Page 55 of A Heart of Bluestone

And that is the price of calling home.

I’m saved by Mr Younge of all people. He interrupts Father with barely intelligible mentions of the car and a meeting.

Father’s quick off the call.

I sit in the booth a while longer than I should, what with the murmur of the queue down the corridor growing louder. Saturday evenings are prime phone time around here.

Finally, I shove out from the curtain and I’m barely two steps gone before a third-year rushes past me, tears in his eyes, and he runs into the booth.

I wander into the mess hall for dinner, then find my way heading back to the Living Quarter. My boots falter in the atrium, tempted to turn around and make my way to the infirmary. But it will be dull, there. I can just see it now, Courtney slumped in the armchair by James’s bedside, working through study books and assignments.

The thought has me rolling my eyes.

No matter how dull and lifeless my Saturday evening is, I can’t be bothered with that.

Besides, those two don’t always want me around. I sense that when James stops looking at me, and Courtney gets snappier than usual.

I think up ideas for the rest of my night as I head back to the Living Quarter. Maybe read a book, or start looking through the magazines I have piled under my bed for New Year gifts, or burrow into the blankets and go to sleep far too early.

It’s not like I can just plug in some earbuds and listen to music until it’s late enough to justify bedtime—MP3s don’t work here, like cell phones. Tech and signals, all out of whack.

I have a lonely, bored Saturday night ahead of me.

The grand parlour is a warm burst of energy.

If Saturday night was a room, it would be this one. A roaring fireplace, the strong fragrance of sweets and whiskies and sodas, vinyls turning on the record players running on magic and batteries, the clack from the pool table.

It’s a vibe—and I’m not invited.

Asta and Serena are tucked too close on the armchair, sharing a bottle of dom.

My jaw tenses as I make my way through the parlour—getting too close to Mildred on the couch.

I spare the three of them a sweeping glance. Safe, for the most part. No Dray or Oliver in sight.

I’m passing the nook of the couches and chairs the girls have commandeered when—

Maybe so safe after all.

“Oliviaaa,” Serena sings my name in something of a menacing tune.

It startles me enough that my steps falter.

I raise my brows at her, the lick of her wicked smile, the sparkle in her grey eyes, like the sun pushed up close to thick, misty clouds.

Serena doesn’t bother me.

She doesn’t go out of her way to make my life hell.

The surprise is striking enough to still me—and, like an idiot, I wait.

“Fuck, marry, kill.” Serena’s smile wraps around her teeth, and in this moment, one could probably convince me that she is part vampire.

Not that such a thing exists.

I scoff and wave my hand in a dismissive gesture. “Hard pass.”

I make to push into step, but before I can even turn back to face the archway across the grand parlour, Mildred has snuck off the arm of the couch.

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