Page 93 of A Heart of Bluestone

He runs his hand over his face, and it looks like he’s having the same sort of I-can’t-take-another-day-of-this-shit evening that I am.

He drops his hand as he passes me and shoots me a glare.

My lip curls.

He just throws back a deliberate sneer, then makes for the buffet. Not a moment after he clatters a tray off the pile, another Snake comes in from the arched doorway. Two, more accurately.

Asta clinging onto Dray’s arm.

Her chin is low, her eyes swerving from under her lashes, and her silvery hair braided to rest over her shoulder. But strands and threads of hair are tugged out of the braid, distressed, and by the frozen scowl on her face, I sense something amiss.

Dray looks as though he hardly notices the witch hanging off him. His betrothed should spark more in the blue of his eyes, darker tonight in the warmer shadows of the mess hall.

And he looks put together, not frayed, not distressed at all.

The collar of his shirt rests neatly on the neckline of his black, cashmere sweater. His breeches are sleek, wrinkle-free, and pressed.

The shine of his polished black shoes glistens under the light of the hall. I guess the designer to be Louis Vuitton, but I neverhave been very good as picking the brands, unless it’s utterly obvious, like Gucci or Versace or Chanel.

Dray is more subtle than that.

Not a strand out of place, his hair is combed to the side, and set, firm.

Whatever has Asta in a mood, it might have something to do with the frequent glowers she aims up at the faculty table. Probably got a bad grade, or something. Had a fit.

Though, tantrums really are more my style and not so much Asta’s. She’s a sword in the back instead.

I watch the pair of them pass my table.

Dray casts a glance down at me.

I don’t see how long it lingers, since I am fast to flick my attention down to my bowl and scoop my spoon into a soft, fluffy mesh of souffle.

The cream and pastry wobble on the spoon as I lift it to my mouth. I scarf it down, as hungrily as though I have missed three meals in a row.

I’m scooping another chunk when a tray clatters, loud.

I jerk back with a fright.

I throw my glare upwards—and still, I don’t expect to see what I do.

Serena has tossed her tray onto my table.

And now, she lowers into the seat opposite me. Serena actually sinks into the chair, a glide of grace, then draws her tray closer to herself,at my fucking table.

I gape at her.

She spares me a small, tight smile, one that reeks of a warning, then sets out her cutlery. “Good evening.”

Still, I just… stare.

Disbelief has my lips parted and my blinks slowed.

I cast a look over at the Snake’s table, the one they always crowd around, the one that, if any poor first year thinks is free to sit at, a Snake will boot them clean off a chair.

Oliver has a furious stare pinned on Serena’s back. Guess that explains his mood: He and Serena are obviously fighting.

But what that has to do with me, I don’t care to know.

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