I peered around, trying to match the people to their easels, which I had a full view of from the back. I thought maybe my recent purging had addled my brain, because Addison’s comments made no sense. But no, I was certain I had the people right. That was Emma, my alleged roommate, a girl who looked to be of Asian American heritage who wore her black hair in a bun so tight, I swore it stretched her skin. Her painting seemed like nothing special to me and was barely discernible as fruit. Stuart was one of the people who’d pushed their desks away from me in Harrison’s class. He actually appeared to have some artistic talent, and I thought his painting was one of the best. It took me a moment to learn who Lacey was, and I figured it out when she swapped out her canvas for a blank one. Her painting wasn’t as good as Stuart’s, but it was leagues better than Emma’s.

It’s not about skill, I finally realized. It’s about accuracy. Stuart’s pears were perfect, but he’d added a couple more than were there in real life. He’d also altered the fruit’s position and painted a blue bowl—which looked much better than the actual brown one being used. Emma, while having created a much more rudimentary work, had the correct number of fruit, had placed them perfectly, and had matched every color exactly. The Alchemists didn’t want creativity or embellishment. This was about copying what you were told to do, no questions and no deviation.

No one made any effort to help or advise me, so I stood there stupidly for a little while and tried to pick up on what the others were doing. I knew the basics of painting with acrylics from being around Adrian but had no practical experience myself. There was a communal supply of brushes and paint tubes near the fruit, so I made my way there with some of the other students and tried to pick my initial colors. Everyone gave me a wide berth, and when I selected and rejected one paint color for not being a close enough match, the next person who picked it up made sure to wipe the tube clean before taking it to her station. I finally returned to mine with several tubes, and while I couldn’t speak for my ability to mimic the fruit, I felt fairly confident my colors were spot-on. I could at least play that part of the Alchemist game.

Getting started was slow work, though. I still felt terrible and weak and had a hard time even squeezing out some of the paint. I hoped we weren’t being graded on speed. Just when I finally thought I might attempt to put brush to canvas, the door to the room opened, and Sheridan entered with one of her henchmen. Each was holding a tray full of cups, and I didn’t need her to say a word because I could identify the contents on smell alone.

Coffee.

“Sorry for the interruption,” said Sheridan, wearing her big fake smile. “Everyone’s been working so hard lately that we thought we’d offer up a little treat: vanilla lattes.”

I swallowed and stared in disbelief as my fellow detainees swarmed toward her and each took a cup. Vanilla lattes. How many times had I dreamed of those in captivity, when I’d been half-starved on that lukewarm gruel? It didn’t even matter if 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.”

I winced and looked away. “Knock yourself out.”

“At least you resisted,” he added. “Not everyone does. Addison doesn’t like the risk of us spilling hot drinks in here, but she’d like it even less if someone got sick all over her studio.”

I glanced up at our teacher, who was offering advice to a gray-haired detainee. “She doesn’t seem to like a lot of things. Except gum.”

The smell of coffee was stronger than ever in the room, both alluring and revolting. Trying desperately to block it out, I lifted my paintbrush and was about to attempt some grapes when I heard a click of disapproval beside me. I glanced back at the guy, who shook his head at me.

“You’re just going to start like that? Come on, maybe you don’t have the values of a good Alchemist, but you should still have the logic of one. Here.” He offered me a pencil. “Sketch. At least start with quadrants to guide you.”