Page 27 of A Heart of Bluestone

Most witches will use pentacles to channel magic. Eric uses his to shudder movements through the metal fixtures above.

I watch as sculptures of moons and stars and planets swivel around the glass ceiling.

Arms folded over his beefy chest, Master Milton stays slumped in his leather and button-tufted chair, observing.

A constellation settles above Eric, one I don’t recognize, and he lowers his hand. “Aquila is placed on the celestial equator—”

Boringgggg.

Already, I’m losing interest. Not even with the hot, new teacher can I hold attention for another moment.

My mind drifts to the pasty-white stain on my plaid skirt.

Worst part about the academy?

No personal attendants. No maids, no footmen, no imps. So no chance of removing the forever-gum stain on my own.

I lean forward in the chair and take my pencil to the notebook. If I write my name, at least I’m sort of responding in class. So I do that.

The theory isn’t my favourite. Never is.

I take the class, as I take most, to appease Father, to meet my requirements for graduation, and—my favourite—for the lessons where we sprawl out on cushions and read the stars.

But those lessons come only on the nights that the clouds fade away.

The rest is theory.

Like this one.

I tune in and out of the lesson.

The two hours are slow to pass.

Courtney scribbles down notes the whole time. She doesn’t even pause to stretch out her fingers or flex her wrist.

I get second-hand finger cramps on her behalf.

James doesn’t stop fidgeting behind me. I hear the constant rat-ta-ta-ta of his pen smacking his notebook; the constant shift of his trouser leg as he bobs his knee nervously.

I have half a mind to kick his chair out from under him, he’s driving me mad. I shouldn’t have said anything about the poltergeist.

I chance a look at the desk over, on the other side of the classroom. In the chair furthest from me, Landon is passed out, slumped, his mouth parted.

I narrow my gaze on him for a beat. Releasing poltergeists into the school corridors must really take it out of him.

Beside him, Serena flicks through the glossy pages of a magazine that she has tucked under the table and flat on her lap.

I frown at it.

A travel magazine, full of colourful festivals and stone-white sands, and I suppose she’s already counting down the days until the aristos take flight for our annual holidays and gatherings and,I dread it, traditions.

Serena and I are among this year’s debutantes. Engaged or not, we must be introduced by tradition. But that isn’t until the New Year, so I have six months to avoid thinking about it.

I like to face my problems at the absolute last moment. And then try and flee.

It hasn’t worked out well for me.

I turn my cheek to her and try to focus on Eric’s babblings. But it’s late, and I am tired, my stomach full, and those two combined threaten to lull me into a slumber.

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