Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
B riony
We’re due another lesson down in the dungeons after lunch and I don’t know how I feel about it. Part of me is excited to see Fox Tudor again. He knew my sister. He remembers her. He may know what happened to her. He may have information.
Then again there’s something about him which makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. He’s so different from how he was before. Is that the academy? Has it slowly worn him down – made him that bitter, grouchy man? I don’t see why. I’ve never heard of someone from the Slate Quarter being awarded a job at the academy. I also had no idea Fox Tudor – the golden boy from our Quarter– had magical abilities; strong magical abilities. You’d think news like that would be all over Slate Quarter.
As we shuffle into his classroom later that afternoon, he’s hanging back, lingering in the shadows once again, almost invisible. I strain my eyes to try and make him out but all I seem to see is his eyes glowing in the darkness.
“Why’d you think he keeps hidden?” Fly whispers into my ear. “Do you think he’s some hideous beast with boils and weeping sores?”
“Anything but,” I mumble. Fly peers at me with curiosity but he doesn’t get a chance to quiz me.
“Sit,” the professor commands us all. I grab my space on the bench beside Fly. I’m way more invested in this lesson than I was before. About a million times more. Fox Tudor was special back home – talented, good-looking, popular. But he was just an ordinary boy from ordinary parents. Just like me. Just like my sister. And yet somehow he has the ability to weave the shadows.
In the previous lesson, everyone was so determined that shadow weaving power could only be inherited. And yet a boy from the Slate Quarter has that power.
“Last lesson,” he says, “we talked about feeling for the ability to wield shadows in your blood. This week we are going to see if any of you can find that ability and can use it.”
Just like last time, there is more groaning from the shadow weavers in the front row.
“Can’t we be excused from this bullshit?” one of them asks. He’s one of Odessa’s protectors and I think his name is Kratos.
“You have no desire to help your fellow subjects identify such a power?”
“What’s the point? We all know those losers don’t have any.”
“The realm can always benefit from more shadow weavers,” the professor continues. “If there is even one among the students, we can not afford to miss them. After all, the safety and stability of our realm depends on it, does it not?” To my ears, his voice appears to drip with sarcasm. But maybe that’s just me, because everyone else nods enthusiastically like this is the gospel truth. “Pair up,” he instructs, “and listen to my instructions.”
“Wanna be my buddy?” I ask Fly.
“Hmmm,” he says, scratching his chin, “you smell a lot like wet dog.” He winks at me. “Or is that wolf?” he whispers.
I elbow him in the ribs. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Fine,” he says, teasing me. “But if you do have any shadow weaving abilities, do not blast me with them.”
I smile half heartedly. “As if.”
“When you’re ready,” the professor snaps, and I can’t help but spin round in my seat to face the front.
“The first and hardest step is to beckon the shadows out of your blood and into the air. Once you’ve conquered this part, wielding the shadows is relatively easy in comparison, although some have more skill in it than others.”
“Beckoning the shadows from your blood is not hard,” one of the Smyte twins sniffs. “It’s as easy as breathing.”
“Did I ask for your opinion, Miss Smyte? I’m not sure what gave you the impression I’m at all interested in it.” Next to me, Fly snorts in amusement. “For a shadow weaver who has been wielding all their life it may be easy. But for a shadow weaver who has never done this before, it is the most challenging first step.”
“How do we do it then?” a girl from the back row asks.
“If you have a question,” the professor says with irritation, “raise your hand.” The girl hesitates, looks around, then lifts her arm. “Yes?” the professor says, and the girl repeats her question. “It isn’t something I can instruct. If you have the ability, you will have to work that out for yourself.” Another two hands shoot up into the air. “Enough discussion!” he booms, making us all quake in our seats. “Work with your partner. See if you can achieve this.”
Of course, the shadow weavers don’t need to work at it. They’re chucking shadowy balls of magic up into the air and lounging about on the benches, yawning and otherwise being obnoxious.
