Academy of Magic Collection

by Angelique S Anderson et al.

  For a second, he tears his eyes away from her, and he smirks with disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I shake my head. It’s one of the first things Kash told me when we met our freshman year at Brightling—the kind of thing that’s hard to forget, that makes an impression.

  “So what happened? How did she go from that to … this?” Sebastian nods toward the dance circle again, just in time to see Kash leap into a flawless, gravity-defying grand jeté.

  “Her mom and dad didn’t give up on her,” I explain. “She had surgeries and tons of physical therapy—which turned into dance lessons to keep her moving and help with balance. And she ended up loving it. It’s how her mom figured out she’s a Muse, too.”

  Sebastian’s mouth curls into an impressed grin, and he nods with approval. “I totally underestimated her.”

  I shrug. “A lot of people do. She’s small. She’s meek. But she’s also so much more.”

  I barely finish my statement before I notice something out of the corner of my eye. A young woman on the fringe of Kash’s admirers is starry-eyed and listless, a vacant smile on her face. One just like Ellabelle Cranshaw had—and me, too, I suppose—earlier today in class with Ms. Applegate.

  “That’s not supposed to be happening, is it?” Sebastian says, an uneasy undercurrent in his tone, as he notices the same thing I have.

  Crap.

  The young woman isn’t the only one impacted, either. As I glance around, I see more of them—their numbers rising by the second. Mundanes who have been over-inspired. Entranced by Kash’s ballet. If Kash wanted to, she could get them to do anything she wished right now. She could have them sing an opera or make up a limerick … Or she could force them to steal a drawing from a nearby kiosk—or to hurt themselves, or someone else, even.

  She wouldn’t do any of that, of course—I know her; I know she wouldn’t. But she could. Without even meaning to, she’s walking the fine line between inspiration and control.

  “Come on. We have to stop her,” Sebastian says, already standing.

  It’s his turn to tug at my sleeve now. He moves quickly, hurrying across the courtyard toward Kash. I can barely manage to keep up. By the time I reach them both, he’s already speaking again.

  “All right, everyone. The performance is over,” he announces. “The prima ballerina’s presence is required back at Lincoln Center.”

  The music—and Kash—come to an abrupt halt. Groaning with disappointment, the crowd begins to disperse.

  “I know, I know, very unfortunate,” Sebastian says amidst the grumbles. “This week’s performance has been brought to you by the letter ‘B’ and the number nine. If you wish to register a complaint, take it up with them.”

  While he fields their grievances, I rush over to Kash, who is limping toward the mound of her school bag and blazer propped against the base of a statue. Her chest heaves and sweat dampens her hairline. She grimaces with pain at each step.

  “I did it again, didn’t I?” she asks softly as she picks up her belongings. There’s no need to clarify the meaning of “it.” We both know. This isn’t the first time she has over-inspired her audience.

  “Don’t worry—you’ll get the hang of it,” I assure her, beating her to her blazer. I frown as she wobbles under the weight of her backpack on her shoulders. I was just telling Sebastian about her childhood troubles with walking. “I’m more worried about your ankle. Are you hurt?”

  Kash gingerly takes a step forward and clenches her teeth. “I landed funny toward the end there. Even if you guys hadn’t stopped me, I wouldn’t have been able to go on much longer.”

  “We have to get you back to the academy,” I insist. “You need to get that looked at.”

  Joining us, Sebastian nods. “Let me carry your bag for you,” he offers.

  She wobbles again, this time stumbling against his chest, as she tries to take off her backpack.

  “Woah,” he mutters, steadying her, “don’t be in such a hurry.”

  Technically, there is a reason to hurry: Poise and Charm class. But I don’t want to admit that—not to him, and definitely not to Kash, with her injury. I’m too embarrassed for him to know I’m failing, and she’ll never quit apologizing for making me late. Besides, I’m pretty sure even Ms. Dashwood will understand this excuse.

  “Right,” I agree. “We’ll help you.”

  Before she can protest, Sebastian and I have one of her arms slung over each of our shoulders. We limp along together, retracing our steps through the park like some bizarre, multi-legged creature. Maybe we’re the ones who belong in Aurelia Ketterling’s book instead of the two-headed dragons.

