Page 46 of A Heart of Bluestone

To say I’m not falling over myself to hear every voiced thought she has about those articles she writes for the school newsletter, it’s an understatement.

“I need it to havepunch,” she says, and I can almost hear her fist move through the air as she imitates. “I need it to score me that extra credit. If I don’t get it… I don’t graduate with a High Distinction.”

I turn the book over in my hands. It’s small and slight, so I think it more of a pocket-sized read than a sturdy tome forback in a time when people considered this to be entertaining literature.

“Another Distinction will tank me,” Courtney says. “There are four other witches with the artificer print in our year alone,” she sighs. “I need to stand out if I want a decent career worth my time.”

“Yeah,” I say, then chew on the inside of my cheek.

I flip open the book to the introduction page. There, the title is printed in faded ink.

‘THE IMPACT OF DEADBLOODS’.

I drop my gaze to the subtitle.

‘The ethics of euthanising deadbloods: What are they and where do they come from?’

I slam the book shut, then hug it to my chest.

“I can’t write about the violence on the slopes again,” she says, her voice softened into a murmur.

I turn around to lean my back on the shelves. The hard wood digs into my spine, but I take the bites of pain and look over at her.

Mousy hair falling over her face, the blemishes on her chin are redder and angrier than they were in the gondola just an hour ago. She must be scratching at them.

“Ready?” I prompt.

She sags with a heavy breath, then snatches up the newspapers.

I watch as she folds them neatly before she sets them back on the archive shelves.

Courtney doesn’t buy anything. Didn’t find theanglefor her article.

I buy the small pocketbook and tuck it into my dainty shoulder bag.

Can’t have prying eyes spotting the book—I might be a deadblood, but it’s something of a taboo, still. To openly carry around that book won’t do.

I keep it stowed away for another day, then drag Courtney through the sludgy streets of the village.

I lure her with me to the pub down the way.

It’s quieter than the inn, because at the pub one must be of age to be allowed entry. That cuts out about three quarters of the student body and leaves the pub to the juniors, sophomores and seniors. The inn is always too boisterous, too busy, and almost always impossible to find a table.

Here, we find a table quickly.

As soon as my boots are on the other side of the door, I take a hard left for the smooth blackwood table by the window. Two chairs are tucked under it.

But we need a third, since—sometime around noon—James should be joining us.

Courtney parks herself at the table before I wander to the larger one tucked against the wall.

I snatch a chair from under it, then drag it back to our table.

As I go, I pass Mikal, and I spare him a glower.

He doesn’t notice.

Loitering near the roaring fireplace, he casts a glance over his shoulder at the rest of the pub, scans the faces of the early comers, then turns back to Teddy.

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