Page 158 of A Heart of Bluestone

And he manipulated the board. Dragged his makut fingertips over the names—and paired himself with me.

“Thought you would get away with it?” Asta snorts and, too harshly, flicks the page. “Ugly and stupid. You must have them lining up at the doors for you.”

I have nothing for her beyond a lingering, dull stare.

Then I turn my cheek to them both.

“Has he left already?” I ask, an almost muted whisper.

“No, he has not,” the firm voice clips behind me.

Muscles clamp to my spine, a ripple of tension running through me. My nails cut into the meat of my palms.

I turn to see Dray, arm braced on the wall of the stairs that climb up to the boys’ dorms. Gone is his snowgear. Like me, he changed into warmer, softer clothes. We almost match piece for piece, from the grey sweatpants and corduroy sweaters to the black boots we each wear, though mine are rubber and his are combats.

Dray’s pink lips move around the words, “He waited.”

There’s a warning in his tone, not his words. The same threat that darkens his eyes in the dimmer light of the grand parlour, pools them into ocean depths.

I nod, not because I understand him, not because I respond to him, but because I understand my fate.

Nothing good will come of tonight.

Dray steps off the staircase. His boots thud—and even that flinches me like a strike.

His eyes cut into me as he advances. But he just passes by and makes for the door.

Grim-faced, I follow him.

Maybe, since he’s in front, I can keep a better eye on him.

Not that it matters, not that it will change anything. If he decides to turn on me, I’m doomed.

But he doesn’t.

All the way through the Living Quarter, down the narrow and dingy corridors that bleed out into the rear of the FacultyQuarter, Dray keeps his casual pace, hands in his pockets, and not once does he look back at me.

Doesn’t have to.

I follow.

I follow because, the enchantment of Headmaster Braun’s finger pointed right at me, it means I have no choice.

The smile that ghosts over my mouth is bitter.

Perfect opportunity for Dray to trap me. Pair us together, knowing it’s not in my power to turn and run.

For a while we walk the final corridor, too crammed, too sweaty, too damp. The lanterns down here flicker in a fight to keep alive, to keep burning with the limited oxygen.

Then, finally, we reach the end.

The entrance to the West Dungeon.

The wooden slabs of the door are cracked and rotted in some places, and the wind that pierces into the corridor is too pitched in its whistle.

I cringe against the noise.

Dray grabs the rusted, metal handle, then yanks it open. It blasts in a gust of fresh air and manure.

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