The Tenth Performance

Gunter smiled. "It really is a good spell," he said. He spoke with an assured sense of emphasis, as though he meant not only that the spell worked well, but also that it was morally good, a force for fixing things that might be broken. For making the world a better place.

"But there's something else you should know," Avery said. "You'll cast it together, as a group, but then, well, it's as people, as individuals, that you'll choose what to do. To follow its prompts or not. Honestly, I'm not sure the magic would even keep working if you didn't enthusiastically agree. But ..."

Avery paused.

"But what?" I asked.

"Well, if anyone didn't want to act out what they were shown, they'd probably have to leave the room. To step outside and sit with whomever is guarding the door. You know, for the spell to keep on going. To keep carving out a space where everybody felt safe to share their thoughts and not feel judged."

#

Cora and I each took turns reading the little manuscript, and then we passed it through the hands of all our classmates. Everyone read that little purple book, and we agreed: we'd try to cast the spell on Friday evening, giving us three days to prepare.

Compared to our usual lessons, this spell seemed as though it would be quite easy to cast. None of the memories or sensations that we were supposed to evoke were anything unusual, which was such a relief. Trust me, it's very comforting to peruse a spell's instructions and see sentences like "As you envision yourself moving into the next room, recollect the scent of orange blossoms," instead of, like, those weird bat memories, or a spellbook that Cora had shown me once with the phrase "Imagine yourself being bitten on the shoulder by the sound of a glottal stop," which we both found absolutely baffling!

Still, even though the casting instructions were easy, and relatively clear, none of us could tell exactly how the spell was supposed to work. And whenever any of us asked the older students, they'd just laugh and say, "You'll find out soon! Gunter and Avery told you as much as they could - we literally can't spoil this spell for you. But, trust us. It will be good!"

So the next few days felt a little weird. I mean, my classmates and I were basically always on edge, but now our anxiety was leavened with a quivering sense of anticipation. I wanted so badly to trust that this would be good.

#

And then, on Friday - the day we'd planned to cast that spell - that morning, when Shane and Sebastian were walking from the dormitory toward the library, this big weird blur opened in the fabric of the air, and a vaguely reptilian arm reached out to snatch them. The arm narrowly missed Shane, then grabbed hold of Sebastian's shoulder and began to tug Sebastian toward its lair. The arm was scaly, iridescent like an oil slick, and very, very strong. Shane managed to slow time and shout for help, but even then, it took six of us working together to pull Sebastian free. We banished the arm and closed the strange portal it had emerged from.

Which did not sooth anyone's frayed nerves.

I mean, that's the crux of it, right? Ever since we'd become haunted, stuff like that had been happening all the time! Is it any wonder that we were having trouble sleeping? That we'd been feeling all angsty and paranoid?

Because it's not like the arm was the only monster. There'd been other attacks in the previous few days - like a shifting amalgam of seven-legged frogs, an animated garden rake ... and I only happen to remember those two monsters in particular because those two both came after me - but the incident with the reptilo-arm was definitely the closest we'd come to losing one of our classmates.

After something like that, it'd be nice if we could just sit down and breathe. Take a few minutes to collect ourselves. To process the trauma of what had happened.

But, no. There was no time for that. We all just stumbled into the library and got to work. Trying to endure another the day.

Study. Lunch. Study. Dinner. Study.

Maybe you've noticed a pattern here?

But then, just as the sun was setting, we all convened at the far end of the library. Gunter and Avery and three more of their third-year friends were waiting for us.

"We've checked the suite," Avery said, "and you're all clear. And tonight, all night, we'll be right outside the door, keeping you safe. You'll be good in there."

"But ... why?" I asked. "Don't you all have work to do, too?"

Avery smiled. "Gunter said he told you. Good magic needs gifts."

With that, she opened the door and gestured for us to file in. We looked at each other - in that moment, Cora's eyes found mine, which I suppose made sense since our fight had apparently set this whole experience in motion - and then we shrugged. Silently, we all took off our shoes. And then we went through the door and padded up the carpeted stairs. Soon all thirteen members of our class had gathered in the apartment suite.

