Page 41 of Witch You Would

When we got back to the hotel, Quentin grabbed Dylan and towed him to the bar for “commiseration and debrief,” as he called

it. Amy joined them. I almost went, too, but Gil kept sneakily grabbing my hip and giving me looks I classified as smoldering.

Three seconds after the door to his room closed, we were tearing our clothes off, and also each other’s. I got a whiff of

myself and decided I needed to shower first, to which Gil said, “Have you seen my shower? We both fit.”

He was not wrong. The multiple jets were also enticing.

I did my best to scrub off the day’s sweat and dirt quickly, but Gil kept helping me, for a particular definition of helping.

I loved looking at his naked body, and with the water painting his skin, he was more delicious than usual.

I kissed his neck, tasting clean skin as I licked my way down. He palmed my breast, kneading it gently, then bent down to

flick my nipple with his tongue, electric shocks of pleasure shooting through me. I moaned and pressed against him, my hand

slipping down to grab his cock. He was already hard and getting harder. Gripping him tighter at the base, I stroked him and

teased the spot underneath that I’d figured out was extra sensitive. He growled. Mmm.

My other fingertips traced the angular shape of his hip, the hard muscle of his thigh.

He dipped a finger inside me, then another, as I stroked him harder.

His thumb found my clit and caressed it, gently at first, then more firmly as I rode his hand.

He sucked my nipple into his mouth and with only the briefest warning, I came, groaning his name as I shuddered and clung to him.

He left the shower just long enough to get a five-dollar vending machine condom. After rolling it on, he pushed me against

the marble tiled wall and lifted me onto his hips. He slid his cock inside me, thrusting over and over, gripping my ass while

I wrapped my legs around his back. Another orgasm started like a wave rising toward the beach, ready to wash over both of

us. I came in a rush of pleasure that spiraled up through my stomach and down to my knees. Gil came right after me, still

moving in and out slowly through the aftershocks.

The shower washed away any evidence of our fun. We rinsed off, dried off, and Gil finally got rid of his Leandro mustache.

I hadn’t even noticed it was there.

We crawled under the sheets of his bed together, still naked. Before I could even start to worry about whether I’d be able

to fall asleep, I passed out. It wasn’t until four in the morning that I woke up and realized where I was. The walk of shame

back to my room didn’t feel shameful at all.

It was one of the best days of my life.

The Desgraves Studio took up a big corner in The Roads, where old houses were either fancy or falling apart.

Condo and office buildings stuck up in random places, towering over the oaks and banyans and gumbo limbo trees in the median.

We had to drive through downtown to get there, and what a hot mess of traffic that was.

Our van driver got stuck behind the trolley at one point, and started quietly shitting on the hour he was born in Spanish until finally he was able to zip around the bus and move.

The studio itself had a wall around it, with enchantments built right into the bricks and a wrought iron gate that opened

automatically. The building was a blend of old and modern, orange tile roof and limestone blocks and ivy on the outside, terrazzo

floors inside sparkling with spelled gems, dark red-and-gray walls, and furniture straight out of some industrial glam catalog.

One of Fabienne’s employees gave us the tour. He took us through the public gallery space, with current exhibits from two

casters in residence along with pieces from previous students and instructors and others. An intricate mosaic by a Cuban-Syrian

enchanter shifted as we passed, individual portions turning like gears within gears as ghostly flames danced across the surface.

A carved wooden drum played itself, its echoes lingering so that the beats created their own syncopated rhythms and counterpoints,

calls and responses. Last year’s Cast Judgment winner had made tiny terrariums enacting the growth and death cycles of nearly a hundred plants, over and over, beautiful

but immensely sad.

Nothing I’d ever made or imagined making could compare to any of this. My abuela’s cookbook, the project I’d planned my imaginary

residence around, felt super-boring and basic as I stood here. Part of me wanted to give up right then, accept that I would

never be this good and just go home. The rest of me wondered if I could level up enough in a year to make something that could

possibly sit next to any of these exhibits.

I could almost hear my abuela saying: Intent and willpower are the most important ingredients, mija. To which Rosy added: Maaanifest!

After the galleries, we went through the studio spaces.

