Page 34 of Spearcrest Prince

I stumble out of the car, groggy and disoriented from sleep. I gaze up at the sky with my mouth half open in awe.

It’s breathtaking how different the sky looks when it’s not stained purple and brown by photopollution. The true colour of the night finally appears, the deepest shade of blue, like ultramarine mixed with dioxazine purple. The moon is a bright crescent, sharp as a blade, and each star is a tiny knife tip.

I close my eyes and smile, breathing deeply. This is exactly what I needed. The black space opening wide around me, the sky as far as the eye can see and further. The silent yet powerful presence of the lake, the mountains, everything that lives here.

Séverin says my name, bringing me back to reality. He’s grabbed our suitcases, and he leads me to one of the cottages. By the looks of the cars and coaches lined up in the car park, most of the others have already arrived. Inside our assigned cottage, we’re greeted with a beautiful interior. Wooden beams, cream rugs and cosy sofas, big chimneys and piles of logs next to crackling fires. A staircase leads upstairs to the bedrooms, the upstairs corridor overlooking the living room.

“Ah, Miss Nishihara, Montcroix, you’ve made it,” Miss Godrick says delightedly, standing from the kitchen table where she’s been sitting typing on a laptop.

She tells us our assigned rooms. To my immense relief, everyone has their own room. After that, she hands us our itineraries for tomorrow and then leaves since we are the last of our group to arrive and staff have their own cabin.

The moment she closes the cabin door behind her, an explosion of cheers and whoops follows. Students descend from their rooms, carrying bottles, coolers and stacks of plastic cups. Despite the long and tiring coach journey, nobody seems to be in the mood for sleep.

Grabbing my suitcase, I try to make a beeline for my room, but Séverin takes my arm, stopping me.

“Are you coming back down for the party?” he asks with a slight smile. “The residential trip parties are legendary—a true rite of passage.”

“Given what happened last time I went partying, I don’t think it would be smart to go,” I say, tilting an eyebrow. “Don’t you agree?”

His eyes fall from mine, lingering over my mouth. Then he moves his gaze back to mine and gives a little half-grin. “Fair enough.”

“Alright, then.” I walk away with a little wave. “Enjoy yourself.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but hesitates, then seems to think better of it. With a nonchalant wave of his hand, he turns and walks away. I hurry to my room, closing the door behind me.

A bedside lamp is on, casting warm light over a large bed, wooden furniture and a small, old-fashioned furnace in the corner. A basket of logs and twigs is propped on the floor next to the furnace. The window overlooks the lake, where the mirror-smooth surface reflects the stars in ripples of silver glitter.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I throw my clothes off and slide into the bed. My bare legs glide against smooth, cold sheets, and my head sinks into the soft pillow.

The deep thump of loud music and the babble of voices and laughter already fills the cabin. I roll to my side, tucking myself deeper into my blanket. Despite all the napping I did on the journey, I feel worn out, my eyes dewing with sleepy tears.

I wonder if I’m going to struggle to sleep, but the moment I close my eyes, I might as well have plunged into a black abyss. Sleep swallows me into silent darkness.

Chapter 13

La Bouteille

Séverin

Itakeaswigof wine from the bottle in my fist, and two drops roll onto my tongue.

Holding the bottle in front of me, I shake it. My eyes widen. It’s empty. Odd—it was full when I picked it up off the kitchen island.

Flopping onto the couch, I let my head roll back into the plush cushions, eyes closed. Fingers tangle in my hair, and a warm mouth moves against my ear, but it barely registers. Even with my eyes closed, my head is spinning. Alcohol burns through me, loud like static.

The last time I was this drunk was that night in London.

The night of blue sequins and small breasts in my hands and the scent of lilacs and sea salt.

I open my eyes, staring up at the darkened corridor overlooking the living room. Behind one of the closed doors, cloaked in shadows, is Anaïs. Is she asleep? I sit up, suddenly annoyed. It doesn’t seem fair that Anaïs should be asleep right now.

Why should she be resting, lost in some blissful dream, while I’m sitting here thinking about her?

Teetering to my feet, I stand unsteadily for a second. The girl who was next to me—one of the art girls with pretty hair and a flower name—falls back with a wistful sigh. I make a silent vow to come back for her.

As soon as I’ve dealt with this Anaïs problem.

I vaguely remember her room number. Even if I didn’t, I’d be prepared to knock on every door. Stumbling up the stairs, I make my way to her door and knock. There’s no answer.

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