  “It’s probably just a sprain, nothing serious,” I say as we hobble along.

  “I hope so,” Kash laments. “The dance recital is coming up soon.”

  “Don’t worry,” I try to assure her. “A quick visit to the infirmary and some ice packs, and you’ll be just fine. Don’t you think, Sebastian?”

  I try to catch his eye over the top of Kash’s head, eager to get him to agree, to make her feel better. But he’s distracted, staring off at a figure in the distance, further down a parallel path. There, a silver-haired man in an expensive-looking dark suit—one with a bright green handkerchief in the front pocket—walks purposefully, as if on a mission. He reminds me of the person who stole from the violinist yesterday … Maybe it is the thief from yesterday.

  After a second, the man disappears from view, hidden by a pack of joggers overtaking him. Gone before I can be sure. And finally, Sebastian glances over at me, swallowing hard. Like he’s just seen the monster under his bed.

  “Yeah, it’s probably just a mild sprain,” he says, slightly hoarse. He clears his throat and forces a grin. “You’ll be dancing again in no time, Kash.”

  “You didn’t have to wait for me,” I tell Sebastian when I spot him sitting in his tuxedo at the bottom of the stairs.

  He stands up as I approach. “I wanted to. You shouldn’t have to walk into Poise and Charm late again on your own. It’ll make it easier if I’m with you.”

  I pause on the final step, taken aback. My hand slips from the railing and falls to my side, collapsing against the fluff and fabric of my gown. He’s right. Even if Ms. Dashwood is upset that I’m late, he’ll be there to back up my story. To take some of the heat and attention. To defend me. First, he helped Kash—because, to be honest, it was really him who shouldered most of her weight on the way back from Grand Park … And now he’s helping me.

  I never thought the boy who teased me yesterday would do either.

  “That’s really …” My mouth goes dry as I try to find the words.

  “Thoughtful?” he offers, raising an eyebrow and flashing me that half-grin of his.

  Dumbly, I nod. “Thoughtful. Exactly.”

  Sebastian extends his hand toward me. “Let’s go then. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll still catch Ms. Dashwood’s lecture on the finer points of how to quietly sip soup.”

  His tone is heavy with sarcasm, and I can’t help but giggle. “Is that really what today’s lesson is about?” I ask, taking his hand.

  He nods as we start across the foyer to the former ballroom of the towering, Gothic-inspired mansion that houses Brightling Academy. “According to the syllabus, yes,” he tells me. “It’s a serious topic. Didn’t you know it would be nearly impossible for you to fulfill your Muse-ly mission as a soup-slurper instead of sipper?”

  I giggle again. “That’s sort of what I was trying to tell Headmistress Fothergill yesterday.” I look up into his face, surprised by the similarity between us. His eyes meet mine; they are the sea, and for a moment—just a few passing seconds while we walk to class—I wish I could float within them.

  “You and the headmistress were discussing soup-eating etiquette?” he asks, shaking his head, amused by the absurdity of it.

  Heat rushes into my cheeks. “Not exactly,” I clarify. “Just something like that. Portrait Poses. That was when she …
” My voice trails off. It was when she assigned me to Sebastian Greenbriar babysitting duty because I’m flunking Poise and Charm. But I still don’t want him to know that—not even after getting to know him a little better today. It’s too humiliating. “Never mind.”

  We reach the door to Ms. Dashwood’s classroom then. A flurry of wings beat nervously in my stomach. She can’t fail me. She can’t. I have a good excuse this time—and Kash is in the infirmary still, resting. There’s actual proof to back up my story.

  I take a deep breath. Time to put on my brave face. If I have a brave face … which I’m not convinced I do.

  But Sebastian stops me. He pulls away—we’re still holding hands, I realize—and reaches for the knob himself. “Let me do the talking,” he tells me. “You sneak in behind me and get to your seat. Maybe she won’t notice you.”

  Before I can open my mouth to argue—to tell him, once again, that he doesn’t have to, he’s entering the ballroom. I hang back in the shadows of the half-open door a moment, hesitant, waiting to be sure Ms. Dashwood is sufficiently distracted and listening to snippets of him attempting to dazzle her.

