Page 83 of A Heart of Bluestone

The old Faculty Quarter is mostly used for hookups and hideouts now.

I pass some of those sneaking, laughing, canoodling couples as I make my way through the corridors. And when I push through the old wood door to the washroom, I see that no one else has come. Yet. A day in the snow might lure more here.

I don’t waste the time I have been gifted.

The stalls are lockable. Not just some curtain pulled over a shower, but lovely white lacquered doors with brass handles. And each stall has its own claw-footed tub, toilet, shower and vanity.

No one can just whip open the curtain and get a glimpse.

That happens sometimes in the girls’ bathrooms in the dorms. Happens more often in the boys’ bathroom, only in theirs is it intentional.

Guy humour. Ugh.

I soak in the tub a long while, bubbles tickling my nose, until the water is cool, then I empty out some of the old and refill it with fresh, hot water.

I soak some more.

My fingers are white and pruned by the time I clammer out of the tub.

I climb into my leggings, slip on my woollen socks, then tug a lumpy sweater over my head.

There is no place for fashions in the cold of Bluestone, particularly at night.

Beyond the door, I hear the rush of whispering voices, of cackles ripping through a conversation, of slippers slapping on the tiled floor.

Like I thought, more came.

I sit myself at the vanity.

I dig through my shower caddy for the blow-wave-brush, then run it through my hair until the brown lightens into a faint, ashy colour with grown-out highlights, and now it looks something close to a balayage. I soften it with serum that smells faintly of coconut.

I take my time with the oils and balms on my face.

So many hours spent out in the mountain’s air, and my skin is drier than a chardonnay. It’s a soothing sensation to smear on the final layer, the sealing lotion.

I draw in a deep breath through my nostrils, inhaling the coconut scent of my skincare.

And I feel fresh as a daisy.

I pack the toiletries back into the caddy.

There’s a peaceful way about my movements. Not rushing, not panicking, not frustrated, not trembling—just serene. Andmaybe there’s a silly, tranquil smile on my glossed lips, slick with moisturising balm.

I brush my teeth above the basin before I sling the caddy strap over my shoulder and, sock-clad feet kicking into slippers, I shuffle out of the stall.

Only three other doors are shut, I notice. Three stalls occupied, out of a dozen. Some witches are really missing out.

Most are probably sloshed at one of the many parties that invade the weekends, if not hooking up in these very corridors I take back to the Living Quarter.

It’s quiet, though. Distant whispers and giggles few and far between. I don’t see anyone else in the Faculty Quarter until I pass a hall that forks off in four directions, and I turn for the one lined with portraits.

But I freeze just a step into it.

The corridor stretches too far down, the dark wainscotting glistening like blackwood under the light of the dim lanterns bolstered to the walls.

And halfway down, Dray Sinclair stands with his cheek to me, his chin lifted as his gaze cuts across the faded hues of a long-forgotten portrait.

My throat bobs.

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