by Olivie Blake
It was a strange thought, actually, and strangely lonely. But still, thrilling all the same.
She felt a little rumble under her feet and glanced over, noting that Nico looked lost in thought.
“Hey,” she said, nudging him. “Stop.”
He gave her a bored glance. “It’s not always me, Rhodes. I don’t go around blaming you for forest fires.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know the difference between an earthquake and a Varona tantrum.”
“Careful,” he cautioned, gaze flicking to where Ezra sat beside her parents. “Don’t want Fowler to see us having another row, do we? Might get the wrong impression.”
Honestly, this again. “You do realize your obsession with my boyfriend is childish, don’t you, Varona? It’s beneath you.”
“I didn’t realize you thought anything was beneath me,” Nico replied lazily.
Across the stage, Breckenridge shot them a warning glance.
“Just get over it,” Libby muttered. Nico and Ezra had loathed each other during the two years they’d all been at NYUMA together before Ezra graduated, which happened to be a separate matter from Nico’s opposition to her. “You never have to see each other again. We,” she amended belatedly, “never have to see each other again.”
“Don’t make it sound so tragic, Rhodes.”
She shot him a glare, and he turned his head, half-smiling at her.
“Where there’s smoke,” he murmured, and she felt another rush of loathing.
“Varona, can you just—”
“—pleased to introduce your co-valedictorian, Elizabeth Rhodes!” came the voice of the commencement announcer, as Libby glanced up, realizing that their entire audience was now staring expectantly at her, Ezra giving her a little frown from the crowd that suggested he had observed her bickering with Nico yet again.
She forced a smile, rising to her feet, and gave Nico’s ankle a kick as she went.
“Try not to touch your hair,” was Nico’s parting benediction, muttered under his breath and of course intended to make her fixate on her bangs, which for the entire two minutes of her prepared speech threatened to fall into her eyes. One of his lesser magics, getting under her skin, and by the time she finished, she wanted very badly to kick him again, falling into her seat and reminding herself how marvelous life was going to be in approximately twenty minutes, when she would be free of him forever.
“Well done, you two,” Breckenridge said wryly, shaking their hands as they departed the stage. “An entire commencement ceremony, impressive.”
“Yes, we are very impressive,” Nico agreed, in a tone that Libby would have slapped him for, only Breckenridge gave a low chuckle of amusement and shook her head fondly, departing in the opposite direction as Libby and Nico made their way down the stairs.
Libby paused to conjure something terrible; a final, devastating parting malediction. Something to haunt him while she walked away.
But then instead, she held a hand out to him, deciding to be an adult.
Civil.
Et cetera.
“Have, you know. A good life,” she said, and Nico glanced skeptically at her palm.
“That’s the line you’re going with, Rhodes?” he asked, pursing his lips. “Come on, you can do better. I know you must have rehearsed it in the shower.”
God, he was infuriating. “Forget it,” she said, retracting her hand and pivoting away. “See you never, Varona.”
“Better,” he called after her, pairing it with careless applause. “Bra-va, Elizabeth—”
She whipped around, curling a fist. “What was your line, then?”
“Well, why bother telling you now?” he asked, with a grin that was more like a self-satisfied smirk. “Maybe I’ll just let you ponder it. You know,” he added, taking a step towards her, “when you need something to occupy your mind over the course of your monotonous life with Fowler.”
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” she snapped. “Pigtail-pulling isn’t sexy, Varona. In ten years you’ll still be alone with no one but Gideon to pick out your ties for you, and believe me, I won’t spare you a single thought.”
“Whereas in ten years you’ll be saddled with three baby Fowlers,” Nico retorted, “wondering what the fuck happened to your career while your patently unremarkable husband asks you where dinner is.”
There it was again:
Incensed.
“If I never see you again, Varona,” Libby fumed quietly, “it’ll still be too soon—”
“Pardon me,” came the voice of a man beside them, and Nico and Libby both rounded on him.
