Page 1 of A Heart of Bluestone

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There is just one day left before I am dragged back to the hell that is The Academy of Bluestone for the Education of Exceptional and Elite Society.

Such a mouthy title when it is much easier to saya school for witches, because that’s what it is. It is also the bane of my existence, the home of my torture, the place I am most punished for what I am.

I’m a witch.

But I am a broken one. A witchwithoutmagic.

I know—what you’re thinking is, a witch without magic isn’t a witch at all, right?

Wrong.

Handicapped witches like me aren’t common, especially not in the ancient bloodlines I hail from, but we happen enough that there are hatreds and names and prejudices for us.

‘Handicap Witch’is the academic term for what I am.

‘Deadblood’, the common term.

The other names for me aren’t so nice.

I hear them every day at Bluestone.

Cripple, invalid, derelict.

The worst of the worst:waif.

Just the thought of that last one grits my teeth.

No matter what they call me, there’s a constant truth: I am a pariah. A broken witch without power, born from ancient bloodlines into an aristo family of powerful witches.

Talk about being a disappointment.

Being a witch without magic in a society like ours, it isn’t easy. And at Bluestone, it’s downright torture.

With a glance at my white gold watch, I note that I return to that torture in less than twenty-four hours. The dread thickens in my churning gut.

I spend much of that time like I spend most. Shopping. With such few friends and too much money, what else is there to do but waste my days in the heart of London’s boutiques?

My feet are aching, burning in my boots by the time I have shredded through my allowance and the sun is too close to setting.

Time to make my way back home.

Tucked away near the ruins of the Winchester Palace, there’s a little hidden lane that leads to one of the city’s veils—a shadow of warped air that we witches use to travel great distances.

This veil will take me to Stonehenge.

If I ever reach it.

At the sight of the spiralling queue, unribboning down the narrow, damp lane, my head lolls back with a groan.

Less than an hour shy of sunset. I cut it too close.

If I was the self-blaming type, then that is what I would do.

Instead, I flip my head back into place, and my face is crumpled, fallen by the huffiness that weighs down my boots as I drag myself to the end of the queue.

It snakes all the way down the lane and ends just at the edge of the decrepit dungeon gate. I slump my shoulder on the old, rusted metal, long abandoned. It groans under my weight, loud enough that the witch in front of me turns a curious look over her shoulder.

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