11. The Core Principles of Magnetism #2
‘Briar, what the fuck?’ Tate says gruffly, making Briar jump.
He’s got his arm around Hadley. Supporting Hadley.
Briar has no idea when the two of them entered the kitchen, and they’re not particularly interested in finding out.
Tate is blocking their view of Alexander.
As Briar steps aside to try to clear their field of vision, he takes the glass of water from Briar’s hand and hands it to Hadley, who almost drops it. ‘Briar?’
He tries to pull at Briar’s arm, and Briar shakes him off, hard, without thinking. A second later, Briar is spluttering in shock; Tate has upended the entire glass of water over their head, and it’s cascading down their back, sticking their shirt to their skin, pooling in their socks.
‘What the hell?’ Briar says, wiping their eyes as Tate drags them around the island and out of the kitchen. It’s too crowded in the living room; he leads Briar up the stairs until they come to a stop on the upstairs landing, which is mostly populated by huddled couples.
‘Better now?’
‘Better than what? I’m wet. I preferred being dry.’
‘You liked that guy in the kitchen? Aiden? With the massive Ralph Lauren logo on his shirt, and the very shiny loafers?’
‘I don’t know,’ Briar says, extremely uncomfortable about this line of questioning.
‘He’s nice to look at, right? Had some interesting stuff to say?’
‘. . . Yeah?’
‘Wrong. He’s disgusting. He was using the Work. All those girls hanging off him? Fifth-years who haven’t worked on the core principles of magnetism yet . . . and you. He was making you want to look at him. He’s better at it than most, unfortunately.’
‘What the fuck?’ Briar doesn’t understand.
There was no feeling of magic taking hold; no difference between being in the kitchen and not, except that now Aiden isn’t available to look at.
It’s not like they’ve got any burning desire to go rushing back to the sink, but the next time they go for a drink, they’ll probably sneak another look.
‘Wait. Are you serious? But shouldn’t I .
. . feel something? Have I snapped out of it? ’
‘Yeah, it’s not really a case of snapping, unfortunately,’ says Tate.
‘This stuff isn’t flashy. He was probably just dropping particular words into the conversation.
Anchor points for him to focus on the Working, but you wouldn’t have noticed them at all.
Shit, I need to go and get Hads. Stay here.
Don’t move. Don’t . . . look at anyone.’
Briar flushes hot and sick. They’ve not felt right since their nap, and now the walls are closing in.
They find a bathroom down the hall, but it’s occupied; a broad boy with sandy blond hair and freckles is engaged in some very heavy petting with a slight, pretty, dark-haired girl who’s perched on the closed toilet seat.
Briar snaps the door shut without having to be asked.
A thought stops them in their tracks, still holding the handle.
If Aiden could lure Briar in with dull stories laced with invisible Workings, where might it have ended? Would Briar have followed him from the room? Behind a closed door? Taken their clothes off, as long as he’d kept talking?
Who’d invited the fifth-years to the party, ensuring that there’d be a steady supply of malleable scholars with no built-in resistance to the upper years’ charms?
The problem is too vast. Briar could go back in there, try to yank the girl away, see if some sort of spell wears off - but how are they supposed to know if she’s under the influence at all? Briar hadn’t known when it was happening to them.
A horrifying reality unfurls before them: a world in which the limits of what these people can take stretch precisely as far as their consciences. Not just here at school, but wherever they go next. Universities, living rooms. High office.
Briar realises that they’re shivering despite the warm evening, still soaking wet.
They take off their overshirt and it helps a little, but they need a towel.
The next door is locked, but the one after that is a bedroom - it’s also occupied, and when Briar sees who’s inside, their body thrills with horror.
Alistair, Seb and the Prince.
They’re dressed in white tie in various states of repose on the bed, although the Prince has misplaced his actual tie, and Seb’s without a jacket.
Alistair and the Prince are smoking cigars, so the room is cloaked in a heavy fug, and Seb’s legs are slung casually over one of Alistair’s; the two of them look like fairy royalty, wicked princes of something dangerous and uncanny, one fair-haired and the other dark, and both far too tall for their own good.
Briar hates the sight of them. The clothes, the intimacy, the casual touch.
Seb’s the one in control here, so it makes no sense that Briar’s first, instinctual thought is aimed at Alistair: Get the fuck away from him.
‘Stop,’ Alistair says, when Briar hesitates for a moment too long before retreating. ‘You. Come in.’