That number - thirteen - had worried me when my classmates and I first arrived at the Divinorium. I'd never been particularly superstitious growing up, but dear reader, let me tell you: things feel very different once you're haunted!

After all, lots of other things that I would've thought were silly turned out to be real. I could conjure lightning with my fingers! And, right, earlier on that same day, some sort of astral swamp thing had tried to drag Sebastian back into its lair! Which makes it much more difficult to scoff at anybody's beliefs about mirrors, black cats, tarot, astrology or whatever. And my grandma had always said the number thirteen was bad news.

But Micah - sturdy, solemn Micah - had reassured me that thirteen is beautiful in Hebrew numerology, a sign of unity and interconnection since it's the sum of all the letters that spell out the words for "one" and "love," and exactly half the sum for the word "God." And Yvonne had heard us talking: she'd quirked a wry smile, adding that thirteen is also nice since it's the square root of one hundred sixty-nine, which is, she said, "The world's best sex position, although you don't always have three eager people in a room," after which she'd winked, fruitlessly, at Rick and Cora. Which was ridiculous - not the wink, but the fact that those two didn't respond to her implicit invitation. Yvonne was a former college soccer player; quick-witted, with a gorgeous face, and exceptionally fit. As best I could tell, even after Cora and Yvonne became friends, nothing had happened between the three of them. Some couples really do seem to only have eyes for each other.

Anyway, I'd come around. About the number thirteen, I mean. If nothing else, the number thirteen had begun to seem way more lucky than the number one - whenever we were all together, we could look out for each other. Things are so much worse if a monster finds you when you're on your own. Can you imagine what would've happened if we hadn't been near enough to help Sebastian and Shane?

#

Once we were all safely ensconced inside, Avery called up the stairs, "Good luck!" Then she closed the door. Faintly, from just beyond that shuttered door, we heard the clunks and thrums of wards falling into place.

I trusted them. In here, tonight, we would be absolutely safe.

And so I turned away from the staircase and looked around. I'd been inside that suite of rooms only once before: the first thing that I'd done after arriving at the Divinorium was to stealthily creep through all the buildings, peering into every nook and cranny where monsters might someday hide. But at the time I hadn't bothered to wonder why there would be an empty apartment above the library. Why that apartment would need such gentle lighting and soft carpets. Why there'd be an elevated platform with a pedestal and crystal ball. Or the semicircle of elegant seating pillows.

Most of my time at the Divinorium had been spent learning spells that I'd cast alone, but the apartment suite was a performance space.

#

After we'd all spent a few moments looking around the room, Cora cleared her throat. "Do you think we're ready to start?"

We all glanced at one another - each of us probably hoping to take our cues from somebody else - but nobody felt confident enough to take control. After a few moments, all our eyes were back on Cora.

"Ooookay," she said, with a shy smile. "Fine. Right. I'll lead. Um, Rick, can you take my hand? And, Trevor?" she asked, holding out her other hand to her boyfriend's best friend. The three of them had spent a lot of time together; no doubt they were the people she felt most comfortable having nearby while attempting a new spell.

So Rick and Trevor stepped in and joined her - a pair of tall, athletic men flanking lovely little Cora - and then those two proffered their own free hands, gesturing for the rest of us to fall in and make a circle. We all linked ourselves into the growing ring, our whole class standing just beside the elevated platform with its (somewhat tacky) crystal ball. Around the circle the group went Trevor, Cora, Rick, Noah, Nicole, Micah, Eddie, Yvonne, Shane, Ravi, Sebastian, Quinn, and me.

After I'd joined the circle, I momentarily closed my eyes and focused on the sensations of being in that space. Quinn's and Trevor's hands felt warm in mine; Trevor's firm grip on my left, and Quinn's delicate fingers cradling my right. The soft carpet felt nice beneath my feet. The air smelled fresh and clean. I let myself simply stand there and breathe. Centering myself. At the Divinorium, this is the most important thing you'll learn during your first week: how to seek calm, to chase away any lingering anxieties in preparation for a casting.

