again, like it always used to be when speaking to me. “What’s a mag.fam student like you doing here?”
His condescension raises my hackles, and I glare at him and his half-buttoned shirt and his stupid fucking plate.
But despite the fact this exchange has made me instantly defensive, it’s also somehow a little…
comforting? It’s comforting to know that in spite of everything that’s happened over the past one and a half weeks, we will always default to this dynamic: being each other’s rivals.
Enemies. Competitors. Nemeses. That nothing will stop things from going right back to the way they were.
It’s comforting because, on the balance of it, hating Harrisford Briggs is much, much easier—and far less painful—than falling for his empty charms.
“I’m here to check on Chili.” I’d nicknamed the foal Chili because it sounds a bit like qílín. “What are you doing here?”
Confusion flashes across his face, so fleeting it’s barely noticeable, but he quickly smooths his expression back into its usual disdainful mask. “The foal? That’s not even his name.”
I ignore him. “It doesn’t matter that I’m not myth.creat, Briggs. I’m still allowed to come and check on the foal that I delivered.” I narrow at my eyes at him, daring him to challenge my statement.
He gives a long, grievous sigh. “Look, there’s plenty of room for us both. I’m quite sure the qílín will be happy for the extra company.”
I glance at the golden creature, who is clearly simping over Harrisford, and frown. “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure she likes you better.”
Regardless, I hand Harrisford my plate and awkwardly climb over the stile. When I drop to the ground on the other side, I sit down beside him, my bum on the tarp and my back against the fence.
Harrisford hands me my food, and we sit in silence for a while, eating.
I’m surprised to see that his plate is absolutely loaded up with desserts: trifle, bread-and-butter pudding studded with tiny currants, and a generous side helping of custard.
How on earth does he eat like that, and still manage to stay so ripped?
It’s probably all the large-animal work, I conclude. Wrestling with enormous beasts and such.
“Still like pudding, huh?” I pick up a piece of pasta and nibble on one end. I’ve lost my appetite, even though ten minutes ago I was absolutely ravenous.
He glances down at his plate, then gives me a lopsided grin. “I guess you’ve discovered my little secret.”
“That you have a raging sweet tooth?” My voice cracks on the word sweet and I cringe internally, wanting to kick myself.
His grin widens, until it holds an almost-wicked edge. Leaning in, he murmurs, “Not very macho, is it?”
I hate myself for it, but that smile still makes my heart skip a little, so I tear my gaze away and force myself to watch the qílín. She’s now trotting around the far corner of the paddock, stopping every now and then to let her foal suckle some milk.
“Where is Pudding, anyway?” I’ve become so accustomed to seeing Harrisford with the bearded dragon atop his shoulder, he doesn’t look quite right without her. Briefly, I wonder what it must be like to have a such a close and loving relationship with one’s familiar.
I barely see Percy, really. Every morning I let him out super early, before anyone else is awake to notice, leaving my window ajar so that he can make his way back. Every night he swaggers in, cool as a cat who isn’t scared by randomly placed cucumbers.
Percy’s indignant voice interjects my thoughts from wherever on campus he is: I’m not scared of cucumbers, Hairless One.
Of course you’re not, I think soothingly. He doesn’t reply, just huffs down our telepathic bond.
I don’t know where Percy is currently, but I don’t mind him roaming of a daytime. Being far too lazy, he’s not much of a hunter—plus, he’s always home by tea. I’m quite sure that by the time I go back to my dorm room tonight, he’ll be standing over his empty bowl, yowling.
Harrisford, on the other hand, seems to be particularly averse to being separated from his familiar. I suppose he has had her since he was four—perhaps she’s his emotional support animal as much as a conduit for magic.
Harrisford frowns. “Pudding? She’s in my room.” He pauses for a moment, the silence pressing, and then gives me a sidelong glance. “She’s lecturing me right now, actually. Telling me I should apologize.”
My mouth goes dry. “Apologize? To who?”
I sense him turning to face me but stay resolutely facing forward. “Why, to you, of course.”
My traitorous body flinches, and I involuntarily turn to face him. We’re uncomfortably close in this position, our knees slightly folded and pointing in toward each other, our shoulders resting against the fence’s wooden posts.
And his face…His face is no longer cold, his look no longer supercilious. There’s a warmth and energy in his eyes that I haven’t seen since the night of the gala.