Page 38 of A Heart of Bluestone

It’s all I can do.

I just stare at the toppled lampshade, not completely fallen over, but askew. The pixies that didn’t go off foraging, they peer their wrinkled faces over the edge to watch me. Their naked, grey bodies are a ghastly sight, but how odd they must think I am, to lie here out in the open, a vulnerable target if Dray decides to wander back to the cigar room and see if his spell still has me.

I clench my eyelids shut, then open, shut, then open.

A burn prickles at my eyeballs, not unlike a thousand needles just nick and nick and nick at them. Somewhere between the salty tears that won’t stop falling from them, and the spell that had my eyelids frozen in place, open, and so they are all dried up.

Theyburn.

Another complaint I’ll have for the witchdoctor.

I’ll have a list for her today.

It took an hour after the spell faded before I finally managed to peel myself off the floor.

I made it to the infirmary, though it was a trek of limping and leaning my weight on the walls and bannisters, and I arrived with my hair like a wild mane, dark circles smearing my eyes, and a too-puffy face from all the self-pitying sobs I had to shudder back.

The witchdoctor didn’t ask questions. She never does.

She’s the old-fashioned sort of witch. The one who feeds on youthful blood to keep her beauty, the kind that definitely uses human sacrifices in her rituals, and she’s never all that interested in us, the students.

She’s here for the stable income.

After all, she is low gentry.

But she’s damn good at what she does.

Balms, mostly, she kneads into my muscles, tonics for my mind, and a calcium drip for my bones.

I’m released before curfew, and though I’m as fatigued as if I have spent the day skiing on the slopes, and there are still blooming aches in my body, some blemishes of scattered bruises around my knees, I manage well enough to take my sick certificate to the masters of the classes I missed and will miss tomorrow.

I don’t really need to take tomorrow off.

But that didn’t stop me from negotiating an extra day with the witchdoctor. Just some money from one hand to another, and I am medically advised to have the rest of the week off.

It doesn’t stop the masters from dishing out assignments and giving me work to catch up on.

I keep to my dorm room for the rest of the night.

I do some good. I do something that would make Father nod his gentle, reassuring approval. A slight gesture, but a powerful one.

I start my assignments.

Mathematics is easiest.

I polish that one off first. Probably got most of the answers wrong, algebra isn’t my strong suit, but I do like puzzles, and maths isn’t so different to a puzzle.

It’s History I struggle with tonight.

Papers and books sprawled all over my bed, pencils and highlighters scattering the pages, I look up as the door creaks open, and the draught from the corridor rushes in.

Courtney bustles inside, a puffy yellow snow jacket bulking her up like a pee-stained marshmallow. The Home for the Misplaced might need some more funding—or a nudge in the right direction for shopping locations, because that is ghastliest puffer jacket I have ever seen.

My mouth turns down at the corners.

But maybe it’s more seeing Courtney that does that, not so much the jacket.

She finds me on the bed with her gaze. Her shoulders slump, the softest gesture of relief. “You’re back.”

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