Page 6 of Strange Familiars
No point at all.
3
Harrisford
She’s hiding something. I have no idea what. All I know is that Gwendolynne Chan is most definitely hiding something.
I watch as she stalks off in the direction of the Heywood Residential Halls. She has something stashed beneath her cardigan—an abomination of knitted acrylic if I ever saw one—and, perhaps I’m imagining it…Perhaps the thought of tonight’s impending tedium is going to my head, but I could have sworn that it actuallymoved.
I am immediately suspicious. Is it something she’s using in an attempt to best me at our final exams, which are in only a few weeks’ time? Maybe she’s gathering ingredients to make a potion that will somehow incapacitate me. I wouldn’t put it past her. For almost seven years, she’s been my most bothersome rival, the one student at Seamere who I find impossible to beat.
Everyone else is easy, with rather obvious human weaknesses. All it takes is for me to root these out so I can determine how to exploit them. To tell the truth, when it comes down to it, I probably shouldn’t be one of the top students at Seamere. Yes, I’m clever, but not necessarily the cleverest. It’s just that I have two things that give me an edge above all the others: one, the motivation—my father would absolutely slaughter me if my grades ever slipped. And two, Iknowpeople. I’m good at figuring them out, at finding out what provokes them, what distracts them, even what gives them joy.
Not with her, though. Gwendolynne Chan is infuriatingly private, cagey, and closed off, keeping everyone at a distance and barely ever socializing. It’s as though no one can get close enough to her to even find out her weaknesses.
Irritation flares, hot and pestiferous, in my chest. Good god, she is exasperating.What the hell was that bulge beneath her clothes?
The strap on my wrist buzzes, jolting me from my speculation. I check the wide-angle screen. It’s Father. Two words:You’re late.
No “How are you, son?” or even a “Hello.” It’s been a week since we last spoke and as usual, all he can do is point out my failures.
Scowling, I recommence walking to the front gates, where my father’s vehicle is waiting. It’s a monstrosity, sleek and black and far too large to be suited to city streets. There is a chauffeur leaning against the passenger door, even though he’s somewhat superfluous, considering the car is powered by magic. Like everything my father does, it’s all for show.
I hitch up my cloak and climb into the cool, leather-lined interior. Mozart is playing softly from the speakers and there are bottles of sparkling water nestled in the ice bucket.
The car starts, its magic-powered engine making no noise whatsoever. As we glide through the streets, we somehow dodge pedestrians who don’t even seem to see us. We narrowly avoid oncoming vehicles, slipping past bright red double-decker buses on narrow, one-way roads. We squeeze through alleyways and gaps in traffic that a car this size has no business fitting through.
It takes mere minutes to reach the Natural History Museum, right in the midst of London, even though Seamere is well outside the city. So many magecredits go into powering this car: into making it faster, more malleable, more invisible. Too many credits,really. Honestly, I could have just left earlier this evening, and we could have driven at a normal speed without spending the extra money. But I know Father considers the car a tax write-off. As chief financial officer of Magecorp, he’ll just put it all on the company expenses.
It’s lucky I left later, anyway, since otherwise I would not have run into Gwendolynne, and I wouldn’t have seen that she was up to something. My jaw clenches, the muscles tight and painful. What the hell is she playing at? I’ll have to figure it out before our first exam.
Get a grip, Briggs, I chide myself. I’m not scared of that mediocre witch, and whatever nefarious plans she has to thwart me being rightfully awarded the top spot.
Except she’s not mediocre, is she?a spiteful voice within my mind whispers.
Immediately, I shut that thought down. I should not be thinking of her, or her pathetic plans. Not tonight. Tonight I need to focus on what truly matters: my future.
As soon as we pull curbside, the chauffeur promptly jumps out, earning at least part of his wage by opening the car door for me. I quickly sequester my bearded dragon into an inner pocket of my tuxedo robes before climbing out. “Thanks,” I mumble, and he nods, the movement stiff because of his high-necked uniform.
The museum’s ornate, gothic towers jut up into the amethyst sky, the two arched entrances glowing like twin mouths of hell. As expected, Father is waiting for me at the top of the stone steps.
He looks positively unimpressed. Exhaustion clings to him like a mantle—the grim lines that bracket his downturned mouth are even more pronounced than usual, and there are dark smudges beneath each eye.
“Decided to finally grace us with your presence, have we?” he sneers as I trudge up the stairs.
I sigh, my shoulders involuntarily slouching. “Hello, Father.”
“I hope you’ll leave that attitude outside, Harrisford.” His frown deepens. “Do not forget that tonight I am—”
“Doing me a favor.” I finish his sentence for him, since I have it memorized. There’s no way I could have forgotten since he has reminded me around ten thousand times. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Tonight is ostensibly a charity gala, but Father says he’s only throwing it for my benefit. Since I’m nearing graduation, he wants me to rub shoulders with the best and brightest of the magical community: ministers and MPs, CEOs and celebrities. “It will be an opportunity to network,” he’s told me, over and over again. “In case you don’t get that job at the Ministry.”
I will, though. Iwillget the job. I’ll ace my examinations and come first, and no gutter-born witch from Manchester is going to stop me.
We join a line of magical folk, and I can’t help but notice that Father is acting twitchy. He crosses his arms and drums his fingers on his biceps as we’re waiting to clear security. He jumps when a man in minister’s robes taps on his shoulder to greet him. His eyes dart around as though scanning for something, and small pinpricks of sweat are dotted along his receding hairline. Now that I think about it, he’s been acting strange for a while now. Months, in fact.
It takes me a while to place his emotional state: He’s nervous. Which is strange. My father is never nervous. Angry, spiteful, sardonic, disapproving, yes—but I have never seen him nervous, not like this.