There were big group ritual areas with different kinds of basic casting circles inlaid in the floor, and smaller soundproofed rooms covered in chalkboard paint from top to bottom, and lab-kitchen hybrids filled with equipment ranging from ancient-looking cast iron cauldrons to elaborate arrangements of tubes and glassware.

There were even multiple “clean rooms” that required ritual cleansing before entering and after finishing.

The stockroom that took up the entire second floor could have fit five Espinosa’s inside, maybe more. They also had deals

with not only Frogtail, but a bunch of local companies with warehouses all over the city, so almost anything could be delivered

within twenty-four hours.

“You’re drooling,” Gil murmured as the guide explained the organization system.

“How are you not?” I asked.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t, I just said you were.”

I elbowed him gently and he pretended to be mortally wounded. Felicia shushed us like we were children; I stuck my tongue

out at her when she turned around.

The third floor held the lecture spaces, which consisted of one big hall plus smaller rooms with different seating configurations.

One of the medium rooms, I knew, was about to host a performance by Leandro Presto for a public school field trip. The producers

had apparently organized it in advance, because paperwork and red tape; if we hadn’t made it to the final round, he still

would have done it, but it wouldn’t have been recorded and integrated into the last episode. Presumably Charlotte would be

doing some charity-related thing, too, but I didn’t know what.

“Nervous?” I asked Gil.

“Excited,” he confessed. “It’s been a while. I love seeing their happy little faces, and getting sticky hugs, and being told how awesome I am.”

“That does sound nice.” Jealous? Nah, couldn’t be me.

“You should be my lovely assistant,” Gil said. “We can get you a pair of safety glasses and a mustache, too.”

I grabbed his arm. “Okay, but seriously? Could I? No mustache, but do you think I’d be allowed to help?”

“Probably? We can ask Tori, or Rachel, after the tour.”

If I hadn’t been bouncing before, now I was ready to pinball off the walls. I tried not to get my hopes up, because school

stuff usually meant background checks and forms I hadn’t signed, but maybe...

The tour ended in a small gift shop selling branded shirts and charms and other random stuff I absolutely could not afford.

I almost got a fridge magnet because it was one of the cheapest options, but I didn’t need a souvenir the way I needed that

money in my bank account. Also, I’d already spent my tiny souvenir budget on vending machine condoms because we couldn’t risk

sneaking out of the hotel to buy them at a store.

Worth it.

We got a quick break right before confessionals. The tour guide stayed nearby to answer questions, so after I gave up on my

magnet dreams, I talked to him. His name was Tyler, and he was more than happy to get poetic about how cool the studio was,

how nice people were, how everyone encouraged each other, on and on. It sounded amazing, and I told him so.

Felicia had questions, too, but hers were about gallery space allocation, what kinds of events they hosted for residents, who attended those events, how long postresidency the pieces were retained, whether there was an in-house broker to handle sale negotiations and contracts, how rights were handled for spells designed on the premises .

. . Super business-focused, and honestly, impressively sharp.

I wondered if Charlotte had given her tips on what to ask, or whether she’d come in with that specific business knowledge.

Gil caught me in the hallway right before our team confessional. “Rachel says you can do the thing.”

“Sweet!”

“I’ll walk you through the spell. It’s pretty simple.”

The confessionals were in one of the small casting rooms. I let Gil talk about his charity through most of ours; it would

pair well with his demonstration for the kids. Tori asked me about my feelings being in the studio, and I didn’t have to pretend

to be excited.

But then she asked me what I planned to do here if I won, and I totally froze.

“Take your time,” Tori said. Her face told me to hurry up.

I swallowed all the words that had gotten stuck in my throat. Gil grabbed my hand and squeezed gently. It helped.

“My abuela, Perla, has dementia,” I said quietly. “When she started to get... bad... she gave me her spellbook, full

of recipes she’d collected or come up with herself. She used to... She studied magic theory in Cuba, in a time when not

many women did, and she didn’t get a lot of respect from the other students. She got her degree, and then she got married,

and her career... She, um, didn’t have one.”

I could feel my face getting hot from the tears that wanted to come out. I tried to breathe through it.