Because You Love to Hate Me(36)

“Well,” Sigrid said. “It’s been a gas.”

Annabel twisted her mouth up. “Oh, come on, Sig. Don’t go.” Her fingers grazed Sigrid’s, lightly.

Sigrid drew back her arm. “ ‘Don’t go’ is not the same as ‘stay.’ ” She pulled the satchel strap over her shoulder. “Have a good life,” Sigrid said, stepping away. “You deserve it.”





That Sunday morning, like every other, Sigrid waited for Thomas at the kebab stand by the river, across the Thames from Parliament. Thomas’s approaching form was unmistakable: shoulders curled under a wool camel coat and a short-legged gait slightly off for his limber frame.

“Kebab?” His eyes brightened at the food cart’s rotating slab of lamb. Thomas always offered, and Sigrid always refused. They fell into an easy stride, pacing side by side. They’d been taking these walks since the first term. It was here that Thomas had admitted no one in the States knew he was a witch. He hadn’t been back to visit in three years, so far as Sigrid could recall. And it was where she first admitted out loud that she’d been holding back in lessons, afraid to show anyone all that she was capable of. It felt like whispering secrets into a forgetful wind.

They sat on a bench just off the walkway, under a dogwood tree. The sun peered from behind clouds, falling on the river’s choppy surface like flashing diamonds.

“So—Alice Gray,” Thomas said. “I’ve been researching her and Hether Blether. Her diary was in the school library. Hadn’t been checked out in a dozen years. She was top of her class, brains beyond reason. Awash in banality, striving to be great.”

“I know.” Sigrid knew the diary. She knew all the books Thomas must have devoured in the last few days. The story of Hether Blether had consumed her for years. Now it was all coming back again.

Thomas ran a hand through his hair, leaving spikes in its wake. “She’s you,” he said.

“What are you on about?”

“She’s you, Sig, I swear it. She was extraordinary, and looking for a mission worthy of her talents. Saving magic.”

“Fat lot of good it did her, or any of her friends.”

Thomas shook his head. “That isn’t the point. They were willing to try.” He paused. “And anyway—there are theories.” Sigrid squinted at him. Thomas continued: “Things they could have done differently. There are legends from Iceland and Norway about what travelers can do to ward off the sorcerer’s influence, or to stay mentally agile in his presence. He poses riddles, apparently, some kind of clever ultimatum, and those who answer are magically bound by the outcome.” He nudged her gently with his elbow. “There’s also the fact that we’re far more powerful than Alice was.”

“We can’t know that.”

“If Alice or any of the witches in the expedition were as powerful as we are, she would have noted it.”

“What are you saying?”

“We could do it, Sig. You and me. By claiming the island and gaining all the sorcerer’s knowledge, we could save magic.” Thomas turned to her, his face cast in mottled shadow under the flowering tree.

Thomas leaned back against the bench, eyes shut. “The day I learned that the word for what I am was ‘magic’—that was the best day of my life.” As he spoke, the velvety white petals of the dogwood tree’s flowers began to unfurl. “You can’t tell me this is all life is. Just another way to wear a suit and work till we expire.” The petals began to shimmer, filling with blues and reds and purples. “Alice wanted the world to open for her, to show her something incredible and new. She saw the chance to be a legend and she took it.”

Sigrid felt a shiver as the idea bloomed in her mind, wild and absurd and—somehow—inevitable. Sigrid’s heart kicked into overdrive. For the first time, she let herself envision the future that would unfurl from going north to face a great unknown.

Gently, she placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. He opened his eyes. Sigrid nodded up at the tree. The dogwood’s flowers had blossomed in fluorescent hues, gleaming like gently folded rainbows. Thomas blinked and every petal released, fluttering down around them like natural confetti. Flecks of lavender and fuchsia and goldenrod settled in his hair and on his shoulders, brushing his lapel like a telltale kiss.

“Alice Gray never found that new, incredible thing,” Sigrid said.

“She died trying,” Thomas said. “That’s more than most of us will die doing.” He searched her face. “You’re more than Alice Gray could have ever hoped to be.”

Sigrid thought of Annabel’s wide eyes and easy smile. She imagined leaving a mind-numbing position in the city to catch drinks with Annabel at a pub, hoping half-witted hooligans would pay their tab, waking up with fuzzy heads the next morning, the greatest hope being a repeat of the previous day.

The thought that she could learn that rhythm was a lie she could no longer stomach.

“For all the witches hiding their power. For magic.” Thomas’s hand grazed her cheek, thumb wiping away the single tear that fell there. “For Alice.”

Sigrid rested her hand on his arm. He gave a surprised shout as she pinched him, hard.

“For ourselves.”





They wasted little time. Monday morning, they were at the train station. Thomas was a wreck. He couldn’t figure out the ticket machine or navigate the station. He became so overwhelmed that Sigrid eventually told him to shut up and follow her lead. The moment she deposited him in the train cabin, he folded a new leaf of khat in his mouth, sank low with his head against the windowpane, and began to snore. Sigrid sat on the bench across from him and bit her nails, watching London recede in their wake.