Page 92 of A Heart of Bluestone

This pen and paper, the ear and eye of my father, it’s all the weaponry I have.

I touch my fingerprint to the letter. It comes away clean, and so the ink is dry.

Still, I blow over it once just in case, then tuck it away into an envelope.

I finish the third mug of coffee, lukewarm now and too milky, as I address the envelope.

I take it to the grate, a small, round iron barrier that’s tucked beside the sideboard, and stuff it through the gaps. Then I poke a copper coin through the little hole and wait for it to land on the envelope.

It does.

I whistle, thrice.

Witches around Bluestone tend to shoot sparks down the tunnel to alert the imps of their letters or to summon them, but I don’t have sparks. The imps have learned my whistle. And Father must tip them enough copper coins that they come to my call.

I leave the grate before any imp shows.

The urge to crawl back into bed is strong. But I fear if I do, I will fall asleep for too long and sleep through the morning classes.

Instead, I get ready for the day.

I pick out my patent Mary-Janes for the day of indoor lessons, a black cardigan to pull over my bowed shirt, and a plaid skirt. As always, the tights are thermal lined.

The others are only now rousing in their beds as I brush my hair into a high ponytail. I hear the rustle of bedding, the thumping of pillows, the containment of yawns.

I leave them to their sleepy morning.

I take my backpack and head to breakfast.

16

The buffet is a colour board of fresh, hot food. Every shade on the colour wheel seems stuffed into tureens and jars and bowls and metal trays.

My mouth floods at the sight of it.

I scoop masses of carrots and grilled salmon and sautéed greens onto my tray, then a little serve of souffle.

I find my way to the empty table I always sit at, the one close to the door. Courtney and James are nowhere in sight this evening, not since James took a tumble down the stairs and broke his wrist, oddly right after my brother shouldered past him, and Courtney is keeping him company—by that, I mean she’s co-writing his assignments.

Wish I had someone to do that for me.

Just another thing I’m on my own with.

Like dinner.

I loathe it sometimes, the silence. There’s a thrum of chatter all around me, but no noise comes from my mouth.

Not until I stuff a whole broccoli floret into my mouth.

My chewing is moody, and I throw a glance up at the faculty table.

Eric sits with the teachers this evening. I’ve figured out that he has one day off, one day on, alternating between teacher andstudent. Now, he’s hunched over some papers, assignments that I suppose he is marking, and ignoring his plate.

I stab at the smoked, pepper-glazed salmon. My face wrinkles as the pink flesh peels apart—and I find that it isn’t as cooked as I prefer.

Tossing my fork to the table, I swap it for the spoon and drag the souffle closer.

I look up as my brother comes in.

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