Living in the Home for the Misplaced, believing yourself to be a made one or an orphaned half-breed, never knowing your true family.
Though, sometimes, maybe those witches have something I don’t have.
The reality of never having parents to disappoint—and resent.
For the whole first week back at Bluestone, I have stuck to a specific schedule.
The last class of the day, evening or night depending on the class, has me high-tailing it to the mess hall, grabbing food to go, then either spending the rest of my time in bed or in study hall.
It’s my way of avoiding all the new friendships I’ve acquired, avoiding Dray, and avoiding a certain aspirer.
I only manage some of those avoidances on Friday night.
A lot of assignments are due this weekend, so study hall is packed. The hall is narrow, as though it has been stretched through the academy, then filled with two never-ending mahogany tables.
There’s barely a seat left empty.
I’m perched on the edge of the unmoveable bench to read over the mess of notebooks, textbooks, and spilled ink smears.
I slouch over my herbalism assignment, so slouched that my chin rests on my flattened palm, and I’m draped over the table’s edge.
But some people—the Snakes among them—have lost interest in their studies. That, or they finished way before the rest of us.
Either way, they’re a nuisance.
Just up the table from us, a crowd has gathered around a game of cards, and every other minute they break out into cheers.
They just won’t shut up.
I have half a mind to pelt my coffee mug at them. But I’m not suicidal, so I settle on heavy, lingering glowers and the occasional huff.
Oliver catches my glowers a few times, but he just carries on. Teddy leans over him, hand on his shoulder, and eggs Landon on—to bet more.
He does.
Throws down a gold bracelet.
So much for our chat in the gardens of the palace. Moron.
Tugging at a loose strand of hair that’s fallen from my messy bun, I let the pencil slip from my grip onto my half-written essay, utter rambling garbage that attempts to argue why Deadly Nightshade is a less effective amnesic property than Water Hemlock. Something I really don’t give a damn about, because I’m not a herb witch. I’m hardly even a witch at all, and I doubt I will ever be in the market for a plant that causes amnesia.
A sudden eruption of laughter jolts me.
I bury my face in the nook of my crossed arm.
A groan rumbles through me.
I feel it. The peeling strands of civility deserting me. I feel my mood souring, the tension stringing to my bones, the gritted set of my teeth.
I push up from the table’s edge and plant my elbows down instead.
My face fast buries into my hands.
“Are you stuck?” Courtney asks.
I spread my fingers and glower at her.
She doesn’t notice, not as she reaches across the table for my half-assed essay. She steals it to her side and starts to skim it.
