Chapter 6
Lyra
ANOTHER WEEK PASSES, ANOTHER WEEKEND arrives, and I find myself waking early—though this time without Alina having to snow on my face.
Not that she could’ve anyway; she stayed in Raelan’s room last night, even though the headmistress communicated in no uncertain terms that such a thing is strictly forbidden. But I’m certainly not telling anyone.
I dress quietly, careful not to wake Poppy and Maeve. And this time, Juniper slips into the deep pocket of my old worn sweater, the one with the hole in the cuff, opting to join me for my community service instead of staying curled up in bed.
“Did you eat enough?” Juniper asks in her soft sleepy voice.
I look down to find her head poking out of the pocket of my sweater, her paws gripping the edge of the fabric.
I shrug one shoulder. “Probably not.”
She gives me her version of a stern glare. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I know, I know.” I yank up my wild curls and knot them on top of my head. “I just want to get this over with. I’ll eat when I’m done.”
“I don’t approve.” With a displeased twitch of her whiskers, she sinks back down into my pocket.
Rolling my eyes, I continue down the winding stairwell. I don’t pass anyone on my way through the drafty castle, and Juniper is still my only company as I pass through the courtyard and into the morning fog, headed toward the groundskeeper’s hut.
The days continue to grow colder as winter draws nearer. Midterms will be here before we know it, then Samhain. And soon after that, we’ll have our winter exams, and the semester will be over.
A knot forms in my gut at the thought of the semester’s end—and whether or not I’ll still have a place here come spring.
I’m feeling grateful all I had was that stale muffin. My stomach is trying to dance right now, and if I’d eaten anything more, I might be sick.
When I arrive at Mr. Axton’s hut, he’s already outside working at the garden bench, and I get the opportunity to observe him as I finish meandering down the winding path through the valley.
He’s wearing the same worn-out trousers he had on last time I was here, but today his upper body is clad in a long-sleeved forest-green tunic, and something weird happens in my stomach when my gaze traces the round muscles in his shoulders and arms, the ease with which he flexes and moves.
His horns stand stoic atop his head, looking smooth and shiny as he tips his head this way and that. For the first time, I wonder what they might feel like if I were to run my fingertips across them. Are they smooth, the way they look? Or do they have a deceivingly rough texture?
I’m still pondering this when he looks up and meets my eyes. And immediately, his narrow, and a glimmer of suspicion shines in them.
“What?” I ask, hoping he didn’t catch me staring as I come to stop a few paces from him.
His dark gaze continues to assess me. And after a too-long pause, he says, “I didn’t expect you to be on time.”
A flicker of irritation warms my insides. “You barely know me. Maybe you shouldn’t come to conclusions quite so quickly.”
His eyes remain narrowed. His mouth works as if he’s deciding which words to spit out. But then he says simply, “Maybe.”
And that’s that.
He goes back to whatever he’s working on, leaving me standing there in the early-morning fog still curling around my ankles and his hooves. After standing there a short while longer—being ignored by him all the while—I let out a sigh and move to stand beside him.
When I draw near, he turns his head slightly to look down at me, and I’m pretty sure I don’t imagine how he shifts aside so my arm won’t brush his.
Not a people person, clearly. Maybe I just learned a new way to annoy him. Yay me.
“What are you working on?” I ask, crossing my arms against the morning chill as I look down at the soil and tools spread across the garden bench.
“Transplanting sniffleblooms.”
I arch a brow. “Sniffleblooms?”
With careful hands—which is impressive given how huge his fingers are—he delicately separates one of the young flowers from its siblings, then moves it into its own small square of soil.
After adding a bit more dark brown earth, he packs it down and says, “If you agitate the blossoms, they’ll release spores that’ll make you sneeze pink for a week.
” His eyes meet mine, and he almost smiles.
“Come to think of it, you can finish this up.”
Next thing I know, he’s pushing the tray toward me, and I’m fumbling for words. “W-wait, I don’t know the first thing about—”
“Just go slow and be careful. Intentional.” He points at the tray of soil squares. “One plant per square. Once they grow into these, we’ll plant them outside.”
“Why would anyone want to plant these?” I ask, feeling like I need to hold my breath. Things are going crazy enough as is; I don’t need to be plagued with pink sneezes.
There’s a hint of joy in Mr. Axton’s voice as he say, “Keeps meddlesome students out of places where they don’t belong.”
And just like that, without any further instruction, he treads off, leaving me with the blossoms and their villainous pink petals. I glare down at the young flowers, really wishing I were back in bed.
“How long can you hold your breath?” Juniper asks from my pocket. I notice she’s not sticking her head out this time. Smart.
I hold my breath as a light autumn breeze tickles my skin. Then I grumble, “Not long enough.”
THE WORK IS SLOW. PAINSTAKING. Tedious. The first couple of sniffleblooms take a damn lifetime to transplant, and a few times I hold my breath for so long that my head starts to feel woozy. But after the first three, miraculously, I’m actually getting the hang of it.
Slowly, I remove one flower from its companions, then ease its root system into a prepared square of soil and pack a bit more over the top, like Mr. Axton did.
I hold my breath whenever a breeze comes to play, and there’s something oddly calming about it—despite knowing one wrong move could leave me a sniffly pink mess for the next seven days.
Somehow, I get caught up in the work, so I’m surprised when I feel a tingle go down my back and glance up to find the minotaur watching me.
He’s holding a big basket full of fresh produce: thick heads of lettuce, soil-spotted potatoes, and a bunch of carrots with frilly green tops.
His gaze feels heavy, like a big cloak draped over my shoulders, and I wrinkle my nose up at him.
“What? You waiting to see if I’m sneezing yet?”
It takes him a long while to respond—I’m starting to think these prolonged pauses are normal for him. When he finally speaks, it’s accompanied by a subtle shrug from those massive shoulders of his. “Something like that.”
I don’t take my eyes off him—almost thinking he’s trying to sabotage me and make me send the sneezy spores everywhere—until he passes behind me and then into his hut. The door closes, making my garden table wobble a bit. The sniffleblooms sway. Immediately, I hold my breath.
When I finally let it out and gasp in a lungful of the crisp autumn air, Juniper whispers from my pocket, “You think he did that on purpose?”
I shake my head and glare at the closed door. “Don’t know.”
But if he did, I think as I resume transplanting the pink flowers, he’s got another thing coming. I’ll show him I’m not nearly so big a screwup as everyone thinks.