It’s pretty intimidating for the rest of us, especially when they start to heckle us from the front row. Something the professor ignores. In fact, if his presence wasn’t so oppressive I’d assume he’d left the classroom all together.
“Oh my stars,” one of the twins drawls, “look how pathetic they are.”
“They really think they can do this,” her sister replies. “It’s so pathetic. They’re so desperate to be like us.”
“Not going to happen, losers,” Kratos calls out.
“If the professor was actually serious about finding shadow weavers among us,” I mutter to Fly in frustration, “he could at least give us a fighting chance and tell these idiots to shut up.”
My hands still raised in front of me where I’ve been trying to ‘feel’ the goddamn shadows, I peer towards the front of the classroom.
I catch the glint of the professor’s eyes in the darkness, and if it wasn’t so ridiculous, I’d bet my next five dinners he was staring right at me. I hold his gaze in mine for a fraction of time, and I wasn’t joking about his presence being oppressive. It’s powerful and dominant and I have to look away before something inside me explodes.
I turn my attention back to my friend.
“Why would he waste his time?” Fly says in response to my question. “They’re right, aren’t they? None of us can weave shadows. It’s pointless.”
“But …” I glance back towards the shadows. Does nobody else but me know who he really is? Where he comes from? And why doesn’t he tell them all? Prove to them that shadow weavers can come from the shittiest of places – even the Slate Quarter. “Why are we even bothering then?” I slap my hands down into my lap. “I’m giving up.”
“Miss Storm,” the voice booms from beyond. “Did I instruct you to stop?”
“No, you didn’t,” I reply. “I made the decision myself.”
A stunned silence grips the classroom. I’m guessing it’s pretty shocking to hear one of the ordinaries talk back to a teacher. Especially an ordinary from the Slate Quarter.
“I beg your pardon,” he says quietly, his voice full of venom, venom that has me trembling.
Yeah, maybe I’m not feeling so brave about that little quip. But I’ve stuck my neck out now and my stubborn streak always gets the better of me.
“I said, I decided to stop. I can’t do it. There’s no point in continuing.”
“You always give up so easily, do you?”
His words hit me square in the chest. I lift my chin. “No.”
“Urgh,” one of the twins says from the front, “can you believe her? It’s because the Princes have chosen her as their thrall. She now thinks she’s someone special. That she can go round doing what she wants and saying what she thinks. That’s not how being a thrall works, Slate scum.”
I have to say, despite what I told Clare, I’m a little taken aback by the Smyte twin’s boldness. She just insulted me to my face. Not whispered words out in the middle of nowhere with no witnesses. No, words uttered in a classroom full of students. She’s obviously not afraid of Thorne Cadieux. Or perhaps she believes herself to be untouchable. A belief that is probably fact.
“A … a … a … thrall?” the professor says, sounding utterly confounded. “Her?”
“I know. What the hell are those men thinking?” the other twin sniffs, throwing me her most evil of looks.
“But she has no collar?” He sounds just as astounded. Is he worried about offending me and by proxy, the Princes? And if he is, why? He’s a professor. A powerful shadow weaver. They’re only students – okay they are shadow weavers too, and, from what people tell me, they come from powerful families, but I can’t imagine Fox Tudor being cowed by anyone. Not then and certainly not now.
Henrietta shrugs.
“Thrall to the Princes?” he repeats.
“Yes,” she says.
“No,” I say, meeting his glowing eyes across the distance.
There are some shocked gasps in the classroom and beside me Fly groans, then whispers, “Briony, don’t. It isn’t going to end well.”
But I don’t care. They’ve had their little shows of public declarations. Now it’s my turn. I am not their thrall. I’ve never agreed to it.
I wait to be interrogated further but I’m saved by the tower bell signaling the end of the lesson.
Like everyone else, I go to gather up my belongings.
“Miss Storm, please stay behind. I’d like a word.”
“Oh shit,” Fly whispers.
