The alchemy study group was an advanced lab placement with less than a dozen students, yet the next day everyone had heard of our exchange. Suddenly, people either called me Foxy or Vixen. I am accused of sucking up to—or downright sucking—teachers for my grades, although I'm working my ass off. The knowledge that my mother married into money hadn't bothered anyone before, but all of a sudden, I was reminded at every corner that Neleda's only worthwhile attribute was between her legs. Some painted, poised woman with impossibly high heels asked me whether my new daddy put me to bed and sang me a lullaby. The sicken’ng implication made me want to throw punches, but I refrained.
I’ve barely seen the king in the four weeks since the alchemy group, but every insult, every snarl reminds me of him. His presence is pervasive. My only space, the only place he hasn't yet infected, is the library.
I do occasionally encounter a bitchy sycophant, but I'm too busy to pay attention. Besides, the cavernous room has so many alcoves and private spaces between its columns and rows of dusty old volumes, it's not hard to disappear when I don't want to be seen.
If someone had told me I could be even remotely comfortable anywhere in this opulent world, I wouldn't have believed it, but the library has become my sanctum. I feel at home there, more than I did in the underground den I shared with Khel and Alva.
As my counselor pointed out, I don't have to attend many classes this term. I'm given the subjects of my courses and an extensive list of reading materials. I go to my teachers when there's a specific point I need to understand, but usually, I only turn up to class when there's a practical lab.
Most of the research happens in the tower of magiks, although alchemy barely qualifies as one of the four fundamental types of magiks: witchcraft, metamorphosis, summoning, and innate magik.
As no magiks need be called upon, alchemy is closer to physics and chemistry than anything else, though it does involve a degree of metamorphosis, and has historically been considered a type of craft. It is the craft of the erudite; it takes extensive knowledge in hundreds of subjects to manage the simplest task through science rather than magik.
My first experiment, turning lead to gold, impressive though it was, was also the least complex. During our last session, we infused a goblet with essence of life, which means that anyone who drank from said cup would find all of their ailments cured. It took an entire week, and the spell will only work once.
Thankfully, the high and mighty pain in the ass didn’t attend that session. I can’t imagine being locked in a small room with him for days on hand. I’d end up attempting murder, and getting my ass frozen to death in the process.
I’m surprised the king deigns to take the course at all, when alchemy is the craft of commons.
I expect him to be absent again, but when I enter the circular laboratory on Luprday, Zale Devar is seated right where he was the first lab: fourth row, close to the window. His frigid blue eyes set on me the moment I enter.
I wish I didn’t gulp. I wish my instincts didn’t scream at me, demanding I turn right back out of the room.
I fight myself, and rush to my seat.
There are only seven students today. Alchemy isn’t what one would call popular. Our graying teacher isn’t here yet, so I set out to display the long list of required ingredients around my work space, pretending I’m not shivering and feeling his gaze at my back.
I don’t know what he has against me, but his hatred is a palpable, harrowing, icy flame. It can’t just because I’m not a demi—there are plenty of other common attendees at Five. Granted, I suppose he could be a major dick to them, too.
I release a breath when Mr. Heffur walks in, carrying a heavy tray behind him. “Oh, good, good, you’re all here!”
Though he’s shorter than Alva and thin as a wraith, he effortlessly lugs what looks like thirty stones of food: ripe apples, heaps of berries, and golden loaves of bread. There’s enough sustenance to feed a small army.
“As you know, we’re approaching the celebration of Lughnsadh—or Lammas.” He inclines his head toward the voluptuous, ochre-skinned beauty at the back. I think she’s from Dorath, one of the countries that still uses the old tongue. “Now, Lammas is primarily a harvest festival, but whatisa harvest? One might reap fruits and grain, of course. Can think of anything else?”
My hand shots up in the air.
“Let the rest of the class think, hm?” His gaze sweeps the space. “Anyone else?” No one volunteers, so the professor sighs. “Lady Rhodes?”
“Souls. The ancients used to get behind doors and seal every window on Lammas because hungry spirits roamed Xhera in search of unprotected souls.”
“Your ancients, maybe.” I don’t have to turn to know who that low timbre belongs to. “Not mine.”
The rest of the room chuckles. He’s right: those who did hide on Lammas were commons. The gods and their descendants didn’t have much to fear from eldritch spirits.
“Right on both accounts, my lady and Your Grace.” The teacher is either tone deaf, or choosing to ignore the animosity. “Mortals did indeed have much to fear on Lammas before the wilder things of this world were locked beyond the eternal gates. And the immortals did something quite different. Any idea what?”
Participation isn’t our group’s strongest suit, and for once, I am at a loss. I have no clue what the gods were up to. Immortals aren’t my concern. I don’t ignore texts about them if I happen to find some, but I don’t go looking for information.
“I’ll give you a clue. To this day, the demis still feel similar needs.”
The class chuckles again, this time, not at my expense. I find it more uncomfortable because I’m left out of the loop.
Mr. Heffur is quick to enlighten me. “All festivals tend to encourage the baser instincts, but Lammas doesn’t simply increase the urge to copulate. It is a celebration of reaping, and so among the eight celebrations in the wheel of the year, it is the one that’s most associated with reproduction. Over half of the births happen after Ostara because many pregnancies start on Lammas.”
Oh.
“So, to mark the occasion, we’re going to create an eternal youth potion. These brews have to be drunk every year on Lammas, and will ensure you won’t physically age for one year.” The teacher chuckles. “Not useful to you, Your Grace, but the rest of us could use a little pick-me-up.”