Page 3 of A Heart of Bluestone

I roll my eyes as I turn my back on him.

There are still some people ahead of me, so it’s hardly as though the time I spent on pushing my bags along the queue cost us precious time.

We have time to spare.

Moron.

With so much witch traffic today, I know most must be in their last-minute rushes to gather all the supplies needed for the return to The Academy of Bluestone for the Education of Exceptional and Elite Society.

My mouth puckers with a puff of annoyance at the mere thought of the pretentious name—though, it’s nowhere near as pretentious as some of its students.

The private school for witches is tucked away in the Swiss Alps, and we live much of our young lives there. From thirteen to twenty-three, our entire education—including university, mandatory in our world—we live at Bluestone.

One of the many reasons school holidays are my favourite times of year. Boredom, be damned—this is still a hell of a lot better than being trapped within those walls… withhim.

I bite down on the insides of my cheeks.

The reminder of his existence is enough to send a chill down my spine.

I force his name out of mind before it can settle and, ahead, I watch the traffic disturb the warped, shadowy air.

The veil. Little more than a sheet of darkness, a pocket of dusk. The veil’s shadows skitter as the next witch steps through it from the other side. The witch appears seemingly from nowhere. Boots landing effortlessly on cobblestone.

But it’s all so slow.

I’m tired of this one-in-one-out method.

Part of me wonders how many grumbles or shouts I’ll get if I push to the front.

Will anyone be brave enough to shout me down for it?

It’s not to facemethat they will need to muster courage for. Rather, who my family is. What my surname is. Who my father is.

That matters among the witches.

More than anything, really.

Like I said, our society is built on bricks, formed of tiers.

Elites are of the ancient bloodlines.

Half-breeds are diluted with krums.

Made ones are born of krums.

And that’s just the bloodlines.

The wealth that one must have to be considered worthy of everything, it is ranked much the same way.

Aristos at the peak, then gentry, then commoners (I know, ick, but I didn’t coin the terms) or, to say it nicely, citizens.

My family is both elite and aristos.

So, my father is not a witch that anyone wants trouble with.

I can use that.

The temptation is there. It’s nestled deep inside of me, stirring, and I almost,almost, test it out. To just snatch my bags and stalk to the head of the queue, cut the line and step through the veil.

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