Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
B riony
A note hangs from a pin on my door, one from Fly telling me they’re hanging out in Clare’s room. I check my bag at the bottom of my wardrobe. I change out of my uniform and into my own clothes, then jog down the staircase, peering up at the clock tower as I step outside. There’s another hour until dinner time and another two until I’m meant to be back at the Princes’ rooms.
I haven’t decided if I’m going there tonight. I don’t think Beaufort’s threat of dragging me there kicking and screaming was an empty one, but I don’t like my hand being forced. I suspect my best bet is to keep turning up. Keep being a brat, a disobedient little thrall and eventually they’ll give up. Because I’m certain my resolve is tougher than theirs. I wasn’t the one born with a silver spoon in my mouth after all. I’ve had it a lot tougher than those dudes and that has to count for something.
Clare has an old gramophone set up in her room, and when I step inside I find my two new friends poring over her record collection, discussing musicians, singers and bands I’ve never heard of. Not that we didn’t have music out in Slate Quarter but few people could afford a luxury like a gramophone or a radio – certainly not us who could barely afford bread or the mounting bills my father racked up at the tavern.
“Hey,” Fly says, as I settle down on the rug beside them both. “You’re still in one piece then? I was worried he’d chain you to the wall and break pieces off you.”
“You really talked back to Professor Tudor?” Clare says in wonderment. “You’re crazy. That man is terrifying – and you can tell that just from his voice.”
“The shadow weavers talk back to him all the time,” I point out.
“Yeah,” Fly says, “because they know no teacher will ever truly punish them. Not when their parents will be here in a flash causing all sorts of shitstorms.”
I shrug. “I’m not sure Professor Tudor would be intimidated by any parents.”
“Yeah, but I bet he’s intimidated by Madame Bardin. And she does care what the parents think.”
“You think he’s intimidated by Madame Bardin?”
“Fuck yes,” Fly says, shivering, “doesn’t she give you the creeps?”
“There’s something about her,” Clare agrees. “Like she could suck out your soul.”
“So what punishment did he dole out?” Fly asks, searching my body for any obvious signs of injury.
“None, he, erm, wanted to talk.”
“Talk? What about?” Clare asks.
“The thrall business. It seems he at least is in agreement with me. He says there is no obligation for me to accept my fate as a thrall.”
“So you’re still sticking to that decision, huh?” Clare says, carefully slipping a record back inside its paper case. “Despite Thorne Cadieux’s speech.”
“Yep.”
Clare stares at me and shakes her head. “I really can’t see how this is going to turn out.”
“You can’t?” Fly rolls over onto his back and leans down on his elbows. “Then you haven’t had much experience of shadow weavers, because I’m telling you, they always win out, no matter what.”
“You have then?” I ask him. “Had experience with shadow weavers?” He’s never mentioned that before. We definitely haven’t spoken about it.
“Yeah, they come to our realm occasionally to inspect the troops, or watch the athletic tournaments we put on for them periodically. My mom and dad would often host them for an evening or a dinner – something like that.”
“Your parents must be someone special,” Clare observes. Fly flicks his gaze to mine then peers down at the floor.
“I guess they are.”
“Then–” I start.
“Why doesn’t that extend to me?” He smiles ironically. “Like I told you before, I didn’t turn out like they wanted. But not to worry, they have two other sons that did.”
“That kinda sucks,” Clare says.
“I bet your parents are proud of you,” Fly says and I can detect the smallest drop of bitterness in his tone.
Clare buffs one of the records with the end of her sleeve, removing several smudged fingerprints. “Well, yes, I guess they are.”
Fly sighs. “That must be nice.”
“It is,” she says halfheartedly.
“But?” I prompt.
She glances at us sheepishly. “It also comes with a ton of pressure. They’re expecting great things from me here in the academy. They like to tell me that frequently.”
“I’m not sure mine would care if I never came back,” Fly mumbles.
“How about you, Briony?” Clare asks softly.
“Would mine care if I came home or not? Hmmm.” I pick up one of the records and examine the decorative case. “My dad would maybe – that’s if he’s even noticed I’ve gone in the first place. My stepmom … I don’t know.” My first instinct is to think she must be pleased to be rid of me, an extra mouth to feed. Then again, perhaps she misses her punchbag and her little slave, and I never got a lot to eat anyway.
“Your stepmom?” Clara says. “What happened to your real mom?”
“She died. A long time ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Clare says.
“Don’t be. It was so long ago, I never even knew her.”
Fly picks a record from the pile. “This one,” he says. “It’s Saturday night. We need something to lighten the mood.”
I can’t help feeling he’s right because, despite all my protests I know I have very little choice but to show up once again at the Princes’ tower and I am not looking forward to it.