“What?” they demanded in unison, and he, whoever he was, smiled.
He was dark-skinned, his head shaved and slightly gleaming, appearing somewhere in his forties. He was also exceedingly British, from mannerisms to dress (tweed; very much tweed, with an accent of tartan), and quite tall.
Also, enormously unwelcome.
“Nicolás Ferrer de Varona and Elizabeth Rhodes?” the man asked. “I wonder if I might make you an offer.”
“We have jobs,” Libby informed him irritably, not wanting to wait for Nico’s inevitably patrician response, “and more importantly, we’re in the middle of something.”
“Yes, I see that,” the man replied, looking amused. “However, I am on something of a tight schedule, and I’m afraid when it comes to my offer, I really must have the best.”
“And which of us would that be, exactly?” Nico asked, holding Libby’s glare for a gratuitous moment of conceit before smoothly turning towards the man who stood waiting, an umbrella hooked onto his left arm. “Unless, of course, the best is—”
“It’s both of you,” the man confirmed, as Nico and Libby exchanged a heated glance akin to of course it is, “or, perhaps, one.” He shrugged, and Libby, despite her disinterest, frowned slightly. “Which of you succeeds is up to you, not me.”
“Succeeds?” she asked, before she quite realized she was speaking. “What does that mean?”
“There’s only room for five,” the man said. “Six are chosen. The best in the world,” he added.
“The world?” Libby echoed doubtfully. “Sounds fairly hyperbolic.”
The man inclined his head.
“Well, since you asked, I’m happy to verify our parameters. There are nearly ten billion people in the world at present, correct?” he prompted, and Libby and Nico, both a bit bewildered, nodded warily. “Nine and a half billion, to be more specific, of which only a portion are magical. Five million, give or take, who can be classified as witches. Of those, only six percent are identified as medeian-caliber magicians, eligible for training at the university level at institutions sprinkled across the globe. Only ten percent of those will qualify for the best universities, like this one,” he said, gesturing around to the NYUMA banners. “Of those, only a fraction—one percent or less—are considered by our selection committee; the vast majority will be cut without a second glance. That leaves three hundred people. Of those, another ten percent might have the requisite qualifications; specialties, academic performance, personality traits, et cetera.”
Thirty people. Nico gave Libby a smug look like he knew she was doing the math, and she shot back a contemptuous one like she knew he wasn’t.
“Then comes the fun part, of course—the real selectivity,” the man continued. “Which students have the rarest magic? The most inquisitive minds? The vast majority of your most talented classmates will go on to serve the magical economy as accountants, investors, magical lawyers,” he informed them. “Maybe the rare few will create something truly special. But only thirty people in total are good enough to be considered extraordinary, and of those, only six are rare enough to be invited through the door.”
The man smiled slightly. “By the end of the year, of course, only five will walk back out of it. But that’s a matter for future consideration.”
Libby, who was still a little taken aback by the selection parameters, allowed Nico t
o speak first.
“You think there are four people better than Rhodes or me?”
“I think there are six people of equally remarkable talent,” the man corrected with an air of repetition, as if that much had already been established, “of which you may be qualified or may not.”
“So you want us to compete against each other, then,” Libby observed sourly, flicking a glance at Nico, “again.”
“And four others,” the man agreed, holding out a card for them both. “Atlas Blakely,” he informed them, as Libby glanced down, eyeing the card. Atlas Blakely, Caretaker. “As I said, I would like to make you an offer.”
“Caretaker of what?” Nico asked, and the man, Atlas, gave him a genial smile.
“Better that I enlighten all of you at once,” he said. “Forgive me, but it is quite a lengthy explanation, and the offer does expire in a matter of hours.”
Libby, who was never particularly impulsive, remained warily opposed. “You’re not even going to tell us what your offer is?” she asked him, finding his recruitment tactics needlessly furtive. “Why on earth would we ever agree to accept it?”