I shrug like I’m not afraid of the professor. Would I have been afraid of Fox Tudor? Probably – sure he was charming but I’ve learned many times that charming can be deceptive. I would still have been wary of him. Now he’s an intimidating professor who likes to lurk in the shadows, I am definitely afraid of him plus the punishment he is likely to dole out for answering back. I try my best not to show it though, waiting on the bench for all the other students to leave with that same passive expression glued to my face.
The heavy door slams behind the last student and, I concede, I’m more than just scared; I’m terrified.
The professor steps out of the shadows and into the feeble light of the lamps, moving across the stone floor silently until he’s standing before the first row of benches.
He’s as pale as before, his eyes that strange glowing color, but just as strikingly handsome as before, his suit just as immaculate.
“Why does Henrietta Smyte believe you to be the Princes’ thrall, while you deny it?”
My brow creases in confusion. I thought I was going to receive a berating, not a further grilling. Although, perhaps, the grilling is to help determine whether he should proceed with the berating.
“I’m not denying anything. I simply don’t agree with the statement.”
“That you are their thrall?” I nod. “Then why would Henrietta believe otherwise?”
He stands with his hands on his hips in a menacing fashion and even though he’s several feet away, he still seems to crowd over me.
I stare into those strange eyes of his. I have questions of my own and maybe if I’m a little more cooperative he might help me. Then again, this is the one topic designed to rile me up.
“Why? Does it matter?”
He’s a little taken aback by that, burying his hands in his pant pockets. Then he collects himself.
“How about I ask the questions and you answer them like a good student?”
“And if I don’t want to?” I say, unable to help myself, despite how afraid of him I am.
I’ve been afraid before, very sure I’m in for a beating. Even when I’ve known it to be foolish, there have been times when my mouth just can’t help from running.
He pulls back the first row bench, sliding it easily despite how heavy it must be and seats himself down in front of me, resting his forearms on his thighs and leaning in closer.
“You have a sharp tongue for a girl from the Slate shitholes … you’re different from her.” His glowing eyes skip across my face. “Although you have the same hair. Of course, she always wore it down.”
I sit up straighter, shuffling forward on the bench. “So you do remember her? Were you here at the academy when she was here?”
A slow smirk forms on his plush lips. I’ve walked straight into a trap. “How about you answer my questions and then I’ll consider answering yours?”
I sigh and lean away from him. Can I trust him? I don’t think I should be trusting anyone. I suspect Amelia failed to keep her own secrets guarded and look what happened to her.
Fox remembers that Amelia and I looked alike, but then again, we were sisters, that could be a lucky guess. Is he dangling this titbit in front of me as a way of persuading me to talk when really he has no information at all?
I try to read his face. I can’t tell. He’s like a closed book.
“It’s simple really,” I tell him. “They want me to be their thrall. I don’t want to be.”
The smirk fades from his face and his expression hardens.
“Why?”
“Professor,” I whisper, “if you knew my sister you’d know why.”
He holds my gaze unblinking and I can’t read if he’s bluffing or not.
“I mean,” he says finally, “why do they want you as their thrall?”
“I … I honestly don’t know.”
“There must be a reason.” Maybe if I was some other girl – one who hasn’t been dragged here from the shithole of Slate Quarter, one with abilities and talents, connections and personality, beauty and sex appeal, I’d be a little affronted at the fact the professor can’t understand why they have chosen me. But I know what I am.
“I’m as mystified by it as you are.”
He nods, his eyes sliding over my face again like he’s trying to see under my skin to the girl beneath.
“You don’t have to accept,” he growls. “There are no rules which dictate a thrall is obliged to take up the position.”
“That’s not what everyone else seems to think.”
“People think a lot of things that are false. It is your choice.”
He doesn’t need to tell me that.
He stands up as if that is the end of the conversation, but I haven’t forgotten our bargain.
“You didn’t answer my question before. Were you here when Amelia was here?”
“I wasn’t.”
“But do you know what happened to her?”
“No,” he says decisively, but this time there’s a slip, one I can’t quite describe – a flash of something I find hard to recall once it’s passed. Was it a flash of the eyes? A twitch of his cheek? I don’t recall. I just know he’s lying.