  “I just had to help Kassia Beckett back from Grand Park, Ms. Dashwood,” he tells her. He leans against the doorframe in a position I can only assume is meant to be both unassuming and mildly seductive. “Who knows what would’ve happened if I left her alone …”

  “That was soooo heroic of you, Sebastian,” Melody Dillard coos, batting her lashes as she gazes adoringly at him.

  A chorus of agreement rises across the room, dozens of awestruck stares and nodding heads, curls and buns bobbing enthusiastically, turned toward him. Under other circumstances, the obnoxious display may have made me queasy. But right now, I’m glad I was right earlier about him still having a devoted fanbase. Even Ms. Dashwood can’t resist him.

  “Of course, of course,” she clucks, her avian transformation well underway. Her chest swells and her arms flutter as she ushers Sebastian into the room. “You did the right thing.”

  As he steps forward, she puts her arm around him like a mother hen. Her back is toward me. That’s my cue. Time to make my break for it. While she fusses over Sebastian, I lift my gown and tiptoe hurriedly to my usual chaise toward the back of the room—a chaise that, like all the others tiled across the room, still has a tray with a small, steaming bowl of soup in front of it.

  “Kash was so lucky you were there, Sebastian—” someone’s telling him.

  I scurry past Juliette Atwell. She scowls and pulls back her feet defensively so I won’t trample them again like I did yesterday.

  “I’d like to go to Grand Park with you sometime, Sebastian,” another girl says.

  “Me, too!”

  “All right, ladies, let’s allow the hero of the hour to take his seat,” Ms. Dashwood says, releasing Sebastian and clapping her hands to refocus everyone’s attention.

  I dive for my chaise. As I straighten out the layers of my gown around me, my hand knocks against my tray. The spoon clinks against the bowl—but nothing spills.

  Ms. Dashwood’s stare falls on me while she watches Sebastian make his way to the back of the room. I hold my breath as her eyes narrow. I wasn’t here a moment ago. She’s almost certain of it. Almost. But she’s not completely sure.

  So she simply clears her throat and resumes her lesson.

  “Now, ladies, remember to always put your spoon down in between sips,” she instructs, illustrating her point at her own tray at the front of the room.

  Sebastian winks at me as he passes by, and I smile back. It worked.

  I’m saved—saved by Sebastian Greenbriar.

  There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.

  Chapter Six

  We hear about the fire a couple of days later, after the weekend. The whispers make their way across the cafeteria, moving from one of us to the next like the flames must have the previous night. Georgiana Sutton tells Bernadette Norcott. Who tells her stepsister, a sophomore, who tells her friends. One of them tells her cousin, Zelda Mackey. And once Zelda Mackey finds out about anything, it’s only a matter of time before everyone knows.

  Even Aurelia Ketterling knows before I do. She leans over while passing me a platter of French toast at breakfast. The way her eyes look haunted, like clouds crossing over a full moon at night, sends a chill down my spine.

  “Someone burned down the artists’ kiosks at Brambleton Terrace last night,” she tells me solemnly, in a hushed tone, like she’s unveiling the darkest of secrets.

  I take the platter, my hands shaking as I stab a piece of toast for myself and pass it to Sebastian on my other side. “What do you mean by ‘burned down’?” I ask her.

  “It’s gone,” Aurelia says. Her voice reaches my ears faintly, like an echo across a canyon. “It’s ash. Rubble. Refuse. Not a single stall left.”

  Kash leans across the table to hear us better. She knocks over her crutches, which are propped up against the table beside her, in the process. “There must be something left, isn’t there?”

  Aurelia shakes her head. “Not a thing. Like it never even existed.”

  “But we were just there yesterday,” I murmur. “It can’t be gone.”

  Tears sting my eyes. Brambleton Terrace. My favorite place in the city, other than Brightling itself. The place where I see my past, present, and future together at the same time. Now I know how Harmony Dillard must have felt when she learned about the theft of the Laffitte painting. And it’s not just me who will suffer from this loss, either. It’s everyone—the entire city, not to mention the artists themselves. Where will they all go? How will they make their living? Who will bring beauty to the park in the same way they did?

