Page 1 of Alchemy of Souls

CHAPTER 1Eloise

Need. I think about this word a lot. Not want or carefree daydreaming—there’s no room in my life for those. The stakes are too high. Ineedto pass my graduation exam today. Ineedto become a Mage. But most importantly, Ineedto move my family away from the weak stretch of wards where the Lawless attacks are relentless.

Still, there’s a funny thing that happens when you live a life where everything’s urgent and nothing’s guaranteed—you appreciate the moments you have. Even today, an hour before the most important test of my life. The sun dapples the cobbled sidewalk of Main Street. My little sister is buzzing with the promise of sugar. And Mom is all easy smiles as she opens the door to Perky Potions Coffee House for our highly anticipated annual treat that punctuates the end of every school year.

Bells chime as I step inside the rustic Maine shop, my six-year-old sister’s hand slipping from my grip as she bolts toward the glass case of pastries.

I inhale the scents of melted chocolate and coffee that magic has made better than perfect. This is happiness, I think, a freedom that doesn’t usually belong to me.

“One day,” I say like a promise as we weave through the small tables, “I’m going to buy Delilah a whole box of cherry chocolate tarts.”

Mom raises an eyebrow. “You know I love that child beyond reason, but fueled on that much butter and sugar? The world might never recover.”

I laugh. “It’d be worth it, though, to see her face as she opened the box.”

Mom smiles. “It would, wouldn’t it?”

She squeezes my hand, letting me know, as she always does, that she believes I might actually be the first Belrose to graduate the Academy as something more than Labor Guild. That one day I might afford store-bought treats more than once a year.

Delilah’s small palm presses against the glass as she stares at the last cherry chocolate tart—her favorite.

“What can I get you ladies?” the young woman behind the counter asks, brushing her hands on her apron, a small plume of flour rising with the motion.

“Eeeee! Cherry choco—” Delilah squeals, but the end of her sentence is drowned out by another voice, one that makes my back go rigid—Naomi.

“My usual vanilla latte, an espresso, and a cherry chocolate tart. I’m in a rush,” Naomi says, stepping unapologetically in front of us.

She’s wearing the same school uniform I am—navy blue leggings, a soft white linen shirt, and a khaki blazer with the American Academy crest on it. But that’s where our similarities end. Her entire family is Mages. There’s not a single Mage in mine. And as she loves to remind me, my mother works for hers, as their maid.

Naomi taps her manicured nails on the polished wooden counter impatiently.

“Actually, my daughter was just ordering the—” my mother starts.

“Like I said,I’m in a rush,” Naomi says dismissively over her shoulder. “I needed that latte ten minutes ago.”

The young woman behind the counter tenses. Naomi probably comes here all the time and the barista clearly knows who she is, or rather, who her mother is—one of the High Mages who’ll decide my future in an hour’s time.

But there’s right and there’s wrong. And more importantly, there’s my little sister.

“Are you really going to tell a six-year-old she can’t have her favorite pastry?” I say to the barista, hoping to appeal to her decency. After all, she’s a Laborer, too. “One she was ordering first?”

Naomi purses her lips. “No,please, go ahead, coffee girl. Give them the tart and make me wait. I’ll let you explain it to my mother yourself.”

The barista swallows, her eyes darting back and forth like a cornered hare.

On cue, the bells chime and Naomi’s mother walks in the door, phone in hand. Her suit is impeccable. Her blow-dried hair falls in perfect waves. And her magic is so potent I can feel it humming like the air before lightning strikes.

“Is ordering coffee so utterly complicated?” Naomi’s mom asks without looking up from her phone screen.

Naomi stares pointedly at the barista, and the barista glances at my mom like she’s sorry. But when she grabs the last tart from the case and my little sister’s face falls, I get mad. Really and truly pissed.

My pulse kicks up and my magic tingles my fingertips, begging me to use it. But my mother lays her hand on mine—a warning. To acquiesce. To stay quiet. To not cause a scene with her employer and the very woman who’ll decide my fate this morning.

Yet that’s all I want to do.

The barista twirls her fingers in the air and casts a quick spell on the milk and coffee, frothing it into a rosebud design that smellslike warm vanilla. My little sister stares at Naomi with her hands on her hips and her lower lip jutting out. Part of me hopes Delilah uses every bit of her unhinged six-year-old vocabulary to call her a chicken-nugget butt farter or whatever. Because I’ll happily jump in as her wingman.

However, in a matter of moments, the whole situation fizzles out. Naomi collects her drinks and my sister’s tart, waltzing out the door with a satisfied smirk.