Richelle Mead they were skinny or full of sugar. I’d been deprived of anything like that for so long, and my natural instinct was to run up with the others and grab a cup. But I couldn’t. Not after the purging I’d just been through. Both my stomach and throat were raw, and I knew if I ate or drank anything other than water, it would come right back up. The coffee’s siren song was torture to my mind, but my poor, sensitive stomach knew better. I couldn’t have handled the gruel right now, let alone something as acidic as that latte. “Sydney?” asked Sheridan, fixing that smile on me. She held up her tray. “There’s one cup left.” I wordlessly shook my head, and she placed the cup on Addison’s desk. “I’ll just leave it here in case you change your mind, shall I?” I couldn’t take my eyes off that cup and wondered which Sheridan wanted more: to see me suffering and deprived, or to have me risk it all and throw up in front of my classmates. “Favorite of yours?” a low voice asked. I was so certain no one could be speaking to me directly that I didn’t even look for the speaker right away. With great effort, I dragged my gaze from the longed-for latte and discovered it was my neighbor who’d spoken, a tall, nice-looking guy who was maybe five years older than me. He had a lanky frame and wore wire-rimmed glasses that added an intellectual air, not that Alchemists needed it. “What makes you say that?” I asked quietly. He smiled knowingly. “Because that’s how it always is. When someone goes to their first purging, the rest of us get ‘rewarded’ with one of that person’s favorite foods. Sorry about this, by the way.” He paused to drink some of the latte. “But I haven’t had coffee in ages.” 72
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