Hands out in front of me, I manoeuvre my way through the groups, guiding people out of my path, hissing as someone steps on the toes of my plimsoles, shouldering into the ones whobackstep into me, until I make it to the corridor, and I can finally breathe.
My steps pick up all the way to the Living Quarter—and once I’m in the grand parlour with the crackling of fires in the hearths, and the faint murmurs of students lounging about on the couches, I make a beeline for the coffee station.
Didn’t get to finish mine in the mess hall.
I like three to start my day usually, but Mildred saw to my only having one.
So I set out two mugs and the cold, damp bottle of almond milk that someone left sitting out instead of putting it back into the minifridge.
Probably the same self-absorbed person who didn’t bother refilling the coffee pods or wiping down the droplets splashed all over the machine.
My huff comes out withering, and I start to tidy up before I trust the cleanliness enough to make my coffees.
The murmur of a faint conversation inches up to my back.
I turn a curt look over my shoulder.
Sara Horvat and Delia Dimas—two gentry seniors—have gathered behind me, no doubt waiting as the coffee machine starts up again.
Neither acknowledges me, not as Delia goes on, “I did my blood draws for the testing last week, so once that’s cleared by their witchdoctor, I’ll get the ring.”
I look away and watch the two little bulbs on the coffee machine. One blinks red, and the other should be green any minute now.
I watch, as though that’ll make the machine go faster.
It doesn’t.
“Has he asked what ring you want?” Sara murmurs, as though keeping her voice low enough means I won’t hear every word said just inches behind me.
Delia whispers her answer, “I hinted at gold.”
“That’s your colour.”
“I know, right? But he’s… He’s up his own ass, isn’t he, so we’ll see.”
“Tell him outright. Gold or no happy marriage—ow, what the fuck?”
Before I can even turn to see what happened, Asta appears beside me, snatching a cup from the rack.
She smacks it down beside mine, hard.
I slide a dull look to her.
Her sharp gaze is already on me.
The conversation behind me is over now. Silenced.
I can just imagine their gazes, wide and hopeful, swerving between me and Asta.
Waiting for something to kick off.
It might.
What else could she want by approaching me?
So I wait, too.
Patient, unflinching in our locked stares, the coffee machine whirring and hissing and churning, I wait for her to start whatever hell she’s brought to me.
