Chapter Six #2
I stand outside for several minutes waiting, chewing on my lip. Eventually, Roze sighs and stands up straight from where he’s been leaning against a wall. “Time to go, Sinclair.”
“But—”
“You can check later. It’s still early.”
I nod. “Perhaps … she’s at breakfast.”
“Where all reasonable people are at this hour, and where I’d like to be.”
Saints, he’s cranky on an empty stomach.
Minutes later, we enter the dining hall, and a sick, ominous feeling forms in my gut when I don’t see Professor Borges seated with the other staff.
“Where could she be?” I whisper to Roze as we take our seats.
He shrugs and says, “She’s sort of an odd old duck, isn’t she? I wouldn’t be surprised if she spends her off hours convening with undead spirits or something.”
His tone might be sarcastic, but there’s a twinge of apprehension in his eyes, and I know he’s worried too.
“Hel-lo,” sings a male voice, and a handsome boy I’ve seen with Roze before rounds our table and takes the seat next to mine. “Who’s this?”
Roze’s expression goes flat. “Ed, you know Viola.”
Ed props his head on one arm as he looks at me, cocky grin on his face.
“Of course I know of her, but knowing of is not knowing, and I’d very much like to make her acquaintance.
” He flashes a broad grin, his cheeks dimpling as he holds out his hand.
I can hardly hold back a grin of my own as I place my hand in his.
“Edward Paschal, but you, gorgeous, can call me Ed.” He actually kisses my hand and winks at me. I snort and Roze glowers at his friend.
“Get your paws off my fiancée, Paschal, or I’ll have you drawn and quartered.”
Ed rolls his eyes and leans toward me conspiratorially. “He always gets medieval before his second cup of tea.”
I almost laugh, but then shock flashes on Ed’s face. He whips his head toward Roze. “Fiancée?”
“She’s our boy’s new betrothed.” Fletcher Llopart, a tall boy with dark skin and serious eyes behind rectangular spectacles, settles next to us.
I know him from an economics seminar last semester.
He, at least, gives me a decent amount of personal space.
He takes a bite of a slice of toast. “His bride.”
“How do you know?” Ed asks.
“Half the school is already discussing it.”
I swallow thickly. “They are?”
“Rumors spread quickly in Vandenberghe,” Roze drawls, looking pointedly at me, and I catch his meaning. He sowed these rumors—the faster the news broke that Roze and I were betrothed, the sooner I was protected.
“Well, I’m in shock,” Ed says. “Roze has allowed a woman within spitting distance of him?”
“Perhaps it was that punch she threw at him yesterday,” Fletcher remarks.
Ed cackles. “Quite the masochist, aren’t you, Rozy?”
“Rozy?” I say, raising an eyebrow at Roze, unable to hide my smile. He glares daggers at me.
Ed grins. “Good luck with this one, Sinclair. Or should I say ‘Princess’?”
“Princess?” I choke on the word.
Fletcher rolls his eyes. “She’s not a princess yet.”
“Not until our wedding,” Roze says.
The words send a shock through me. When I look at him, his eyes are on his breakfast, picking delicately at his food. He just lied so fluidly, made it sound so … real.
“You’ll learn to ignore these two,” Roze says. “I’m afraid they’re impossible to get rid of. I’ve tried several rat poisons, but it seems to have only turned them more feral.”
“I take offense to that,” Fletcher mutters. “Don’t lump me in with this idiot.”
Ed salutes him, and as he does, I catch sight of a mark on his wrist—a moth.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to it. “Do you have the same tattoo as Roze?”
“Um, yeah,” Ed says a little awkwardly, pulling his sleeve back over the moth.
I laugh. “Why? Are you all in some sort of little club? How sweet.”
Ed looks questioningly at Roze, who shakes his head.
“Excellent pottage today, don’t you think?” Fletcher says. “Fewer lumps than usual.”
It is not excellent pottage.
“Hold on,” I say, now slightly more serious. “Are you? Is it some sort of … society or something?”
Ed nearly chokes on his tea. “Damn the Saints, darling, keep your voice down.”
Fletcher levels me with a very serious look. “Don’t speak of this if you know what’s good for you, Viola.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Are you threatening me?”
“He knows better than that,” Roze cuts in, giving Fletcher a cutting look. “He only means that a particular … group, which may or may not exist, is hardly something that should be discussed over breakfast.” There’s a tone of command in his voice, and I bite my lip, turning back to my food.
“What about you, Princess?” Ed cuts through my thoughts while refilling my cup of tea.
It’s not real tea. That I can only get from Professor Borges, who’s hoarded it since before the Mists came.
The stuff they serve with breakfast is made from mushrooms and boiled water.
It’s bitter, earthy, and doesn’t compare to the professor’s stash, but it isn’t bad once you’re used to it.
“Tell us about yourself. You’re Roze’s girl, and somehow we hardly know you.
How long has he been keeping you a secret from us? ”
Roze’s girl. Somehow that sounds more serious than “princess,” and my stomach does that funny little twist again.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Roze says, standing from his seat and buttoning his jacket. He rounds the table and holds out his hand for me to take. “I’ll walk you to class.”
I place my hand in his gloved one and rise to my feet.
“Oh, come on, Rozy, don’t be possessive—”
“It’s far too early to hear this much of your voice, Ed. It’s grating.”
Ed smirks and winks at me as we walk away. “Fiat tenebrae, Rozy, old boy.”
Roze castigates him with a look, and as we leave the dining hall, he whispers in my ear, “Forget everything you just heard, Sinclair.”
And because he tells me to forget, I make a point to remember everything.