Page 105 of A Heart of Bluestone

“I do want the tutorship,” I say, just as careful, and we’re sidestepping dormant mines in each other. “But maybe in that, there is a conflict of interest?”

His lashes lower.

“If you’re to help me write my essays, to calculate and predict for my assignments—then should you be grading them?” My brow arches. “Perhaps you will grade my assignments with a more critical eye than the essay, perhaps, of a student who didn’t have your help. What’s that called?” I click my fingers. “Overcompensation?”

Eric is stone.

For a whole heartbeat, two, three, he is unmoving, unspeaking, the caramel hues of his skin turned to stained marble, the grey of his eyes hardened into little stones.

“I will be fair.” He steps away from the desk, then adds, firmly, “As I always am.”

My toes curl in my boots. At my sides, my hands flex into fists. The thought flickers through me, to approach Master Milton and ask that he takes care of my assignments, to undermine Eric—and risk everything I might have with him.

This isn’t something I’m familiar with.

Since I came to Bluestone, upgrades have been the way. I am offered an extra grade on top of what I earn, or just half, maybe. And still, I struggle to pass.

No other Master has challenged this.

No other has questioned it.

So, frankly, who the fuck isheto do that?

He’s only an apprentice anyway. Not like he’s a qualified Master. That’ll take him another year before he’s got a class of his own.

So what’s his deal with ensuring the authenticity of my grades? No other Master has worried themselves over that.

I am deadblood, not cast out, I am stuck at this school that I have a fucking handicap for—and that’s not good enough for him to just give me a damn break?

I get the niggle.

Not so much a niggle, more a shout in my head.

This isn’t about me, about my deadblood—it’s about him looking at me right now as another aristos. Everything handed to me on a silver platter. But what he doesn’t recognize is that when I take that silver platter, my wrists are shackled.

I run my fingertip over the bloodied letter staining my assignment.

D.

A failing grade. One I will have to explain to Father.

I snatch the assignment and stuff it into the pocket of my breeches. It tears under my assault.

Eric considers me, his jaw tight. “Will that be all, Miss Craven?”

I frown at the desk for a moment, where my bleeding paper was sat, unjustified in its injury. I could storm out, maybe my call my father and complain before he hears of the grade. I would have a better chance at skating by his wrath if I am quick to take the victim stance and seek his advice, his help.

Or, will Father be prouder if I take initiative, if I take the matter directly to Master Milton?

I swear, if this apprentice wasn’t Eric Harling, I would do that. I would fight for Milton to grade me. I would throw that apprentice under the sled.

But it is Eric, and to do that means to go against him.

And that’s something I am not quick to rush into.

Eric has potential—for me, for my future.

Contracts open to the gentry now. So I can’t go pissing off the good ones. I’ll save that for after the wedding, when he is trapped in a marriage with me, as I am with him.

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