Page 90 of A Heart of Bluestone

Not mine.

Today I have my own shit to eat away at my mind.

My problem is the ache of my teeth, the sensitive touch of my mouth—that I am sure is bruised—and this fucking letter.

Huffing out a breath, I finish the last few lines.

‘It is my understanding that you behaved indecently for a woman of your status and a witch of your standing.

This will not be tolerated.

I do believe I am understood.

Father.’

My mouth curls.

Someone snitched.

No need to think hard, it was a Snake who ratted me out.

No doubt in my mind about it.

Dray was the one who watched us hike up the trail, and so my gold is on him. But then there is Asta, and she didnotlike to see what we were doing.

Why it would concern her in the least, I have no fucking clue. But she cared enough to watch for too long, face too sour.

The hypocrisy of it, of all the slithery Snakes, is enough to curl my hand into a fist around the letter. I chuck it at the drawn curtains at the foot of the bed.

It bounces back onto the bedspread.

I flop onto my side.

I wasn’t ‘rolling around’with Eric.

Such a fucking exaggeration that it borders on a fresh lie. I fell, Eric fell trying to steady me, and we knocked into the snowman we were building.

Hardly ‘rolling around’.

And even if we were, what’s it to Dray, or Asta, or any of the Snakes for that matter? Are they so concerned for my reputation that they must write to my father and report my behaviour? I mean, really, Dray had Melody practically straddling him in the pub just the other month, Oliver doesn’t hide that he’s got histongue down Serena’s throat half the time, and Landon has a fucking gambling problem.

I marinate in it a while.

My scowl remains the whole hour that passes before dawn comes, and the misty light starts to pierce through the curtains.

I drag myself out of bed.

The grand parlour is empty when I find my way to the coffee machine.

I don’t want to make three trips, so I fill up three mugs, then—pushing them into a triangle—carry them to the desk by the tall window.

The natural light washes over the inks and papers I spread out.

I stare at blank paper and work on my first coffee. When the mug is drained, I set it aside—and I write to Father.

It’s an effort to keep my sour mood spilling into the ink of the fountain pen.

‘Father,

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