Children with Stars in their Veins (Chapter 3.2)

a/n: hey, thanks for checking out Starry Veins! This is the novel I wrote for Round V of LMS, and it's still a first draft! While I don't discourage any feedback, I prefer not to receive feedback on grammar! I'm not polishing this draft up yet, so I'm not as concerned about editing. I am, of course, open to all feedback, but I ask that you keep this in consideration! Thanks <3

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[Rowan]

As they pulled their hand away from Mishal’s, a scorching pain flared through their hand. Several blue flames burst into life at their fingertips and they sucked in a breath so sharp it hurt.

Rowan shook their hand quickly to extinguish the fire. Mishal watched them warily, as if waiting to step in. Even after the flames had winked out at the rapid motion of their hand, the blistering pain continued to bite at their hands.

“I thought you said you were getting better at curbing mistakes like this,” Mishal said as Rowan cradled their angry red hand to their chest.

At least the lab would have a healing pack on hand. Rowan wasn’t the first to consistently injure themselves learning magic. Cassius had once turned the skin on his hands and forearms to grow painful feathers. Ember had been forbidden after the first three times she’d almost burned down the citadel’s neighbouring village.

“This is better than flooding the lab,” they pointed out. “But don’t think I’ll let you get away with changing the subject.”

Mishal turned away from them as they turned down the hall that led to the alchemy lab. “You set your hand on fire,” he said defensively.

“And now it is not on fire, and we’re both comfortably warm,” they argued. Their hand was far past comfortably warm, and they were trying to even out their quickened breathing at the agony flaring through their hand.

“Ori, I don’t want to…” Mishal gestured vaguely. It was too late; he’d already said Ori. Mishal only called anyone by their nickname if it was Ember or he was trying to placate someone.

Rowan stopped in front of the lab’s thick and old wooden door, framed by black iron hinges with a swirling rune on the front that emanated magical energy like a warm summer’s breeze. They leaned against the door handle and crossed their arms over their chest.

“You’re not permitted entry until you talk,” they said. Mishal immediately began to scowl and fuss with the short tassels that hung off his vest. “You’re scared.”

“This isn’t—” Mishal paused as Rowan narrowed their eyes threateningly.

They could lock this door with magic, and as someone who seemed to know everything but magic, Mishal would be more stuck than he already was.

Mishal, recognising his own defeat, sighed and began to pace. “Ok, right. You’ve got me. Are you happy?” He winced and closed his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone else, all right? Especially not Cassius. He’d never let me live it down.”

“Why are you ashamed of being afraid?” they wondered.

Cassius was another beast altogether, but he would never go as far as to try to break someone down. Not even Mishal. He wouldn’t admit it on his life, or his death, but Rowan had seen Cassius bring flowers to Alanna when she’d sliced up her shin once on a root. He’d tried to make stew for Ember when she’d had a fight with her mums. He’d enlisted Isadora’s help once to make Mishal a scarf when Mishal had been under the weather and at the ends of his rope, believing himself useless.

He had, of course, convinced Isadora to give it to Mishal claiming it was from her and not Cassius, but Rowan had seen him making it.

Mishal, on the other hand, was avoiding their gaze. This was a conversation he was wrestling with. He was too proud, and it brought a prickling sensation to the back of Rowan’s neck.

“I’m not doing this gladly,” they said. “My hand is killing me, and I know there’s ice inside.”

That earned them a softer frown. “Then your answer is… I don’t know how— look, I don’t expect— it’s not some extravagance. It’s simple and stupid. I don’t like this expedition, and I don’t like how little we know. That’s all there is.” Mishal stopped in front of Rowan now. “Can we please go in now?”

Rowan shifted away from the door handle and a viper couldn’t have moved faster than Mishal to it. They rolled their eyes at him, but Mishal was already pushing open the door and moving inside.

“You’re late,” Professor Coquelin said as they entered. He was pouring through a tome and didn’t look up at Rowan shut the door, or Mishal moved over to the vial and drip system set up at one of three similar stations in the gloomily lit room.

There wasn’t room for more than three. The potions lab was not terribly big and entirely stuffed with herbs and ingredients and books, and everything else was more or less crammed in hastily.

“Sorry Professor,” Mishal murmured as he began to set up the potion station for the lesson, twisting the gear-knobs and shifting some of the tubes that connected the silvery vials to each other.

“We were discussing the expedition,” Rowan explained, walking to the left side of the stone-covered room—a precaution against the elements, especially as stone didn’t burn—and opening the gilded glass cabinet. They lifted an enchanted silk pouch from inside. It chilled their fingers to the touch, and they let out a sigh as they wrapped their hand around it.

When they turned back, Professor Coquelin was raising his head to glance between them. “Ah, the big expedition. You must be excited.”

Mishal finally turned away from his equipment and glanced at Rowan. “Yes,” he said, unconvincingly.

