But I won’t admit that.
I’m too cranky, no caffeine in my system, and the toll of the veil travel from Stonehenge to Edinburgh, then through to VeVille, weighs on me.
I’m not exactly feeling so warm about our fresh friendship.
My jaw rolls, tense, as I set out my books. “Just did.”
That’s the only answer I give.
The shuffling of paper comes from the head desk. Master Silva gathers a pile of parchment into a bundle, hits it onto the walnut wood to straighten the pile, then sets it aside.
I watch as he moves for the chalkboard.
Then an unwelcome intrusion inches into my peripherals.
Down at the front, Asta sits with Mildred, and both of them are turned around in their seats, glaring daggers at me…
But not just me.
Landon, too.
Because Landon talks to me, leans back in his chair to chat with the untouchable deadblood.
Landon prompts me with a snap of his fingers in my face. “Earth to Olivia.”
I snap at him, “What?”
A sound catches in the back of his throat, a scoff, then turns to face the front.
But I saw it, the hard look that splintered his relaxed, lazy mask, a firm glare that reminds me of my end of the deal.
Master Silva draws away from the chalkboard. White stains disturb the smooth brown of his fingers as he gestures to the writing. “Copy.”
I set out my books and pencils over the desk.
Dragana has put a divider of rulers down the middle. She always does. But like everyone else at the academy, I ignore her, and look over to the right side of the class—at the rear desk that, like mine, is closest to the draught whistling through the doors.
Courtney and James are willowy replicas of each other, thick glasses sliding down glossy noses, not a clean sort of glisten, and neither of them look at me as they start jotting down the notes from the chalkboard.
I loosen a breath, then do the same.
The first hour of class is copying notes from the chalkboard, then chunks of the textbook that Master Silva reads aloud.
The second hour is me tuning out.
Dray and Landon seem to be paying attention, but not overly zealous, not like Serena at the table in front of theirs, who is practically draped over her notebook, pen scribbling away.
Oliver, beside her, looks to be asleep. Arms folded, slumped in his chair, and his head down, as though his chin is tucked to the join of his clavicle.
The moment the bell chimes, and the doors click against the whistle of the draught, I drag all my things into my bag, the fastest packing I’ve ever done, and I race down to the mess hall.
My stomach is in sickly knots, coiling with acid and bile. The growl of my stomach leads me straight to the buffet.
I pile way too much onto my tray before I wind my way back to the doors—and I drop into the chair at my usual table.
I lure the bag strap off my shoulder and let it thump to the floor.
Those coils of nausea are snaking through me as I grab my fork with a trembling hand and dig it into the pile of hashbrowns.
