Chapter 37
Harrisford
I didn’t want to leave…I almost couldn’t bring myself to leave. But now I’m here, back at Seamere, and I cannot get her out of my head.
When I’d left, it was well before dawn. I’d stood over Gwendolynne’s sleeping form for a moment, watching the way the slanting moonlight cast shadows across her face.
She looked so peaceful, so beautiful, that it was all I could do not to climb back into bed with her, put my face between her legs, and coax out more of those delicious sounds she’d made the night before.
Harrisford, she’d whispered to me in the darkness, and I swear to god this woman is going to be the death of me.
And yet, she’d said it plainly: For her, it was a onetime thing. To her, the kiss we shared at the gala meant nothing. She doesn’t want me in the way that I want her; for Gwendolynne, I was just a means to an end, a satiation of her desires so that she could get some sleep.
“Briggs, are you all right?” Marcus raises an eyebrow at me. “You seem a little…distracted this morning.”
We’re standing in the phoenix shed, assessing a bonded pair who—due to what I can only assume is related to the surges—are catching fire and then regenerating far too frequently.
According to Neck’s seminal textbook, Internal Medicine and Surgery of Mythological Beasts, phoenixes usually regenerate once every five hundred years, at most. But this pair are doing it weekly.
It’s burning up all their energy reserves and making them unable to channel magic.
I’ve donned a pair of fireproof gloves, the type we usually use for dragons, and I’m supposed to be grabbing one of them by the legs so that we can examine the bird more closely.
“I’m fine,” I say, though it’s a lie, for my head is still full of Gwendolynne’s face; my nostrils still seared with her scent; my ears still ringing with how my name had sounded falling from her lips. “Just…had a late night, that’s all.”
Pushing open the gate to the pen, I prowl closer to the phoenix pair.
They shuffle back into the far corner, letting out melodious wails, trying to escape me.
When I’m close enough, I pounce—but not fast enough, for the phoenixes launch themselves into the air in a flurry of flying feathers before alighting at the opposite end of the pen, looking indignant.
I land painfully on one shoulder, the shock so jarring I feel it in my teeth.
Marcus lets out a howl of laughter, and I scowl at him as I scramble back onto my feet. I still haven’t forgiven him for the stunt he pulled with Gwendolynne and the qílín, but I have to keep the peace—from now until graduation, at least.
Even Pudding gives a small chuckle from where she sits atop a post, but she stops when I turn my most scathing glare on her. When they’ve both finished laughing at my expense, Marcus jerks his chin toward the pen. “Go on. Try again.”
I really am off my game, because I have to spend a good ten minutes chasing the fucking birds.
At one stage, the male phoenix decides to face me, puffing up his chest and flapping his wings in a threatening display of dominance, and I’m forced to back up a few paces.
Phoenixes have a reputation for being protective, male phoenixes especially so, and I get the sense this one won’t hesitate to peck out my eyes.
When I finally manage to catch the male bird, Marcus helps to restrain him while I collect samples of blood from his tiny wing vein. Then I siphon off the excess magic, storing it in a Magecorp-branded battery, and let him go, unharmed.
The female phoenix must realize that I actually am trying to help, because after this she voluntarily struts up to me and offers herself up to be caught. Marcus taps his strap, then gives me a sly wink.
Mine pings. He’s given me five marks for this, more than he should, really. It’s blatant favoritism, and it’s nudged me well ahead of Gwendolynne—a fact that no longer fills me with triumphant exultation. But when I question it, he just waves off my concerns.
When we’re done, Marcus leaves me to clean up and get the blood samples to the laboratory.
I go to leave, but just as I’m about to shut the door to the shed, I notice that the phoenixes are embracing—or whatever you’d call the birdlike equivalent.
They’re standing close together, their long necks curved around one another, and it tugs at my chest to witness it.
Like most birds, phoenixes bond for life, keeping one monogamous mate forever.
And since they’re effectively immortal…this is an even more impressive feat.
As I stride toward the pathology lab, I wonder when Gwendolynne will finally return.
It’s been five long days here without the chance of running into her or hearing one of her sarcastic comments.