Briar’s not going to run away from these people.
They didn’t shy from hurled slurs and curled fists in the village or at Dunton and Heaverham, and they’re certainly not going to give Alistair and Seb the satisfaction now.
They take one short step in through the doorway and cross their arms, braced and ready.
It’s impossible not to dart a look at Seb. He sits upright and shifts away from Alistair. He’s got most of his hair tied back but it’s slipping free in a smoky halo around his face, and he’s watching Briar with catlike intensity.
Alistair takes a leisurely drag of his cigar, his face briefly illuminated from below by the hot flare of the cherry. ‘You’re that janitor who’s been hanging around with Crispin Westby and his pack of queers, aren’t you?’
Briar couldn’t hate him more. ‘Yep.’
‘Come and sit,’ Alistair says, patting the silky covers of the bed next to him, sounding like he’s talking to a child, or a feral animal. ‘Here. I just want to chat.’
Briar doesn’t move. Alistair’s expectant expression hardens a fraction.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘there are far more prudent ways you could be spending your time here. You must be practically invisible - I’m sure people would say anything around you. I could make it more than worth your while.’
His free hand slides lazily down from waist to hip, and Briar watches it go; he doesn’t actually produce his wallet, but the implications are clear.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘You’re fine?’
Briar enjoys the momentary confusion on his face. It’s clear that nobody ever denies Alistair Buckingham. ‘Thriving.’
It’s a mistake. Briar should have said yes, regardless of their intentions, laid low, reported back to Tate, flown under the radar.
Perhaps even turned double agent. That would have been the smart thing to do.
Briar just can’t stomach the idea of doing anything at all to please Alistair, even if it’s temporary.
‘Come here,’ Alistair says, no argument in his tone now. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. ‘I’d like to take a look at you.’
The thing is, it’s a good idea. It feels like a way out, like an answer clicking into place after hours of agonising; Briar can’t believe they hadn’t thought of it themself.
They go to him. Close up, he’s even more handsome, although that just makes Briar hate him all the more.
Stubble on that knife-sharp jaw, russet-brown eyes that somehow manage to be cold.
He takes another puff of his cigar and lets the smoke unfurl out of his mouth slowly, a waterfall unbeholden to gravity. ‘Kneel.’
‘Alistair,’ Seb says, petulant. It’s not a plea, or a warning. It’s mild impatience, like he’s already bored with this.
But Briar is happy - grateful, almost, and relieved - to be allowed to sink to their knees on the thick sheepskin rug.
It’s what they’d been about to suggest, anyway.
From here they can see Alistair’s hand where it’s resting on his thigh - slender, tanned fingers, manicured nails - and can read the words picked out in tiny black lettering on the face of his Rolex, SUPERLATIVE CHRONOMETER, whatever that might mean.
‘You might just be the strangest little queer of them all,’ Alistair says, taking that hand and touching Briar’s hair, which is wet and starting to curl loosely over their forehead. ‘Does Westby fuck you? Or do you fuck him? I bet he absolutely creams himself over you. His bit of country rough.’
There’s a noise over by the window; it sounds almost like a bird has hit it, the glass jumping in the frame. Alistair doesn’t flinch, but he does glance over at it, frowning.
Briar sways, then stands up, but Alistair is fast; he’s up too, and he’s about half a foot taller than Briar and surrounded by allies.
‘I offered to pay you,’ he says, polite with something jagged glittering underneath. ‘Which was very nice of me. You’re being rude, now.’
The Prince slips off the bed and exits with a sigh, like all this menace is doing nothing more than ruining his buzz. Briar should be afraid. Instead, they’re just icily furious. Seb is there, still and statuesque, watching. Bearing witness. Briar wishes he’d just go.
Alistair moves first, and Briar’s arms come up instinctively, but then Alistair says, ‘No, I think not,’ and Briar agrees, and drops them; they stand completely still, watching as Alistair takes another puff of his foul cigar and then breathes the smoke out in a veil over Briar’s face, giving them no choice but to breathe it in.
‘Now, when I ask you to take a seat, you’ll have some fucking decorum, won’t you? Sit down.’
Wind rattles the window again. Briar sits down on those rich, buttery linens, and Alistair walks in a half-circle around them, back and forth. Briar imagines taking him by the throat and forcing him through the window, to see how blue his blood really is.