The night sky was clear. The moon shone bright and the snow-drenched world gleamed. Fires glowed, stars danced.

And the Academy celebrated.

Not just the Acolytes, who turned out in their hundreds, but some of the Ashes and tutors too. Warily at first, perhaps – to rouse, to monitor, to control – but in the end, the lure of merriment proved irresistible. It was New Year’s Eve, after all, and, in theory at least, they were only human. Human, giggled Matt’s intoxicated brain. Shush, said another smarter part, and so it did, the thought buried under noise and light and laughter.

There were so many people. He flowed through the crowd like water, between the rocks of those he knew and those he didn’t, never staying anywhere for long, always being called over, being beckoned by another half-familiar face. Strings of coloured lights were strung from walls to windows to trees and man-sized speakers blared a never-ending stream of music – Matt couldn’t quite remember whether this was his mix but it didn’t matter. Over near the speakers, the terra and pyromancers had cleared a large square dancefloor in the snow, which pulsed and jumped with people, their movements mesmerising. Everywhere there was people, laughter, drinks, red cups filled with green punch whose cloying fruity sweetness masked its potency – James Conrad’s contribution, apparently a specialty, which, after about the fifth refill, Matt had to admit redeemed a lot of the strongman’s negative traits. He kept on waiting for his drink to run out, but every time he reached the bottom, it somehow filled back up – or maybe some eager partygoer had put a full one in his hand, Matt didn’t know. I need to slow down, he thought, feeling a sugary pain in his stomach as he wandered, breathing the night air deep, feeling the music in his ears, the company around him, and slow, warm happiness spreading through his fingers and toes.

*

With her back to the wall, Jane could see him. Standing in the thick of it – talking, laughing. So small, so uniquely vulnerable. How could he not be afraid of them, this drunken mass of the world’s most powerful people, with nothing to protect him. He was stupid. She almost envied it.

She twisted her cold gloveless hands together, her fingers numb from standing in the dark, far from the crowds, the fire. She wasn’t hiding, not exactly, but she hung back in the shadows against Morningstar’s wall. She could see everything: Giselle laughing, surrounded by boys, Wally in animated conversation with Will, James Conrad making out with some girl. She even caught a glimpse of Mac, off to the side by a fire-pit, drinking from a silver hip flask and murmuring quietly to Cross. Everyone looked like they were having fun.

Hi. Matt. We need to- I mean, can we- just talk, I mean, you don’t have to talk, I just want to-

She kept forgetting her lines; or she hadn’t forgotten, but she’d screw them up when she went to say them, she knew it. Stupid Wally, stupid…

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean... well I meant, but not… what I’m trying to say is…

It was all the people. If she could just get him alone, where there weren’t so many stupid people who would watch and laugh, she… she needed somewhere quiet, just to hear herself think, but the grounds were all pop music and bonfires and voices. Somehow she’d never thought this part through – never considered that a party might actually have people.

You don’t understand what I- I mean you shouldn’t have to understand- I just-

There. He was free. Breaking off, by himself at the edge of the crowd, slipping a little on the well‑trod ice. Jane leant forward; but then hesitated, struggling, stopped mid-way off the wall...

Come on, come on, before he-

Jane watched, shivering, as three girls drew alongside and pulled Matt towards them, something about doing their fortunes, cackling madly, one shimmering and pulling him into a literal bear hug. The tension sagged from Jane’s limbs and she slumped back against the wall.

*

Out of the corner of Matt’s eye, he saw it. He was sitting by one of the fire pits, cup in hand, while beside him Celeste’s bear head lay drunkenly in her friend’s lap, listening to a story about someone from some guy’s high school who had fallen pregnant with twins. Maybe married a country singer – Matt drifted in and out. A young man with long dark hair and beautiful almond eyes had brought out a guitar and was strumming some familiar tune, his fingers phasing in and out intangibly along the strings, sending haunting notes echoing out to be swallowed up by the sea of noise. There was jello‑shots – somebody had definitely said jello-shots – and Celeste’s friend was telling anyone who would listen that she was going to hook up with Natalia Baroque when she got back from London. But none of that mattered, because out of the corner of Matt’s eye, he saw it.

They were all the way over the other side of the bonfire, the slightest bit separated from the party. Giselle Pixus, stepping out to warm her hands. And Edward Rakowski, coming up slowly alongside her. Even from over here, Matt could see him saying hi. Could see her smiling, see them starting to talk. See her reach out and brush his arm, the briefest, lightest touch. Saw Ed smile, and for the first time in who knows how long actually, genuinely laugh.

Go you good thing, Matt smiled to himself, and he drained every last drop from his cup – because if Ed’s courage wasn’t something to drink to, then he didn’t know what was.

*

Jane didn’t know how long she’d stood there. A part of her, a stupid, irrational part, held fast to the belief that if she stood there, unsuccessfully, until the party was over, then somehow that counted. That she’d have ‘done her duty’, so to speak and be absolved of the need to apologise.