I could have easily express-posted Percy’s permit to her, and sent digital copies of the practice exams via her strap…
But last night, the agony of not having seen her for days had proven to be far too much.
So I’d made the trip up north, sacrificing sleep, my sanity, and possibly also my dignity, just so I could see her face.
Not that I had wanted to give her the permit right away.
First, I’d been harboring a secret, reckless hope that my visit would be an opportunity to kiss her again, and I didn’t want to come across as though I was bribing her for physical contact.
That too was the reason I stopped myself from having sex with her—as difficult as it was, it was safer to avoid it, to give her the permit the morning after, so that she wouldn’t get the wrong idea about my intentions.
Plus, I also had to see if there was any trace, any evidence, that she was intending to betray me, as Barnabus had suggested. But after we’d had that open, honest conversation about our respective families, I’d concluded that Barnabus had probably got it wrong.
According to the stars, the person you care about most will betray you, he’d said.
Thinking about it, he’d probably meant my father.
It would make sense, since my father had betrayed me when he’d used the alibi of being in Wales to attack Gwendolynne on the top floor of Magecorp HQ.
Perhaps the centaur just presumed that I care about my father…
I suppose it’s a fair assumption, since it seems that most people do care about theirs.
Or perhaps Barnabus was wrong altogether.
Maybe there isn’t anyone who’s currently out to get me.
I read once that centaur astrology is based on an outdated map of the stars made by an ancient civilization thousands of years ago.
And since then, the stars have shifted. Centaurs, however, still cling to their archaic knowledge of the constellations, which explains why their predictions are so consistently imprecise.
Either way, I’ve come to the conclusion that Gwendolynne is definitely not planning to betray me. And that I should probably ignore drunken centaurs who are salty because I’ve just dug into their hoof with a knife.
I’ve arrived at the lab, so I approach the reception desk and hand over the specimen bag containing the blood. “Thank you, Harrisford,” the pathologist says, taking the samples from me. “Do you have any other blood for me today?”
The mention of blood has my gut churning, and an image of Gwendolynne’s scarred legs floats up in my mind.
When I’d changed her into her nightclothes after the Magecorp HQ explosion, I’d noticed the few on her arms, of course…
But I’d just assumed they were old cat scratches.
And I hadn’t seen the ones on her inner thighs because, while I may be many things—few of them good—one thing I am not is a fucking pervert.
“No,” I tell the pathologist, before pushing out the door, my heart thudding dully in my chest.
I cannot believe I’ve been so ignorant about how less fortunate students procure their magic.
It’s so easy for me, with my privilege, to forget that magic is not freely available to all.
And I’m seized with such compassion for Gwendolynne, my chest squeezing so hard I suddenly have difficulty drawing breath, that I come to the obvious conclusion…
I love her.
I love Gwendolynne Chan.
I realized after last night: I’m head over heels for her. I mean, why else would I bother to actually buy a fucking car and drive an eight-hour round trip just to see her face for one night? I’ve been so dense, denying my attraction for her, then denying my deeper feelings.
I’m so in love with her that it no longer matters which of us comes first. Not to me, anyway.
Somehow, it feels less important. Working together to figure out the cause of the surges, losing myself in the taste and scent of a woman that I’m in love with…
These things have taken precedence. And where my head is at right now, I’d willingly endure a Magecorp job forever if it would give me one more night with her.
This is what Gwendolynne has done to me—made me prioritize someone else more than I prioritize myself. Made me care. Made me feel.
And I have to say, it’s fucking glorious.
I’m proud of you, Harrisford, Pudding says, her claws digging into my shoulder. You’re finally seeing some sense.
“She’ll probably hate me for it,” I reply, somewhat sullen.
It’s all right if she does. Pudding’s voice in my head is kind, as always. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You’ll feel worse if you never say anything at all. Especially since you don’t truly know when you will see her again.
My stomach clenches. “It might be never.” We are, after all, about to graduate and leave Seamere for good.
She gives a sympathetic hum. It might be.
My strap buzzes, and I check it. It’s my contact—the one who got me the resignio spells, the one who managed to get me a rush familiar permit, even though I only had half the payment up front and they usually take weeks to approve.