Page 165 of A Heart of Bluestone

My breaths are wet clicks and grated, raspy breaths.

“Olivia,” Father starts, warm, “what happened? Are you hurt?”

“Mm-mm-mm.”

The strain of the tears is too thick in my chest.

Can’t get the words out.

‘How difficult it must be for him to love you—for the sake of your mother.’

Silence floods the phone for a heartbeat.

Then a whisper from a small distance, Mother’s thick-with-sleep voice, “The semester ends in two weeks. Just bring her home now, Hamish.”

Father puts up no fight. He must agree, because his tone remains soft as he says, “Mr Younge will come fetch you now, Olivia.”

I hand the receiver back.

A thick swallow bobs my throat and, as though Father can see me, my nods are faint.

I turn back for the armchair, then sink into it. I bring my knees to my chest, hug them tight, and bury my face into them.

I wait.

I wait the long three hours, then—with a tired glance at the grandfather clock, showing that breakfast will be abuzz in the mess hall by now—another forty minutes.

Finally, the door shudders with a firm knock.

I blink, tight and scrunched, as though I was sleeping. Maybe I was, maybe I drifted, but not quite far enough.

I look up as Master Novak abandons the assignments she was marking at the desk, a flurry of papers disturbed by her swift pace across the office.

Fatigue clings to her as much as it does to me.

She tugs open the door—and Headmaster Braun stands on the other side, his face severe. His gaze slides to me.

I frown at him over the spine of the armchair.

Then he steps aside for Mr Younge to appear.

The tight coil in my chest loosens.

I slip off the chair.

The deep brown of Mr Younge’s familiar eyes considers me, studies me from head to toe. Then, as though disappointed, his mouth thins.

Probably thinks I’m not hurt enough to return home, or not wounded enough to justify his journey to Bluestone.

I don’t give him a moment to speak before I’m dragging myself out of the office, my rubber boots heavy and scraping over the floorboards.

I mutter a “thanks” to Master Novak.

Se inclines her head, the weight of her lashes obvious.

Mr Younge makes no move to back away from the door. He blocks my way, and that rigidness lures my gaze up to his.

The moment our eyes lock, he says, frostily, “Witchdoctor Dolios will be at Elcott for your arrival.”

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