Page 4 of A Heart of Bluestone

I doubt anyone would stop me.

Maybe they would. Maybe one witch would stop me.

If I have learned anything over the years at Bluestone, it’s that I can’t really handle myself in a fight.

I always lose.

And Father’s reprimand creeps through my head, “We candoes not equate towe should.”

So I don’t cut.

I watch the traffic move, the shadows fold, then settle into a mist against the backdrop of the stone wall. A perfect blend that any passing krum won’t look twice at. Not that there aren’t repellents all over this place to keep the krums away.

“Laszlo, wait!” The familiar, universal hiss of a mother’s voice snares my attention. “It’s not our turn—you’ll get trampled into a toad.”

I look up at the head of the queue just as a slender woman grabs a toddler by the ankles and hoists him upside-down.

He thrashes, but the alternative was worse.

Right where that boy was crawling just a heartbeat ago, out-steps the boots of the new city-goer coming through the veil.

I glance at him—and my throat tightens instantly.

A gentle unease blushes itself over my cheeks. The heat of it itches my skin, and I’m suddenly very aware of myself.

Eric Harling, a not-so-wealthy-but-definitely-handsome -elite-witch, steps out of the veil’s shadows.

He spares a bright grin on the thrashing toddler.

I snatch at my hair and wrangle out the golden clip that has it twisted to the top of my head. Dull brown is quick to rope down my back. I shake my head to loosen it out, once, twice, then run my hands down my dress, as though to smooth out any creases that aren’t there. There is a damp spot at the rear, and I think I got it from leaning on the gate. Ugh.

I look up at Eric.

He has left the veil, the mother and the toddler behind.

He walks along the edge of the queue. There’s an ease in how he moves, a laziness in the way he swipes at the stagnant shadows down his shirt, like he doesn’t care too much about them, few troubles in the world.

Dresses like it, too. Plain breeches, plain leather boots, a grey t-shirt, not nearly warm enough for this colder summer day.

‘There is little sun in summer to warm your skin,’my governess once said, before I came of age for Bluestone,‘but plenty of pollen to tickle your nose.’

Reminders of my old governess are swatted from me the moment Eric lands his gaze on me. The caramel of his eyes softens before a dazzling grin sweeps his sunkissed face—and he stops.

The blush burns hotter on my cheeks.

“Olivia!” He says my name as though it’s something nice, something kind.

It’s neither of those things.

I am neither of those things.

Still, that seamless edge of ease carries with him as he strides towards me. He tucks his hands into his pockets, and the grin he wears fades into a lazy smile.

His gaze drops to the glossy bags arched around my suede boots. “Bit of light shopping?”

The blush spreads down my neck. I can just feel it, and that only makes it worse, the pink darkening into something crimson.

I wish the veil would expand and swallow me up, whole.

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