Page 19 of House of Ydril

She just grins at me. “So itissomething interesting?” Without breaking eye contact, she snatches it from the table.

I ball my hands into fists, but I don’t manage to do anything else.

“You fucking bitch,” I hear Nuala yell out as she lunges at Sarya as if she wants to knock her to the ground.

To my surprise, she actually does it. Sarya comes crashing down with a loud thump.

The book lands a few feet away from her and I jump to pick it up while I still have the chance. I hear a strange, loud noise. By the time I stand straight and turn to the two of them, Sarya is standing up, reaching for her runes, while Nuala’s squinting at her, waiting for the attack.

But then a clock sounds from somewhere and Sarya drops her hand to her side.

“To hell with your fucking book,” she spits out. “I was just sent to tell you to get your ass to the Main Hall. Now you’ve made me late.”

With that, she huffs out a breath, turns on her heel and walks out of the Greenhouse, the tail of her dress trailing after her.

I turn to my friend, who’s still panting slightly. “The Showing?” she asks.

“Shit, I forgot all about it.”

“Apparently,” Nuala says in an absent voice.

What great timing, I think to myself as I rush out of the Greenhouse. I’m definitely in the mood to be paraded around like a puppet. It’s not like I have much more important shit to deal with.

Chapter eleven

WhenIgettothe Main Hall, I see it’s been cleared out for the event. Instead of the usual bunch of armchairs, couches, desks and low tables, now all l can see is a podium with rows of high tables stretching before it. There’s a huge crowd already gathered around the table with just one person seated, a guy in a fancy suit who seems to be the host having his make-up retouched. It’s only after I barge in that I realize that the Showing is the kind of thing people dress up for.

Me? I’m wearing my usual jeans and sweater combination, complete with my signature combat boots. Compared to the rest of the students there, I look barely a shade better than homeless. While the girls are wearing tight-fitting dresses and ludicrously high heels, the guys are all in tuxes.

Including Faust. There’s a million people here, but it doesn’t take long for my eye to be drawn to him. And it knocks the air out of my lungs, how handsome he looks. For a second, my eyes linger on his waistcoat. It has the Ouroboros, the snake eating its tail, embroidered on it.

And of course, the paparazzi Nuala warned me about are all gathered around him. I take a deep breath and, fighting the shaking of my legs, I go straight for the bar. They’re forcing me into this, but if nothing else, I can do it my way. Not drunk. Just tipsy enough for it to take the edge off.

I already have my hand on the champagne flute that’s patiently waiting for me on a tray on the counter, when I feel the need to turn around.

It’s the Little Prince himself, looking at me with that unreadable expression on his face. “I thought the text I sent out was simple enough for anyone to understand.” His voice is low and stern. “To report to me as soon as any of you arrive.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You were busy with the paparazzi.”

I struggle not to avert my eyes, my heart skipping random beats. He doesn’t reply. He just looks me up and down and says, “And that’s what you’ve decided to wear?”

Fucker. “So it would seem,” I drawl, mocking him. “Given thatthat’swhat I’m wearing.”

There’s a flash of a frown before his face goes back to doing that stupid thing where it gives nothing. “Suit yourself. But I’m putting you last,” he says as he turns his back on me.

“Please, don’t,” I beg mockingly, but he’s already walking away.

Vaguely pissed, I go back to my champagne flute. The event seems to be starting, because there’s a guy who walks up on stage and gives a brief, but excruciatingly boring little speech about how pleased they were at his news station to be given the honor of blah blah blah.

With the corner of my eye, I see that most of the paparazzi stay close to Faust even as the first girl is being called to the stage to introduce herself.

Shit, will I also be expected to answer stupid questions like ‘What will be your main motivation throughout the course of the Trials?’

Scanning the groups of people, I notice Professor Mistila standing to the side, seemingly alone. I don’t think she’ll recognize me, but she teaches History, which means she’ll probably know something about the House Olarel. And just like that, the fog in my brain clears and I have my eyes on the prize again.

I take my flute with me and I walk up to her. “Professor Mistila…”

“You do realize there’s such a thing as office hours,” she cuts me off and looks away, taking another sip of her drink.

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