Shadow Phantoms - H.P. Mallory Page 0,5

as anything. Mine were supposedly the same color, but they’d gone kind of red with the flash.

Mom’s blond hair was pulled to one side, curling gracefully down past her shoulders. I imagined her eyes to be the bluest in the world. And her smile was definitely the sweetest.

She sat in a plush armchair in front of a sitting room fireplace, red brick with the mortar sticking out. Dad stood to her right side, looking every inch the handsome and dignified man he was. His smile was so broad—from ear to ear.

He looked so different in this picture—so carefree and so… happy. He hadn’t smiled like that in as long as I could remember.

I touched a shard of the broken glass, moving it out of mom’s face. I could almost remember her. A hand on my hair, maybe, or a laugh like bell chimes. A whisper of a song I’d long ago forgotten.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I remembered the time.

Shit.

I left the picture on the floor. I’d have to clean up the glass later. After class.

I pulled the door shut behind me and sprinted down the corridor, up the rotating spiral staircase outside the witches’ quarters—but there wasn’t time to try and run to class. If I wanted to be anything resembling “on time,” I’d need a shortcut.

I went up another staircase and sprinted down a hallway. I grabbed the carved bauble at the handrail’s edge, swinging myself around the corner and up a final staircase that led nowhere. As in, it literally led into a wall. The staircases became increasingly more confusing the tardier a student was and, in this case, they were pretty damn confusing.

There was a giant mahogany cuckoo clock that had been at the academy since Elmington manor was first built, something like four hundred years ago. Supposedly, it was built by the witches who had perished in Salem in the late 1600s—regardless, Elmington was protected by magic. Protected in as much as humans couldn’t see it.

The cuckoo clock changed locations at random—random to the students, at least. Today, it was perched on the wall above the staircase leading nowhere, covering six square feet of the floral wallpaper.

It struck seven.

Three loud, strident chimes. I walked up the stairs with my head turned down. Maybe Patricia wouldn’t recognize me.

A robin burst out of the clock’s cottage doors.

Dammit.

“Seven O’clock, b’caw!” Patricia squawked. “Seven O’clock! Emma Balfour should be in class by now! B’caw! Emma Balfour is late to class! B’caw! B’caw!”

“Oh, stick a worm in it, Patricia,” I said.

The stairs were carpeted emerald. Good for traction. I took them two, three at a time.

“B’caw! Gotta go faster than that! B’caw!”

“I get it, Patricia!”

I stopped at the top stair, dropping to one knee and slung my satchel to the ground. I rifled through it. A few pens rolled out and fell off the staircase’s edge. I abstractly hoped my supplies didn’t hit someone several floors below, but I wasn’t that concerned. Most students were already in class.

I pulled out a vial of something purple and bubbling. I forgot what Jupiter had called it, not that its name mattered. All that did matter was the magic inside. I sighed in relief and slung the bag back over my shoulder.

Jupiter was generous, sharing this with me. Magic, her magic, distilled in a little purple bottle. Witches trade and share magic all the time: necromancers trading pre-brewed spells with alchemists and weather mages. Like coders sharing programs.

Usually, though, magic isn’t a gift, it’s a trade. Except I didn’t have anything I could give her. Yeah, I’m not exactly… magically inclined. In fact, this quarter I’m pretty much just scraping by.

I clinked the test-tube of magic against an imaginary cup. “To the queen.” I uncorked the vial and took it like a shot.

It was cool and silky. It bubbled on my tongue, a buzzing that got steadily stronger—like carbonation on crack. There was a light lavender aftertaste. Jupiter was getting better at creating flavorings.

I corked the vial and put it away. The buzzing on my tongue became a tingling in the tips of my fingers. I waggled them experimentally in front of my face, feeling an undeniable shift in the energy around them.

The large mahogany door at the end of the floating staircase had an ornate golden handle. I gripped it firmly and stood back up to my full height of five-foot-six. My frizzy whitish-blond hair fell into my face and I realized I’d forgotten to brush it.

I took a deep breath.

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