Page 79 of A Heart of Bluestone

I blow a puff of cold, misting air and, with it, throw all thoughts of them out of my mind. The gentle trickle of water falling down a narrow creek, then rolling over rocks into the shallow pool, it’s a lovely song that soothes me.

I drop onto a log and, for a moment, just sit and listen.

My lashes flutter shut.

The creek is gentle, a piano tune I could never muster, that the keys could never achieve beneath my fingers. No matter how many times I try to mimic it, I fail.

The melodies that come naturally to me, my soul, my fingers gliding over the keys, they are less serene and always more distraught.

I long for my pianoforte.

I listen to nature’s tune, until it’s interrupted by a choked, chugging atrocity.

I glare up at the clouds.

One of those krum planes, the little rickety ones, flies far over the neighbouring mountain’s summit and disturbs the music.

To any krum in those planes, peering out the windows, Bluestone will look like nothing more than a chalet. Private grounds. And the village, a private ski resort.

The enchantments mask us and push the niggle in their minds to turn around, it’s not worth the visit, not worth the bother to come here, that there are better views elsewhere.

For that reason, the planes don’t come around often, or for very long. Still, it’s nice to catch a glimpse of them, even if they disturb nature’s song.

“Student,” a man’s voice shouts from behind me.

I jerk around on the green log. But before I can look at the one who advances on me, the backside of my breeches slips over the wet moss.

I fall off.

The ground is soft on my landing.

I throw a glare up at the intruder, and the blame burns in the hazel of my eyes. But that look of outrage falters.

Eric climbs up the steep hill.

The gentle grey of his snowjacket blends with the backdrop of snowy trees and mushy hills and uneven ground. But I see his crooked smile well enough.

“Sorry,” he laughs around the word. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Well, you did.

I don’t say that, of course.

I hope the flush of my face can be passed off as a result of the frosty air, and I push up from the mushy ground. Slush clings to my breeches. I swat at the discoloured snow.

I frown at him. “Did you call me a student?”

He shoves his gloved hands into his pockets. The cheap material screeches against the roughness of his snowpants. “No, actually, I called myself one.” At my blank look, he adds, “Today I’m a student, not a teacher.”

“Oh.” I nod and it takes the sludge of my mind a moment to keep up. The time we had a moment and I had highlighter on me. I asked him if he was my teacher that day.

It’s hard to read Eric.

He’s so smiley, friendly, amiable. But he turned down a flirtatious moment. He allowed it for a moment, but then thought better of it.

Still, I am certain this guy is flirting with me.

I just don’t know if I want to risk rejection again.

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