Page 82 of A Heart of Bluestone

But I am not so sure it’s the late hour that’s triggered the end of our day out here.

Teddy and Piper run ahead.

Eric hangs back and waits for me to tug on my coat and hat.

He sticks to my side as we hike up the slope’s path, buried in fresh snow.

“We better watch our backs,” Eric says with a scoff.

He nudges his chin in the direction of the treeline.

I trace the gesture.

Asta hasn’t budged from her spot against the tree.

But Dray has moved closer.

He stands at the edge of the hill, the straight drop just at the toes of his boots, and his hands buried in the deep pockets of his black snowpants.

His frosty gaze sears into me.

On the pew just behind him, through the sparse, wispy trees, Landon leans back with a shout and hands him a silver flask.

Jaw clenched, Dray twists around and snatches it a bit too hard. Still, he doesn’t pull his gaze from Eric and I climbing up the path. His scowl reaches through the mist of the chilled air, and I feel it’s burn on me.

He makes no move for us, but he watches with a ferocity that’s wrinkled into a confused frown of sorts, like he’s coming to some awful understanding. A realisation that won’t quite settle with ease.

I don’t trust him and his makut for a fucking second, so I don’t dare look away. I don’t give him an easy opening.

“Are they always like this?” Eric asks, a whisper. “With you, I mean.”

“Yeah,” I breathe the word with a huff. “They are.”

An icy breeze rushes over the grounds.

Dray’s sawdust hair rustles over his face. The tips brush over the dark arches of his eyebrows before he swigs back whatever liquor is in the flask. His swallow is harsh, it flexes his jaw, and it’s as though he forced down razors.

Finally, at the other end of the treeline, I feel safe enough, determined enough, to turn my cheek to him.

If I wasn’t with Eric, I would run.

But I don’t.

I pretend I am braver than I am, and every step back to the academy is tense, and painful, and wrought with the anxieties nipping away at my insides.

In the atrium, Eric spares me a grin and a ‘see you later’ before he leaves for the grand parlour.

I head into the mess hall. I am in desperate need of supper, of hot soup, scalding teas, and then—ooh—a bubble bath that burns me to the bone.

I do just that. Eat alone, then rush back to the dorm room to get some pyjamas and my toiletries tucked in a soft pink caddy with little compartments and that can sling over the shoulder for these longer trips—

The longer trip to the baths.

13

The communal bathrooms in the Living Quarter are decent enough, but the real treasure is the washroom in the old Faculty Quarter.

It’s still operational, still tended to by the cleaners, but since it’s a ten-minute walk through the cold corridors, not many people bother with it.

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