Page 25 of A Heart of Bluestone

About fifteen minutes into my rushed power walk, my breaths are running ragged already, and I round the wooden pillar, the sharp edge grazing my shoulder—

And I smack into a solid flesh wall.

My head knocks off a chin, hard, and I stumble back.

Boots tangled, the rug slips under me—then the floor is swiped away entirely. I land on my bottom, hard, and the pains that shoot up my back like ice-needles come quickly.

With a groan, I squint up at the one I ran into.

A scowl settles on my face.

Oliver slides his hand along his jaw, as if to heal it, to soothe the bruise that might bloom on his chin. “Watch where you’re going, Liv. You’re a walking liability.”

“Or you could watch where you’re standing, you fucking prat.” I push onto my knees and snatch for my books.

The throbbing in my head promises bruises to come.

Cradling my books to my chest, I stumble to my feet. “What are you doing up here anyway? Not releasing poltergeists by any chance?”

“What?” His face wrinkles with sincere, annoyed confusion. “Nevermind,” he flurries his hand, dismissive, “just fuck off. Go.”

I shoot my wicked brother a sneer before I shoulder past him.

Oliver just huffs and shoves me back. It’s a half-hearted push, and I don’t so much as stagger my footing.

I make it to the tower without another incident. But at the door, I pause—and draw in a steadying breath.

I smoothen my face with a false apology before I slip through the gap of the arched, ancient door, whose wooden boards are half-rotted by the cold, snowy air up here.

I’m glad I made a stop by the dorms after scarfing down a quick dinner, it gave me the chance to swap over my cardigan for a thick, tight-hugging cashmere sweater, and it’s enough to fight off any cold chills from prickling my skin.

Still, my breath clouds at my mouth and tickles my nose a faint pinkish hue.

Up here in the tower, the cold is a constant battle—but in the dead of winter, it’s a fucking war, and no amount of sweaters will save me from the colds and coughs we’re plagued with.

I slip into the classroom and lift my gaze up to the roof.

A glass dome serves as our star-friendly ceiling.

Tonight, the stars are impossible to see through the thick clouds. So I know we will be studying the theory, not having one of my favourite lessons, those lovely ones where we lie on our backs, wrapped in blankets, hot copper mugs that steam with teas and cocoa, and we watch the twinkling stars dance in the skies.

I kick the door shut behind me.

At the head of the class, where the chalkboard is freshly wiped in swirls, and stacks of star-maps are balanced on the desk, Master Milton slumps in his chair.

Can’t shake what Courtney once said about him, ages back in our second year maybe:

‘Looks like a lumberjack stumbled into a mastership.’

She wasn’t wrong then, and not now. I’m certain that under the black robes of a master, he wears flannel and jeans.

Master Milton throws me a questioning look through the bushiness of his beard and ungroomed brows.

In answer, I dip my head. “Sorry, sir. There’s a poltergeist haunting the fifth floor. I had to take the long way.”

His tied-up brown hair bobs with the single nod he gives.

He accepts my excuse for tardiness. Then he turns his cheek to me and looks to the robed teacher who’s perched on the edge of the desk.

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