“Well, that part’s really not up to me, is it?” Atlas prompted, shrugging. “Anyway, as I said, I do have quite a pressing schedule,” he informed them, tucking his umbrella onto his arm again. “Time zones are a tricky business. Which of you may I expect?” he asked, glancing pointedly between them, and Libby frowned.
“I thought you said that was up to us?”
“Oh, it is, of course, eventually,” Atlas said with a nod. “I merely presumed, given how eager you both seemed to be to go your separate ways, that only one of you would accept my invitation.”
Her glance collided with Nico’s, both of them bristling.
“Well, Rhodes?” Nico said, in his softly mocking tone. “Do you want to tell him I’m better, or should I?”
“Libs,” came Ezra’s voice, jogging up to her from behind. “Ready to go? Your mom’s waiting outs-”
“Oh, hello, Fowler,” Nico said, turning to Ezra with a disdainful smile. “Project manager, hm?”
Libby inwardly flinched. Of course he’d said it like an insult. It was a prestigious position for any medeian, but Nico de Varona wasn’t just any medeian. He would go onto be something big, something… remarkable.
He was one of the six best in the world.
In the world.
And so was she.
For what, though?
Libby blinked, startling herself out of her thoughts, when she realized Nico was still talking.
“—in the middle of something, Fowler. Perhaps you could give us a moment?”
Ezra slid a wary gaze to Libby, frowning. “Are you…?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just… wait one second, okay? Just one second,” she repeated, nudging him away and turning back to Atlas before realizing, belatedly, that Ezra hadn’t given any indication he’d noticed anyone else standing there.
“Well, Nicolás?” Atlas was asking Nico, looking expectant.
“Oh, it’s Nico, please.” Nico slipped Atlas’ card into his pocket, giving Libby a look of pompous satisfaction as he offered his right hand to be shaken. “When should I expect to meet with you, Mr. Blakely?”
Oh no.
Oh no.
“You’re welcome to call me Atlas, Nico. You may use the card for transport this afternoon,” Atlas replied, turning to Libby. “And as for you, Miss Rhodes, I must say I’m disappointed,” he said, as her mind raced in opposition, “but in any case, it’s been a pleas-”
“I’ll be there,” Libby blurted hastily, and to her fury, Nico’s mouth twitched with expectation, obviously both entertained and unsurprised by her decision. “It’s just an offer, right?” she prompted, approximately half to Nico, half to Atlas, and a sliver of whatever remained to herself. “I can choose to accept or reject it after you explain what it is, can’t I?”
“Certainly,” Atlas confirmed, inclining his head. “I’ll see you both this evening, then.”
“Just one thing,” Libby said, pausing him after a quick glance at Ezra, who was observing them from a distance through narrowed eyes. “My boyfriend can’t see you, can he?” To Atlas’ head shake in confirmation, she asked hesitantly, “Then what does he think we’re doing right now, exactly?”
“Oh, I believe he’s filling in the blanks with something his mind considers reasonable,” Atlas said, and Libby felt herself pale a little, not overly enthralled about what that might be. “Until this afternoon, then,” Atlas added, before disappearing from sight, leaving Nico to shake with silent laughter in his wake.
“What are you snickering at?” Libby hissed, glaring at him, and after a moment to compose himself Nico managed a shrug, winking over her shoulder at Ezra.
“Guess you’ll find out. See you later, Rhodes,” he said, and departed with an ostentatious bow, leaving Libby to wonder if she didn’t, in fact, smell smoke.
REINA
Four Hours Ago
The day Reina Mori was born there had been a fire blazing nearby. For an urban environment, particularly one so unaccustomed to flame, there was a heightened sense of mortality that day. Fire was so primitive, so archaic a problem; for Tokyo, an epicenter of advancements in both magical and mortal technologies, to suffer something as backwards as the unsophistication of boundless flame was troublingly biblical. Sometimes, when Reina slept, the smell of it crept into her nose and she woke up coughing, retching a little over the side of her bed until the memory of smoke had cleared from her lungs.
