That was the trouble with being right. It rarely improved a mood.
“Did she bleed?” I asked.
He stopped looking bright.
Only a little, then.
“Cut at the mouth. Not bad.”
The Pull tightened behind my ribs, and there was marble in it.
Caspian had seen the blood.
I left before he could finish preparing whatever else he meant to say.
The corridor outside the training ring was crowded with gossipers. I took the side passage instead. It ran behind the lower practice rooms and up toward the first-year housing by a staircase no one used unless they had been avoiding main corridors for years.
Like I had.
At the landing, I saw her.
Astra walked alone, one hand near her mouth, blood smeared across her chin, sand dusting the hem of her training trousers. She didn’t look triumphant. She looked annoyed with the whole charade.
That, at least, was familiar.
I started down.
Then Caspian Ashford stepped into the corridor behind her.
He kept three paces back. Too close to be passing through. Too far for her to notice right away.
I stopped on the landing.
The apple was still in my hand, rehearsed for a moment I was beginning to realize wouldn’t happen this afternoon.
Caspian followed her to Room 114.
She stopped at the door, and he spoke.
I couldn’t hear what he said.
But the Pull could.
Cold marble crossed the green apple at the back of my throat. Burnt sugar followed as Astra turned.
They spoke.
The door opened, but Caspian didn’t go in.
A worse man could have made a whole invitation out of that.
Caspian stayed where she had put him.
That should have made it easier to dislike him.
It didn’t.
I leaned against the stone and watched as he took a cloth from his pocket and she leaned toward him.