By the time I opened my eyes, about half my classmates were ready and waiting. Breathing softly, with their shoulders relaxed. Ravi shook his wavy black hair out of his face; Micah's lips moved as though intoning a silent prayer; Shane confidently smirked.

We waited until everyone had re-opened their eyes, then Cora asked us, "Ready?"

We all nodded. And then set about casting the spell.

Which isn't done with words, exactly, Certainly not out loud. In so many books, magic is described as commanding the world to do something - like, somebody shouts and expects that all reality will jump - but most spells, when they work, are very introspective. Almost like meditating, as though you're just letting your consciousness travel to a world where what you want is already happening. Which is why, before that day, I'd never tried to cast a spell with people. To me, the very notion of a group casting sounded perilously similar to jumping into a rapid current and just hoping that we'd all travel in the exact same way.

But what else was there for us to do?

We squeezed each other's hands and jumped into our casting.

The little purple book had given a precise description of what our memory palace for this spell should look like: a tall marble tower, with the thin veins of imperfection spidering its surface visible only as we came close enough to pass inside. We needed to perceive ourselves traveling toward its doors from a long distance away, then entering and catching a whiff of something clean and soapy - the faint scent of sandalwood - and the tinkling sound of distant chimes. Then, mentally, we'd have to pass through a specific series of rooms, imagining a precise series of sensations transpiring within each, to let our world become a world where the spell was working.

"Feel the hopeful trepidation of asking an attractive person to join you for a stroll. The wind is rustling outside an open window, and you can feel the cool smoothness of a pair of river stones nestled in your palm."

"As you move toward the next room, the river stones vanish into dream. But the act of having held them has infused you with a sense of calm, and you smell lilacs blooming."

Silently, internally, we followed the instructions, all while holding hands. I felt worried - could we really all be feeling the same sensations, casting the same spell? Did my trepidation feel like Trevor's? Like Quinn's?

Yet, somehow, it worked. There's a distinct tingle I always feel when magic begins happening, and this tingle was washing over me.

Which, honestly, was startling. So far that semester, it'd been rare for spells to work the first time I tried them. And yet with that particular spell, it was so easy. As though we weren't even asking the world to let us go somewhere strange - surely you've noticed how rare it is for thunderclaps to suddenly roll off somebody's fingertips, right? - but merely allowing the magic to bring our hearts toward a place where they ought to have been all along.

So there we were, everyone standing on the soft carpeting in their socked (or, for Micah, Ravi, and me, barefoot) feet, in a small safe space above the library, holding hands in a circle as we gazed at each other in amazement. It had worked! Effortlessly. I could've laughed or cried.

And then, over Ravi's shoulder, I noticed that the pedestal with its crystal ball was ... glowing.

Huh.

Rick turned his head toward Cora and asked, "Is that what it's supposed to do?"

"I think now we're, um, supposed to sit?" she said. "I mean, the manuscript said ..." and she paused, as though seeking confirmation from the rest of us.

In all fairness to Cora, the manuscript had been incredibly opaque when it came to describing the spell's effects. So, sure, the manuscript has been very punctilious about how we'd cast the spell, but it had given us almost no information about why we'd cast it or what it would make happen. Which always feels a little worrisome, with spells. Older students sometimes said things like, "A few years ago, this second-year student turned all her fingers into newts. They scurried away and she never could get all of them back." I wasn't sure whether stories like that were supposed to be actual cautionary tales or just the Divinorium equivalent of spooky campfire lore. But it did make us feel reticent to try spells until we felt absolutely certain about what the spells would do. If the older students hadn't been so insistent that this particular spell would work, and that my classmates and I desperately needed to cast it to continue our education here, I don't think any of us would've wanted to try it.

"Sure," Quinn said, releasing my lightly sweating hand. "Let's sit."

We sat. And, luckily, that was the right thing to do. As soon as we were all settled upon our pillows, the room filled with rosy light, as though the walls were glowing with the radiance of a setting sun. I felt my body relax, weeks of tension melting out of me. That moment - the spell, the light, our victorious sense of camaraderie - felt so perfectly peaceful compared with everything we'd been through recently.

We sat there for a full minute. All of us together, just sitting and breathing.