Coquelin either did not notice Mishal’s hesitation or didn’t care. He set the tome aside and raised himself from his stool. He eyed Rowan holding the enchanted cold pouch and frowned. “What was it this time?”

“They were trying to warm me up,” Mishal jumped in instantly.

“Not your fault,” Rowan said.

“Ah. That spell.” Coquelin stretched his arms over the top of his frizzy salt-and-pepper hair. “That one is known for granting heat too literally sometimes. Now, you two might be late, but you’re both here. Gracia is not. Somebody caught the bloody cold or something. Set up your stations, you two both know how it’s done. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Gracia, or Professor Disraeli, was either late or much earlier than anyone else. Her physician duties always took precedence over her potions instructing, but it wasn’t like anyone in the Chronicler’s Guild was out fighting. They were historians, not soldiers.

But they had just departed the coldest season of the year. Illnesses were not so uncommon at such a time.

Rowan sat on the low, carved-back stool with a soft cushion to pad the seat. With their free hand, they began to set up the station for… they were to make potions to soothe the aches of travel.

Back to the expedition again. It was leaking into every aspect of their lives. The celebration of Isa’s birthday had been mostly people wishing her well on the expedition. It had been about her leaving, not about her birthday. Alanna had been miserable the whole time. Isa spent the celebration in her honour trying to attend to everyone’s excitement, and then her younger sister.

She already did that nearly every day. Her birthday was supposed to be her break.

“I’m scared of leaving. Of being away from everyone,” Mishal said quietly. So quietly, Rowan almost didn’t hear.

But they did. They stopped aggressively disconnecting a tube from one of the bottom vials and wheeled their stool around to glance at Mishal. His back was turned from Rowan, and he was making no movements on his own station, but there was a slump to the way he sat.

There was a cloud of coiled, hot tension that clung to Mishal, and spread around the room. Rowan tucked their hands in their lap, squeezing the cold pouch as if to reassure themself.

“Even Cassius?” they asked, their tone light to cut the that choking tension.

Mishal only turned a little, but they could see the beginning of a smile playing at Mishal’s mouth. “Maybe when I come back, he’ll have grown up. Gotten himself focused.” It wasn’t a denial, which was about the closest he’d get to an agreement.

Rowan smiled. “He is focused.” Maybe you’ll learn to laugh at his shenanigans. They would never pick sides between them, but the two could have a much more beneficial understanding of each other if they weren’t so stubborn.

It made Mishal scoff. “Focused on irritating me. At least the expedition will give me a break.” Mishal finally turned and was frowning again. It wasn’t as stormy as it had been before. “Don’t you remember all the things he’s done to try to distract me in the library?”

“You mean like the time with the scarlet woman?” They began snickering. “That was hilarious. He paid money for that one. You’ve got to give him some credit. Even if it totally backfired.”

“It was demeaning!” Mishal protested, less amused now. “He wasted almost two hours of her life doing nothing but sitting in a library just to get a rise out of me!”

Rowan grinned, biting the inside of their cheek to keep from laughing. “She did start reading when she realised you weren’t going to pay her any attention. I’d love getting paid to read for two hours wearing nothing but a few silks.” They giggled again when Mishal buried his face in his hands. “Stormy, you told him that you hadn’t found any girls distracting enough to pull your attention away from your studies, you had to have known that was a direct challenge.”

Mishal ran a hand through his hair and began fussing with one of the gears on his station, despite it already being set up. “Yes, none of you will ever let that go, will you? Not to mention any of the other countless, ridiculous things he’s done. What about the time with the forty canaries? Or the upside-down room? The bottom of all my furniture and several of my books are still sticky!”

The upside-down room they’d only heard second hand. But the forty canaries? That was a masterpiece. Rowan glanced away, not that Mishal was looking at them. They’d helped with that one. Mishal might have known Ember was Cassius’ partner in crime but didn’t know how often he came to Rowan for aid. None of them did, save for perhaps Isadora. If she did, she hadn’t said so.

The door swung opened for Professor Coquelin to enter, closely tailed by Gracia. Her hair was frizzy, and several strands had fallen from her once tightly pulled back updo, but her eyes were shining and bright as she smiled at Rowan and Mishal. They waved with their unburnt hand gleefully.

“Once you’re done with the cold application, remember to apply salve to that so it heals. I won’t have you in the infirmary with an infection or a mangled hand because you ‘forgot’ to take care of yourself,” Gracia told them, waggling a finger at them.

Rowan grinned shyly. “If I had burned Mishal’s hand, I would believe that to be more of a concern.”

“I can take care of myself,” Mishal grumbled. It was a weak argument, but at least Gracia laughed.

“Somewhere buried deep, I’m sure of it,” she replied, and threw a wink at Rowan. “Now, let’s begin before the end of time falls upon us and we’re all withered and old.”

word count:

1,891