Page 63 of A Heart of Bluestone

I get the hell out of the grand parlour.

And the Snakes keep their word.

I am allowed to leave.

There’s no attack to come.

No one follows.

I make it to the dorm room in one baffled piece.

10

Star Theory is fast becoming my favourite class.

That isn’t reflected in my grades, of course. I do best in Conservation Theory, Mathematics, Geology and Geometry. But those classes don’t have Eric in black teacher robes.

He wears them as he always does.

Unfastened.

The buttons, the strings, they are all undone to reveal the starched white shirt beneath, the sleek black of his slacks, the golden gleam of his leather belt—all new, I decide. Not a frayed thread in sight.

But tonight, he doesn’t lead the lesson.

Master Milton has us directed to the chalkboard he scribbles incoherently on, and we copy down the notes.

My gaze finds itself dragging to Eric every so often.

Sat at the teacher’s desk, he works through a pile of assignments that he grades, and since it’s more often the red pen in his hand, I think he’s sort of merciless.

Maybe he’ll be nicer to me.

It’s not a silly, empty hope. I decide he might be more lenient with my assignment marking, since each time I look at him, he seems to feel my gaze on him, and his lifts to mine, or I find he’s looking at me already.

Always, there’s the ghost of a smile on his pretty mouth.

I look away, quick.

The rest of the lesson goes like that until we are dismissed. The rumble in my belly fights to take control of my fast-moving legs, to lead me into the mess hall. But my steps force me out of the academy, and into the mushy drizzle of the gardens out back of the West Quarter.

About half of the other seniors from Star Theory move with me, a wave of black and white uniforms, the ruffles of puffer jackets being pulled on, the annoyed “fucksake” that murmurs occasionally when fingers won’t cooperate and fit into the gloves that we wrestle on.

Brews and Theory has been relocated to the cauldron aisles in the gardens. Draught of the Undead was wrapped up last week. Thanks to Dray being my potion partner, I passed with top marks. I hate him but I’m not delusional, I know it was all him who scored our potion a perfect grade.

So maybe I’m only sort of moody that we are still partners for the next brew.

Serum of Forgetfulness.

Causes amnesia. Not full-scale amnesia, of course, but—with the right witch, powerful enough—this brew can be used to muddle one or two memories in a person’s mind without wiping the whole slate clean.

It’s a delicate enough concoction that without Dray, I wouldn’t pass. Not on my own. I would have better chances with Courtney, but Master Welham sticks to the theme of boy-girl for our senior year, because the brews need that.

Like tonight, the brew needs the hair of a woman and the hair of a man.

I tug mine out from the underside of my hairline, then place it on the dish of tools and newt hearts and pickled pixies.

Dray follows suit, taking one of his own hairs, then setting it down to be used when the time comes.

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