Page 97 of A Heart of Bluestone

White feathers all around me. The tips tickle my nose, stems fall into my mouth. I choke on them, the rush of conjured feathers, but then I blink—and they are gone.

I thump to the ground.

And not the slightest ache from my landing springs up on my body. Someone conjured feathers—and broke my fall.

I sit up against the wall.

Eyes wild, I glare around the atrium.

It’s soaked in griffin bile.

The neon green liquid sloshes up walls and ripples down the stairs, then floods the wooden floor. Buried, the rug is eaten away to nothing.

Witches keep safe. They stand on pedestals, tucked beside statues and climbed up on bannisters and window ledges and the upper levelled floors of the corridors.

Booming laughter echoes all around me.

I home in on the loudest.

Standing on chairs pulled out of the mess hall, almost as thoughpreparedfor the show, Landon is doubled over, heaving with a deep, chesty laugh; Mildred folds over him, her creased eyes leaking tears.

The pair are in perfect sync with their wretched, heaving guffaws.

Behind them, at the mouth of a corridor, Serena turns a dull, disinterested look over the mess, then draws back into the corridor, the one that leads to the Living Quarter.

Asta is hot on her heels.

My flaring glare locks onto Dray and Oliver. Both of them balanced on the ledges of pedestals.

Dray’s smile is wicked, and he drags his tongue over his teeth. His gaze swerves around, delighted and dazzled.

Then it lands on me.

His tongue stills. He bites down on it, and a dark look settles over his smile. To stare into the face of pure evil…

I shout at it like a fucking child.

My face is hot as I throw everything I have into my scream, “These are Versace!”

My Mary-Janes…

The screech rips through me, feral. “You fucking ass!”

Landon’s roars grow louder. He and Mildred, they laugh harder—at me.

Feels like a hand reaches into my chest and just rips everything out in one swipe. The tears are brewing, itching at my eyes, but the rage is roaring up, stronger.

These shoes, they matter to me.

Not because they are pretty, shiny shoes with a brand name stuck to them, and not because of the gloss, the comfort, the quality.

Oliver bought them for me.

Didn’t pick them out a magazine either or point them out at a fashion exhibit. They weren’t some New Year gift or wrapped birthday present.

These shoes, I saw in the window when we were visiting the Vasiles, Serena’s family, in Milan. The heels I was wearing were too thin and too high. My feet ached, the soles were alight, my bones crying.

Oliver noticed. Noticed that I was starting to hobble, he noticed the shoes I was eyeing in the window. Pretty Mary-Janes whose slight heels were less than an inch, thicker, too. Practically flats.

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