Page 7 of A Heart of Bluestone

Serena Vasile will be in charge of my home one day.

My brother has been intended to Serena Vasile since their births, maybe even when they were both still in the wombs. Their engagement was solidified before they even reached their teens. They will marry after graduation. My brother will take ona role within the family estate, and Serena will be what she’s always been intended for. Wifery. Motherhood.

That is the life of an elite, aristo woman.

That is what we are raised for. Moulded to be.

The bitterness of it twists my mouth as I wrangle out the copper pentacle from my pocket, then step into the cold, billowing rush of shadows. The veil steals me from the lane, sucks the breath right out of me—

I stagger out onto the packed, flattened grass opposite Stonehenge.

The family car has been waiting.

The glossy sheen comes over the hill the moment I arrive.

Pocketing the pentacle—enchanted to allow me passage through veils, being a deadblood and all—I drag my bags along with my weighed down, tired body.

2

The car ride home is long and tedious.

I pass the time by riffling through the bags. The unenthused fatigue drapes over me like a shawl as I pick through shoes, from boots to stilettoes, and dresses and new sweaters for school, some leatherbound tomes, soft paperbacks, and a whole bag of salted caramel fudge and some sweets.

I pop a boiled butterscotch drop into my mouth, then fall back into the leather seat. It creaks faintly under my shifted weight.

Tugging an elastic off my wrist, I tie up my tangled hair. The quick bun leans off the side of my head, but I won’t have my hair stuck between my back and the spine of the seat as I rest.

I shut my eyes and rock with the sway of the car.

After what feels like forever, the uneven road turns to a smooth driveway. The change in ground texture perks me up.

Craning my neck, I peer through the obscure tint of the window to the country-house looming ahead in the distance: Elcott Abbey.

The stone façade of the manor interrupts the pinkish hue of the evening sky. I rest my temple on the car door and, though I watch the stretch of long stained-glass windows inch closer the further we drive up the property, my mind wanders to our neighbours.

The Sinclairs live a stone’s throw away, in the next town over, and that is a manor house that towers over all in the area. The opulent grounds and rich gardens are a favourite of mine, mainly down to the swimmable ponds that come in handy in the heat of summer.

Dread pins me to my seat, like lead in my stomach.

I know to expect the Sinclairs this evening.

The Sinclairs are more than just our neighbours. They are my family’s closest friends, business partners, oldest allies and—to my misery—frequent visitors.

Anything that we, the Cravens, have our hands in, the Sinclairs have theirs in, too. Fingers entwined together.

We dine with them often. Too often.

Because that meansheis around.

He. The devil in Prada.

Him. The bane of my Bluestone existence.

Dray Sinclair.

My jaw rolls as he finally succeeds in invading my mind and disturbing my peace.

Best part about not being at Bluestone for the school holidays? Getting away from Dray.

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