Page 68 of A Heart of Bluestone

I scoff, and it jolts my shoulders.

Serena is a black viper.

I trust her as far as I could throw her. And since she can kick some ass, I don’t estimate I could throw her very far at all.

But she’s not wholly malicious.

Serena is an opportunist. Where the current goes, she floats along.

She’s not a wave ahead of me, she’s an entire ocean ahead of me. So whatever she’sactuallygetting at, I don’t know.

But it’s something.

I run the tip of my tongue over my bottom lip before I finally tug my stare from the door. I roll onto my side and, leaving the curtains open, kick off the empty bag of popcorn. It rustles to the floor.

And I let sleep come.

11

The morning starts too early with a knock at the door.

I should have drawn my bed curtains like the others did. The noise would be silenced by the enchantments, muffled at least, and my sleep wouldn’t be disturbed.

But it is, and I stir enough to scowl at the door.

It rattles again, firmer this time.

A huff grates out of me.

I flip onto my side and aim my puffy scowl at the clock on my nightstand. A few strokes past nine.

Too early.

Too early for a Saturday, at least.

The breath that huffs out of me swells my cheeks. I kick off the blankets, then fumble out of bed. Tights protect my feet from the cold floorboards, and I only now realise that I slept in my uniform. It’s all wrinkled and the skirt is askew, and I have a sudden deep urge to shower.

Instead, I drag myself to the door, then whip it open.

I blink ahead at the empty corridor, then look down at the girl standing there.

A small, red thing. Even for a first year, she’s suspiciously small. Thirteen my ass, this child is seven by my guess.

She has her big green eyes aimed at up me. “Are you Oliver Craven’s sister?”

I rub my fist against my eye. “Yeah.”

“He told me to come tell you that your father is on the phone,” she says, unsurely, unevenly, and I think of a red mouse. “Booth seventeen.”

Then, just like that, she turns on her heels and runs off with a scurry, scuffing and squeaking steps.

I draw away from the door, leaving it ajar. I’m quick to unclasp my skirt, then rip off my shirt.

I pull on a too-large cord sweater before I rush out of the dorms for the booths. The quick attack of the frosty air as soon as I’m out of the Living Quarter is a gust of whistling wind spearing through the corridors. With only tights and a sweater to battle the cold, I’m falling into thoughts of a hot, steamy shower or, better yet, a scalding bath.

But call first.

I slip into booth seventeen, all the way at the end of the line of twenty-one booths, and I draw the curtains.

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