James is probably already concocting faux ailments to get himself into the infirmary.
I eat, then head to the dorm.
In all my time at Bluestone, my dorm room, dorm mates, and even my bed, have all stayed the same.
So my bed is still the one closest to the door when I drag myself in.
The curtains around it are pulled and roped, my luggage stacked on the floor, and the comforter pulled tight over the pillows.
The only sign of disturbance is the dancing orange warmth from the hearth.
I stalk to the edge of my bed.
The view to the next bed over is direct—and the curtains are pulled shut.
Courtney’s in there, asleep.
Guess she couldn’t be bothered waiting up for me, to at least say hello, or invite me to wake her with her curtains parted.
I throw a dull look at the lamp before I flick the switch. The light is meagre, dim and shadowy.
I struggle in it, fishing around my luggage for pyjamas, and it takes too long before I’m worming myself under the duvet.
Head on the feathery pillows, I stare at the closed curtains around Courtney’s bed.
I must be awake for a while, because sleep still hasn’t come by the time the door gently creaks open and bootsteps come treading softly into the dorm room.
Serena and Asta are considerate enough to stay hushed as they get ready for bed.
And I’m grateful that Serena doesn’t approach me, even with my curtains still pulled aside and roped to the posts.
I roll around onto my other side, turning my back to their silhouettes moving around in the dusky light, and I tug the blankets over my head.
It isn’t long before Asta’s faint breathy snores fill the room. It isn’t loud, but it fast becomes irritating.
I shimmy onto my knees, tangled in blankets, and yank the curtains shut.
9
I balance a stack of books in one arm, haul the strap of my bag around my other shoulder, and try not to deck it in front of the whole class as I come skidding through the doors.
The soles of my loafers screech over the stained wood floor.
Every gaze swerves to my flushed face, curtained with loose strands of definitely-not-brushed hair.
It’s Master Silva who narrows his eyes on me—and the doors slam shut right behind me.
The force of the slam is enough to shudder the floorboards and rattle the desks.
I woosh a breath that puffs out my cheeks.
Master Silva drops his gaze, back down to the worksheets spread out over his desk.
Guess I made it, then.
He’s a stickler for tardiness. Once those doors shut, they don’t open for another two hours.
By the skin of my teeth, I made it.
