Page 136 of A Heart of Bluestone

There is choice in it.

It’s not like they are snatched up from their lives, then taken to the Home for the Misplaced in the witching village, Dean Creek.

The made ones are approached on their thirteen birthdays by the recruiters. The choice is offered. If they decline, a potion is forced into them—and they forget all that has been discussed.

Courtney didn’t take the potion. Neither did James.

Each of them took the recruiter’s hands.

And they were taken to the Home for the Misplaced.

There, they learn what it means to be a part of our world within the world. There, they learn the ins and outs of the Videralli. Well, parts of the Videralli. Their kind aren’t privy to the darker shadows, the aristos.

Come term, the made ones are sent to Bluestone.

There is no going back after that.

Fleetingly, I wonder if that has anything to do with James and his hypochondria—always avoiding class, avoiding sports and study hall, even dinner, if the opportunity presents. He avoids the world he chose at just twelve years old.

Courtney sighs, “I don’t have the time to change it.”

It takes me a moment to understand she’s talking about the article.

‘It’s just a school newsletter article’, I want to say.

Instead, I bite down on my words with the crunch of watermelon.

“Maybe the next one,” she starts, and the frown she aims at me is familiar; she’s thinking aloud, not speaking directly to me, “I could dig deeper into the world.”

I smile around the prongs of my fork. “All the way to the core?”

“I could…” She pauses to glance around at nearby tables.

They are empty of students and trays, devoid of listening ears. The sun has barely touched the sky, so most students will only be getting out of bed now or lining up for the showers. Hence I got up so early, no queues, and I could take my time.

The nearest occupied table is across the hall, where my brother has his forehead rested on his crossed forearms, and I’m sure he’s fallen asleep.

Ice-blades catch my gaze.

Dray lifts his eyes to me, as though sensing that I looked in his direction, and he holds my stare.

A slight frown knits his brow.

“I could interview you,” she says, luring back my diluted attention. “For the next article, I mean.”

I make a face. “About what?”

“Your world.”

“My world is yours.”

The smile she gives is bitter. “No, it isn’t.”

I stab my fork into a strawberry with a touch of violence. “No,” is all I say.

“Why not?” she scoffs. “It’s just an interview—”

“Leave it alone, Courtney,” I snap.

---