  Only a monster could do such a thing. A terrible, cold Mundane with no sense of imagination. With no hope.

  Sebastian nudges me playfully in the side. “Just relax,” he says. He tries to charm me with his grin, but the glisten doesn’t quite reach his seafoam eyes. “They’ll rebuild it. It’s not like you could go to Brambleton today—Kash’s ankle is busted, and besides, it’s gross outside.”

  He nods toward the row of windows across the room. Over the sea of ribboned, curled, and ponytailed heads, I see it’s raining out. The sky is a shroud above, weeping tears of mourning for the artists of Brambleton. It figures that outdoors would look exactly the way I feel inside.

  I know Sebastian’s trying to help, but it’s no comfort. I just push my plate away moodily and shrug. “I guess you’re right …”

  The rest of the day passes by slowly, everyone in a daze. Shocked. The Laffitte and now Brambleton, two strikes against art—against everything we stand for—in less than a week. There are worried whispers about it in the hallway, the novelty of Sebastian’s arrival overshadowed by the specter of the theft and arson.

  “I heard the police have no suspects.”

  “They don’t know how the fire started yet, just that it appears suspicious.”

  “It must’ve burned for hours before they managed to put it out.”

  Then, as Sebastian and I walk together to Inspiration Practicum, we pass a pair of freshmen tossing about the word “pyromaniac” a little too casually for my liking. I turn sharply on my heel, my skirt swirling around my knees, and glare at them until they wither back against their lockers like pulled weeds left in the sun.

  “So, I learned a new step today in tap class,” Sebastian says, trying to distract me. “If it’ll cheer you up, I’ll show you later. It’s guaranteed to make you laugh—I promise.”

  I give him a skeptical, sideways glance. He would humiliate himself for me? Just to put a smile on my face? Every moment I spend with him is like peeling back another petal from a rosebud, only to find a more fragrant, softer part underneath.

  “I have to warn you, though, this is a limited-time offer—going fast and for your eyes only,” he adds, his half-grin lifting the corner of his mouth.

  His insistence breaks me.

  “Fine,” I huff, le
tting out a deep sigh. I hope it sounds like I’m at least a little bit reluctant, but the truth is I’m really not. I’m getting to like Sebastian, I think. Despite how we met and the way the other girls look at him and how he seemed to enjoy the idea of Melody Dillard complimenting him.

  Sebastian’s eyes brighten—fully this time, not halfway, as they did this morning at breakfast. He holds the door to Ms. Applegate’s classroom open for me, and when we step inside, I see Kash is already waiting for us, propped up on her crutches in our usual spot. A frown on her face that not even our arrival can lessen.

  Her expression is a grim reminder of what happened this morning. That I’m not supposed to be happy. That there is no joy on a day like today—not for a Muse, anyway.

  The students aren’t the only ones dismayed by the fire at Brambleton. Even the teachers seem impacted. In the hallways, Headmistress Fothergill hardly smiles like she usually does. She doesn’t pause to peek in the open doors of our classrooms to observe for a moment, either. In Poise and Charm, Ms. Dashwood doesn’t peck with her usual vigor. She barely scolds Juliette Atwell when she breaks her teacup and stains her gown. She even commends the curl of my pinky finger when she passes by. And at dinner in the cafeteria, Ms. Westbrook seems even more agitated than usual as she paces between the tables.

  “Everyone’s taking it so seriously,” I say to Kash that night in our dorm room as we get ready for bed. “It almost feels like maybe there’s something bigger going on—like there’s this cloud hanging over us.”

  As if agreeing with me, the sky outside our window flickers with lightning, our view of Grand Park and the skyscrapers towering on its opposite side illuminated for a fraction of a second. A dull rumble of half-hearted thunder rolls off in the distance.

  Kash squeezes a bit of facial moisturizer into her palms and rubs her face with her hands as she talks. “I know. But at least my ankle’s feeling a bit better. I think maybe tomorrow I can stop using the crutches altogether. If you want, we could go to Brambleton and see it for ourselves.”