Ravi spread out his arms and legs, expansively filling his space. My own feet were tucked beneath me. And it all felt ... I don't know. Like, incredibly cathartic? Honestly, it was the first time I'd let myself feel genuinely comfortable since I'd first realized I was haunted.

My sacrum settled deeper into the pillow. My crossed legs sunk into the carpet. The air seemed to carry a subtle whiff of vanilla. I savored that moment.

And then a luminescent halo of moonlight swelled around Nicole.

#

THE FIRST PERFORMANCE

#

"Um, okay ..." Nicole said. "I was a bit surprised by the crystal ball, but now I'm glowing?"

We stared back at her.

"Is that normal?" Nicole asked.

"Probably?" said Quinn.

"I think maybe it means ..." Cora said, "... that it's your turn?"

"My turn," said Nicole, a little flatly. As though she too was thinking: of all the people to go first. I mean, nothing against Nicole - she was an incredible font of knowledge if you ever had questions about eleventh century illustrated codices or the folklore of partible paternity - but I probably would've picked someone more outgoing as our first performer. For a moment, I wondered whether our "good spell" was working as well as it possibly could.

"I think?" said Cora.

"Okaaay," said Nicole, slowly. "So then what do I do, exactly?"

"You, um ..."

"I think, now, that you should probably go to the crystal ball," Ravi said. "You're glowing. It's glowing. Resonance. That might be the room's way to show you something. Maybe even a vision inside the ball itself, like fairy tales. And the impression I got, from Avery, was that the room would show us, too. The rest of us. And then ... well, if you want ... whatever it shows, you do."

"Whatever it ..." said Nicole. With a measure of hesitancy in her voice.

"I mean, I think that it is supposed to show you something that someone here is thinking. Thinking that they'd like. You'll see, um ..."

"... an anonymous fantasy?" Cora said, filling in for Ravi.

"Yes, right, anonymous. And then you ..."

"Well, fine," said Nicole, with a bit of a dramatic sigh. "Let's all find out what this spell will do."

#

Nicole had walked onto the stage and placed both hands firmly on the surface of the crystal ball. Nicole's whole body was faintly glowing, but the crystal itself was glowing even brighter, illuminating her face as she stared into its core. The effect was kind of eerie, but also kind of ... entrancing? The faintly flickering light played over her round cheeks, the glossy contours of her barely parted lips.

"Okay," Nicole said, after having watched whatever had been flickering within the crystal ball. And then Nicole moved to step around the pedestal toward us, but as soon as she took her hands off the surface of the crystal ball, the light within the whole room shifted. Shadows flowed from throughout the room toward the central stage. These wisps of darkness curled like smoke as they gathered together, then began to coalesce into a figure upon the stage, fully human-sized and opaque, separating Nicole from the rest of our class.

My heart rate spiked - I feared that this might be some new type of monster - but the figure had made no move to harm anyone, and although the shadows were mostly blocking my view of Nicole, she seemed to be unworried.

I forced myself to put more trust in Gunter and Avery. They'd said this spell was good.

The surrounding walls still shone with their gentle sunset glow. The figure stood between Nicole and the rest of us with its hands on its hips and its feet planted firmly on the carpet. And then - after a few heartbeats during which we all just sat there, curiously watching - the figure crossed its arms over its torso, balled its gray hands at the place where the gray hem of its gray shirt would be, then tugged the shadow-stitched fabric upward, flashing us. Between its hands, the conjured fabric of the shadow's ethereal shirt was creased and contoured like frozen smoke, and I found myself staring at the figure's breasts, its nipples excitedly pinched before our collective gaze.

The figure turned its body slightly to the left, then toward the right, coyly giving each of us a full-on view, and then bunched the smoky fabric of its shirt within a single hand and, with its other hand, traced the contours of its exposed torso ... then its chest ... and then, for the briefest moment, the shadow let its fingers play across a nipple. After which the figure wisped away, all those gathered shadows flowing back toward the nooks and corners of the room from whence they'd come. Where the figure had been standing, there was now only a stretch of empty stage. The pedestal with its crystal ball. And our classmate, Nicole.