Page 116 of The Holy Academy of Witches

“Well one time I saw a vision about a butterfly getting eaten by a bird, but that’s about it.”

“It can’t be that. So, if you’ll kindly stop repeating ideas we’ve already tried, maybe I’ll be able to refrain from cursing you and your entire family.”

“Sheesh okay okay, I’ll just stare quietly at the statue then… What do you think she’s looking at anyways?”

Adeline stopped her pacing. Staring at the statue, then back at me, then back at the statue.

“She’s looking North.”

“Boy’s campus is north.” I blurted thinking about the gig I was most definitely running late for.

Adeline clapped her hands to her mouth. “What coordinates are we at exactly?”

I started to answer but she waved her hands at me to be quiet, like the series of numbers was an annoyance rather than exactly what she wanted to know.

“Text them to me. I have an idea. Now go away, you’re late for your date.” She pulled out her phone and I pursed my lips, unwilling to argue with her on the lack of air quotes around that word, since she looked a touch happier than she had in weeks.

I made it to the dorm in record time, a bit easier now I’d gotten some training pointers from Adeline. I’d had just enough time to shower. Casting a quick styling spell on my curls I threw on the sage green dress I’d spent hours agonising over, I admired the sweetheart neckline, cinched waist, and full sleeves in the mirror as I applied some light makeup. He’d been vague about the plans, stating he had a nicer gig outside of our radius and would meet me at the cabin… I checked my phone… in five minutes. Wishing, not for the first time, that the tales of witches enchanting objects to fly were true, I ran to the tree road entrance.

Cillian wasn’t here to bend the branches into stairs so I had to cast a vine ladder. I climbed it as quickly as the swaying allowed. Once on top, I fished out a feather, drawing theAlgizrune onto my exposed collarbone, picturing the speed of the elk it symbolised. Flying down the tree path and up to the cabin door I smiled when I was only seven minutes late. Did the fashionably late rule apply to ‘dates?’ Or meetings? That felt safer, this was just a business meeting.

The door swung open, and Cillian’s silhouette triggered an unfamiliar fluttering in my chest. He beckoned me closer, giving me a good look at how he filled the tailored white button up shirt and slacks. He interrupted my illicit appreciation by throwing a black leather jacket over my shoulders before threading his arms through the sleeves of his own. An unusual combination, but one I enjoyed. I found the jacket fit me perfectly, and was the exact same shade as the boots I’d worn for the trek. A pair of flats were in the purse for later if the venue called for it. I didn’t have much time to appreciate the intricacies of the unexpected gift before he closed the cabin door and pulled me toward his bike. There, next to his black helmet was a smaller red one. I could just make out the shape of a cherry stem curving over the top before he plucked it up and planted it on my head. I shooed him away, arranging my curls before securing it. I couldn’t help being startled when I heard music coming from the inside of the helmet, or jolting again when Cillian’s voice came over the same speakers.

“Hold on tight Sage, we’re late for our reservation.” Wait did he say reservation?

After tucking my dress around my legs I obediently wrapped my arms around him, finding I quite enjoyed the feel of him. His warmth combined with the heat of the bike perfectly. The jacket prevented my arms from the bite of the winter wind.

I didn’t notice I had relaxed into his back until we pulled up outside a small brick building with bright blue awnings. The coverings sported a French name in scrolling white font.

“You’re performing here?” I felt my eyebrows pull in with confusion. It didn’t look nearly large enough to have a stage, but then few places here did. Most buildings seeming small in comparison with American’s sprawling architecture.

“No, the performance is somewhere with shit food, I thought we’d eat here first.” He helped me off the bike before taking our helmets and hanging them off the handlebars.

“I happen to like greasy food, are you actually performing somewhere nice or was this a trick to get me to go on a ‘date’ with you?”

He smiled, “You can wait in the rain if you prefer, although I do fear your stomach might murder you.”

Had he felt it rumbling during the drive?

“Please tell me I don’t have to eat snails.” I pleaded, unsure of what else French restaurants had.

“And here I thought you longed for adventure.” He smiled, holding out his hand for me to take.

I wondered if the bond would erase if I saved him from terrible food poisoning. During my musings he took my hand and tucked it under his arm. I should have complained, but I hadn’t brought any gloves and his arm was warm. And besides, we were in public, so I needed to practise the fake dating thing.

We were escorted through a cosy space, the rustic wood tables made elegant with floral arrangements. We were placed at a corner table facing a light-soaked balcony which I openly enjoyed as Cillian spoke to the squeaking waiter. Tearing my eyes from the scene I was now itching to sketch, I forced my focus onto the menu. It was short, but most of the items were in French, so all I understood was Pomme frites, which I definitely wanted.

“Sage?” Cillian’s smooth voice sent alarm bells through me, I hadn’t decided yet. Was he already ready?

“Hmm?” I squeaked nervously. Looking up I saw the squeaking man was gone and Cillian was simply looking at me, his collar unbuttoned showing a glimpse of black ink disappearing towards his chest.

“Did anything catch your eye?” He asked, bringing my attention back to his face and I promptly forgot everything I had read on the menu as a warm flush crept over my cheeks.

Looking back down in a panic, I cursed internally when the French text made a quick recovery impossible. After a long pause I managed, “Of course, I’m a big fan of fries… and Poisson.” I broke into a sweat having no idea what poison with two s’s meant. Hopefully I pulled it off.

“Very English of you, what else are you a ‘big fan’ of?” He asked, rolling up his sleeves slowly.

My eyes traced his tattoos hungrily for a second before I remembered whose forearms I was admiring. I coughed, embarrassed, before scrambling to remember the answer to his question. What had he asked again?

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