The doctors knew she possessed power of the highest medeian caliber right away, exceeding even the trinkets of normal magic, which were rare enough on their own. There wasn’t a lot of natural life to speak of in the high-rise of the hospital, but what did exist—the occasional decorative plants sitting idly in the corners, handfuls of cut-flowers in vases meant for sympathy—had crept towards her infant form like nervous little children, anxious and yearning and fearful of dying.
Reina’s grandmother called her birth a miracle, saying that when Reina took her first breath, the rest of the world sighed back in relief, clinging to the bounty of life she gave them. Reina, on the other hand, considered her first breath to be the beginning of a lifetime’s set of chores.
The truth was that being labeled a naturalist shouldn’t have been such a drain on her as it was. There were other medeian naturalists, many who were born in rural areas of the country, who typically opted to enlist with large agricultural companies; there, they could be paid handsomely for their services in increasing rice production or purifying water. That Reina was considered to be one of them, or that she would be called a naturalist at all, was something of a misnomer. Other medeians asked things of nature, and if they beckoned sweetly or worthily or powerfully enough, nature gave. In Reina’s case, nature was like an irritating sibling, or possibly an incurable addict who happened to be a relative, always popping up to make unreasonable demands.
There was no reason to go to school in Osaka, really, except to get out of Tokyo. Tokyo’s magical university was plenty good, if not perhaps a bit better, but Reina had never been overly thrilled by the prospect of living in the same place into perpetuity. She had searched and searched for experiences like hers—something that was less look what a savior you are and more look what a burden it is to care for so many things—and had found it in mythology, mostly. There, witches, or gods who were perceived to be witches, bore experiences Reina found intensely relatable and, in some cases, desirable: Exile to islands. Six months in the Underworld. The compulsive turning of one’s enemies to something which couldn’t speak. Her teachers encouraged her to practice her naturalism, to take botany and herbology and focus her studies on the minutiae of plants, but Reina wanted the classics. She wanted literature, and more importantly, the freedom it brought to think of something which did not gaze at her with the blank neediness of chlorophyll. When Tokyo pressed a scholarship into her hands, imploring her to
study with their leading naturalists, she took up Osaka’s freer curriculum instead.
A small escape, but it was one, still.
She graduated from the Osaka Institute of Magic and got a job as a waitress in a cafe and tearoom near the magical epicenter of the city. The best part about being a waitress where magic did most of the legwork? Plenty of time to read. And write. Reina, who’d had countless agricultural firms ready to pounce the moment she’d graduated (several of them for rival companies from China and the United States as well as Japan), had done everything she could to steer clear of working amid the vastness of planting fields, where both the earth and its inhabitants would drain her for their purposes. The cafe contained no plants, certainly no animals, and while from time to time the wooden furniture would warp under her hands, going so far as to longingly spelling her name in the exposed rings, it was easy enough to ignore.
Which wasn’t to say people had ceased to come looking for her. Today, it was a tall, dark-skinned man in a Burberry trench coat.
To his credit, he didn’t look like the usual capitalist villain. He looked a bit like Sherlock Holmes, in fact. He came in, sat at a table, and placed three small seedlings on its surface, waiting until Reina had risen to her feet with a sigh.
There was nobody else in the cafe; she assumed he’d taken care of that.
“Make them grow,” he suggested, apropos of nothing.
He said it in a restrained Tokyo dialect rather than a typical Osaka one, which made two things very clear: One, he knew precisely who she was, or at least where she was from. Two, this was obviously not his first language.
Reina gave the man a dull look. “I don’t make them grow,” she said in English. “They just do it.”
He looked unfazed in a smug sort of way, as if he’d guessed she might say that, answering in an accented English that was intensely, poshly British. “You think that has nothing to do with you?”