She’d said it was stupid.

“Still trying to w-work up the c-courage?” asked Wally, stumbling up beside her. He was slurring but smiling, an arm slung over Will’s shoulder. The teleporter grinned at him, perhaps a bit less drunk and Wally grinned back before slowly untangling their arms. He slumped against the wall next to Jane, who’d seen them coming a mile away – hard not to with them lurching from side to side and Wally wearing his most garish floral shirt. She felt his reeling mind brush hers, not invasive, just sloppy.

“Honey, you just gotta… you gotta,” Wally tried to say, but then stopped, ginger eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He turned back to Will. “What am I saying?”

“You just gotta talk to him,” the tall teleporter said with a grin.

“That’s the one,” nodded Wally, turning back to her, “Talk to him. Walk up, say ‘Hey Matt, let’s talk…”

“Or, ‘do you mind if we step outside?’” suggested Will.

“We’re already outside,” muttered Jane. The two men didn’t seem to hear her.

“Can we talk in private?”

“Alooooooonnne.”

“Where it’s warmmmm.”

“God, I could go someplace warm,” announced Wally, “Screw this snow, bring me a beach.” He pursed his lips, then shook his head and turned back to Jane, seeming to remember why he’d come over.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low, “Look. Let me go chat to him. Explain that you’re sorry, that you… everything. You know. And then he can come over here and you can tell him yourself. What do you think?”

Jane wanted to say yes – but she couldn’t. It felt so pathetic, like a six-year-old needing someone to carry messages across the playground. It was cowardly. Matt would never have done it.

So she shook her head. A sad smile crossed Wally’s face. He patted her shoulder, then turned back and looped arms again with Will. Jane watched the two of them wander off together towards the tree line, their figures fading into the darkness; alone, waiting for her moment, hating herself.

*

Matt didn’t know how long he’d been out there. He remembered throwing back a drink with James Conrad; something about helping a large Mongolian man (with at least three other guys) back onto his feet after he’d hurled all over himself; fending off the advances of that healer Delores; and having a deep, animated conversation with a venomancer about Buddhism. But how that all tied together and in what order the drinks were keeping a mystery. All he knew now for certain was that he was dancing really, really badly.

Where was Ed? He’d seen him talking to- wanted to know how he’d got on with- Matt wrenched himself out from the mosh of moving bodies and stumbled between the fire-pits, scanning for his friend. “Wooo, Matt!” someone shouted, but he brushed the sound away as if it was a fly buzzing near his ear. He stopped by the bonfire, squeezing his eyes open and closed, trying to think straight. What was he doing? Why was he out here? Was he getting another drink? Something about Giselle… but wait, that couldn’t be right, Giselle was there, he could see her, she was… laughing, a whirl of grace on the dance floor. But if she was there, where was…

In the darkness, he thought maybe he could make out his silhouette – his dark, messy hair, the slump of his shoulders, the paisley shirt Matt had lent him. Matt saw him go, trudging back alone up the hill towards the mansion, and wondered if he should follow, if he should call out, make sure everything was alright… but then there was noise, and laughter, someone calling his name, something about the music, or shots, or dancing, and in his humming haze the thought of Ed slipped from his mind – dropped, misplaced, left laying somewhere in the snow. Matt’s hand had somehow found another cup of that most excellent punch and he was weaving back towards the dancefloor, some commotion happening, people laughing and cheering, a wide space forming amongst the crowd…

It was a competition. A dance-off, the type of thing he thought only happened in movies. This short-haired Korean guy, a replicator, commanding the entire floor with a dozen copies of himself. People were whooping, clapping, because it was incredible, unbeatable – until Giselle Pixus stepped up. She looked down at the ground and as the music started, some Spice Girls song, her feet began moving, tapping fast, then faster, then so fast they were a blur, and then the movement began spreading up her body – her hips, her arms, her hands, swirling, swaying, mesmerising. Suddenly, she paused, for only a fraction of a second right before the chorus hit, a single, breathless breath. Then the music dropped and suddenly there wasn’t one of her, there were three, there was five, five hazy flickering images, illusions of unfathomable speed, all a microsecond apart so that when she danced, the movement rippled through them – beautiful, hypnotising in its un-synchronicity. Even through the cloud around his mind, Matt couldn’t avert his eyes, and when the music finally stopped and Giselle came to a halt he found himself shouting, cheering, whistling his wild support along with everyone around him. She was laughing, exhilarated, red-faced and breathless, grinning from ear to ear.

He remembered wandering off after that, laying down somewhere, maybe, for a little… but then before he’d even really closed his eyes, a strong hand was shaking him awake, saying that he needed to get inside, come on, you can’t sleep in the snow. The voice was helping him, holding him, almost carrying him, her voice familiar, as was the feeling of her hand in his as she dragged him along – relentless, firm, yet strangely warm.