The hollow victory leaves me feeling unsettled. Or maybe it’s her warning about needing a friend. I’ve worked hard to not to be dependent on others, because I’ve learned that it inevitably leads to disappointment.
Better to cut out the middleman and just accept that’s not going to change any time soon.
Of all the things in this world that could have brought tears to my eyes, I never expected fabric would come this close to actually making me weep.
Props to you, Maeve.
My new clothes leave me speechless. They fit perfectly, which I never doubted, but the way the fabric wraps around me is almost intimate, hugging my curves and caressing my skin with the softest touch.
With a few more pounds, a spa day, and three days of sleep, I’d almost look like I belong here.
Despite the new wardrobe, I still hesitate to leave my room. Growing up in Lynden, I quickly learned to ignore the opinions of others. But here I’m under a new level of scrutiny that makesmy skin crawl. I give myself sixty seconds to feel sorry for myself before fixing my face and starting the long walk to the Great Hall for breakfast. I haven’t actually taken the time to eat here since Killian accosted me last week, so instead of grabbing something to go, I take my tray and find a partially-hidden table behind one of the massive stone columns that support the ceiling.
The echoes of conversation and clatter of utensils on plates soon fill the room, and by some miracle I’m actually able to eat my food in peace this time, though when the Heirs enter and make their way to their table I briefly contemplate pulling a disappearing act while everyone’s distracted. They’re soon besieged by a group of girls, some of whom I recognize as part of the Legacy clique—descendants of the Demonic Princes, though I don’t see any horns or tails—so I’m still not quite convinced. They run their hands over Killian’s broad frame, fawn over Thane’s tattoos, and huddle close to Luther, but keep a healthy distance from Roth, unsurprising, since he’s a goddamn psychopath.
I hate to admit that I finally looked them up after my run in with Thane this weekend.
Apparently, God only wishes he was as rich as them, so I can’t really fault the simpering girls swarming their table.
I mean, I get it. They’re all tall, rich, and uncomfortably attractive. Their families are legitimate dynasties, and yet here they are in the flesh, ready for worshippers at their altars.
Maybe if I hadn’t been abandoned with normal people I might have grown up idolizing them as well. But now, the thought of pandering to these assholes just for a taste of their lives makes me want to heave. Never imagined I’d be thankful for being poor as fuck, but here we are.
My breakfast, homemade biscuits and sausage gravy, becomes an experiment to see how much my stomach and my new clothes can expand, and afterwards I narrowly make itthrough a side door unnoticed after bussing my table when three girls approach and cut off my escape. The one who speaks first has a sophisticated black bob that frames her tanned face, full lips and rich brown almond eyes. The two behind her must be related, otherwise someone’s mother has some explaining to do. They both have deep red hair that contrasts starkly against their pale skin, but the taller girl wears her hair straight while the shorter one’s curled hers, and I can just make out a streak of purple woven into the strands.
“Hey, you’re Nyx, right?” The girl with the bob asks brightly.
“Uh, yeah.” I answer with my own tense smile, trying to work out how this is going to go down.
“I’m Marcella, and this is Ruby,” she gestures to the taller of the sisters, then the shorter, “and Scarlett. We heard about a new student on campus, so we wanted to introduce ourselves and officially welcome you.”
Sure, I’ll play along with whatever this is. “You didn’t have to do that?—”
“Of course we did! We couldn’t leave a fellow witch on her own, I can only imagine how much of a shock this has all been. Have you started meeting with any covens yet?”
“Uh, no—” I vaguely remember Tori mentioning something about that during our meeting last week, but being proactively social has never been one of my top priorities.
“You should! A witch without a coven is a witch alone. Power in numbers, and all that.”
Augustine’s warning about the hierarchy of power in this new world flits through my memory. “Got it, thanks. Anyways I need to get to class?—”
“You know, our coven is accepting new initiates,” she prompts without an ounce of subtlety.
“Really?”
“We’d be happy to take you on for a probationary period. You know to see if you’re the right fit.” Amber offers.
“Oh yeah? What’s that usually involve?”
“Well, obviously meeting the rest of the coven, and if you’re accepted as an initiate you’d be assigned a mentor until your epiphaneia reveals your abilities and you get assessed.”
“Assessed?”
“For your affinity, if you’re powerful enough.”
“And you think I have a shot at becoming an initiate with your coven?”
“I mean, I could vouch for you…” she trails off, and we’vefinallygotten to the point of this little charade as she dangles the price for her efforts.
