Page 42 of A Heart of Bluestone

We were intended for each other. Went through our early youth thinking that we would marry. It made sense for us to play together, to hold hands, to become friends.

And we were.

Would that have changed at Bluestone if I was a true witch?

How quickly would we have gotten tired of each other, or simply decided that—like the other betrotheds—we should explore other people while free from marriage?

The thought of it churns my stomach.

I have this sudden image of myself and Serena of all people. Probably my best friend from back then. And we stand in the atrium, Courtney passes us by, we linger our distasteful glares over her for a moment before we share a small, cruel smile with one another.

Thatis what would have happened if I hadn’t been a dormant witch. I would have been just like them.

A Snake.

But life is twisted, it is unpredictable for the likes of me, and my reprieve here at the academy is that we have weekends.

I slide under the radar on the weekends.

The Snakes are too busy enjoying themselves to bother with me. Between the sports they participate in and the slopes open and the gondolas running, then all the parties that spread out throughout the school, and some assignments to rush through, none of them seem to have a moment to spare on little old me.

That bottles up for the school days.

Boredom breeds hate?

The point is, on Saturdays, I’m safe.

Landon and Dray will be in snow-rugby with Mildred, Oliver in ice-hockey, Serena tied up with her figure skating, and Asta practically lives at the witching village for the out-of-bounds snowball fights, the sort that are banned from school grounds.

Then there is skiing and snowboarding, study hall and a whole lot of hangovers.

It makes for a quiet morning in the mess hall.

The ease of it lights me up.

I feel the small smile that’s stubbornly painted on my face as I tuck into my porridge. The delight of the weekend reflects in my chosen meal. No bacon in sight, no eggs or grease or butter or bread. All fruits and a banana smoothie, my porridge, and black coffee.

Mother would be pleased.

Courtney flicks through an old copy of the school newsletter. The paper is yellowed with age, ink smeared over the pages. “What time are the gondolas on?”

“Nine,” James says. With a glance at the clock nearest our table, he adds, “In a few minutes.”

Courtney releases the pages, then leans back in her chair and scans the mess hall. Empty, for the most part. Only two teachers at the faculty table, a cleaner who loiters around the buffet, bored out of her wits, a few first years, a junior, and a handful of other students.

The hall is so empty, so quiet that the mere clang of a fork on a plate echoes more than it should, and—distantly—I am aware of the dry coughs that come from a lanky boy.

Saturday morning is not often busy in the mess hall.

The games are on. Ice-hockey in one of the basement rinks of the East Quarter, the partnotflooded. And snow-rugby will be happening in the field near the abandoned cabin.

Most of the students go to watch one of the games.

The three of us never do.

Courtney looks up as a knitted throng of about a dozen seniors pour in from the doorway.

I glance at them, their blushed faces, noses red, smiles wide, hair windswept. Must have come from the snow-rugby game outside. They have fresh alps air written all over them.

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