We are still paired boy-girl, and so Dray is still my partner for the class.
Master Welham has made no attempt to split the pairs up, reorganise, or even give us the choice to reevaluate our partners.
Last time, Brews was actual brewing.
Now, it’s a lot of theory.
Two-hour lectures full of Master Welham droning on and on, and me falling asleep in the chair next to Dray who actually pays attention.
I find everything is toned down now when it comes to the lessons.
Star Theory was early, but Eric did most of the mapping and talked us through it, so it was mostly notetaking and info-dumping.
Herbology hasn’t gone out into the gardens yet, and instead, we were given assignment orders to debate properties of similar plants.
Astrology is split between my least and most favourite class, depending on the day. Sometimes, the master can’t be bothered running the lesson, and so we’re left to pair up and read each other’s charts. It’s fun. But then the days come where we do actual work, and we have to create someone’s chart, calculate with their dates and times of birth, and gods, it’s awful, tracking coordinates of planetary alignments on a particular day, at a particular time—my brain melts.
Right now, Astrology is a lot of the not-fun side.
Society History, World History, Mathematics, Basic Sciences, and the Study of Print Magic are all about the same—boring before, boring now.
Even the lessons are prioritising the upcoming examinations. To practice in class is fun—but it’s also a distraction, having to stay concerned about a brew out in the gardens, or in the herbs in the greenhouse growing well, any of that could distract a senior from the print exams.
But I don’t need to worry about those.
The thought of skipping the next lesson breezes through my mind as I push my weight into the solid wood door.
Vanilla perfume and damp warmth hit me like a smack to the face.
The bathroom is over-fragranced, the burn quick to ignite at the back of my throat, and I rush through the bubble of too many diffusers in one spot.
I do my business, feeling a bit lighter at the thought of skipping class, because it’s all tailored to them, the witches with access to their prints, to their magic, and I don’t need to suffer boring-ass lectures for their benefit.
As I sling the backstrap over my shoulder and fiddle with the lock at the same time, the faint whirl of a tap running is a distant echo through the bathroom.
I slip out of the water closet, letting the solid wood door shut softly behind me.
But I hesitate.
My gaze latches onto the slender figure curved over the sink, pale and delicate hands cupped under the running tap, and my eyes throw back in a dramatic roll.
Asta mirrors that disdain.
Her sharp eyes lift in the mirror, and the moment she spots me, her face hardens.
She watches my entire slow, unwilling approach to the row of sinks.
I halt at the basin three down from her—and she turns her tap off.
I expect her to leave.
So as she flicks her delicate hands, aiming droplets into the porcelain sink, like she’s stalling, I rush the lathering of my fingers.
I can’t deal with this, not again.
Like Eric, Asta is the least of my problems, and I don’t have the energy to spare on her and her jealousies.
Even if they are justified.