No, not one bit.
This time I don’t care what Fly and Clare say, I am not getting all dressed up just so I can sit around on my own in the Princes’ kitchen. In fact, this time I’m going for the complete opposite effect.
My uniform.
I hope it will say, ‘I care about you so little I couldn’t even be bothered to get changed.’
Although I wonder if the uniform is as awful as I thought it was, because when Beaufort Lincoln opens the door to me this evening, his eyes snake all the way down my body lingering at the flash of bare thigh between my long socks and my skirt. And I don’t know why but that has something fluttering low in my belly.
“I like the outfit, sweetheart.” I frown. “You’re on time,” he says with a smug grin that has me wanting to smack him in the face.
“Not willingly.”
“Yeah,” he says, taking my hand in his and pulling me inside. As always, his magic tingles against my skin sending those butterflies in my stomach crazy. I try to snatch my hand away but he hangs on to it tightly. “Willingly or not, you’re still here.”
Unsurprisingly, he leads me back into the kitchen. Is this the only place I’m going to be permitted?
I guess so. I am Slate Quarter scum after all. Not worthy enough to enter any of the other rooms.
A pout forms on my face. I wasn’t wrong about these men, about who they are and what they are capable of. Just because Beaufort has been gentle with me so far, means nothing. He’s playing with me, leading me into a false sense of security. As soon as he’s ready, he’ll crush me. Just like the shadow weavers always do with us commoners.
“Seeing as you enjoyed our food so much last time,” he continues, “we thought we’d arrange something a little more special this time.”
I peer across at the table and can’t help but gasp. A feast has been spread across the table; not only the cold meats, cheeses and breads that were here last time but pies and pastries and an array of sweet-looking desserts I’ve never seen before. In fact, I think there may be chocolate – actual chocolate.
Dray Eros stands by the table munching on something that looks like a pork pie. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I discovered the true identity of that wolf and my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“Hey, little thrall,” he says, “wanna come a little closer and sample our goodies?”
I glare at him. “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.”
“Oh yeah,” he says, his gaze falling to where my hand remains resting in Beaufort’s. I snatch it away and cross my arms over my chest. “What’d you have?”
“Erm …” That was not the question I was expecting. “Some kind of stew.”
“Meat?” he asks.
I shift my weight from one foot to another. “I guess, it was difficult to tell.”
Dray laughs.
“You can eat your meals here,” Beaufort says. “You can see we have enough.”
I shake my head, ignoring Beaufort’s corresponding frown.
“I got them to make you up some chocolate mousse,” Dray says, shoving the last of the pie into his mouth. “It’s my favorite. Do you like it?”
“I’ve never tried it.” I snipe. “Chocolate is a luxury in Slate Quarter. One my family can’t afford.”
Instead of looking suitably ashamed, Dray chews and swallows his pie, and then a huge smile spreads across his face. His eyes seem to twinkle.
“You never tried it? Shit, little thrall, you have to. Sometimes I think it’s better than sex.”
Beside me, Beaufort snorts.
Dray picks up a large glass bowl filled with a brown substance and one of the silver spoons and walks around the table towards me. He dips the spoon into the mixture, scooping some out and holds it up to my face.
“Try?”
It looks pretty gross, but the smell of it is divine. Rich, velvety chocolate. It makes my mouth water.
But I wasn’t won over by a pretty, gold collar. I won’t be won over by chocolate either. I stare back at him and refuse to open my mouth.
“Shit, you really are a stubborn little thing.” He cackles. “I fucking love it. Now, open wide for me, come on.”
I stare right back up at him, into those mischievous eyes. Up close I discover they are a multitude of colors: blues, greens, grays, even flecks of gold.
He cocks an eyebrow and says again, more firmly this time, his magic crackling in the air ominously, “Open.”
It’s harder to refuse with his magic so threatening, and something more dangerous bubbling to the surface of those eyes, but I refuse, nonetheless.
I am not their thrall. I am not their slave to be commanded and ordered about. I’ll keep showing up if I have to but I will not make this easy for them.
“You know I could make you,” he says quietly. I adopt that blank expression. “Have it your way then.” To my astonishment, rather than blasting me with magic, or forcing the spoon between my lips, another wicked smile breaks out across his face and before I know what’s happening, he’s landed a large blob of the chocolate mousse right onto the end of my nose. “Right,” he tells me, turning around to place the bowl back on the table, “make yourself at home. It’s time we left.”
“What?” I say in even more astonishment. “Are you locking me in here again while you hang out with your friends?”
“Nope,” he says, spinning around to face me. His eyes drop to the mousse on my nose; he grins, looks into my eyes and then he actually leans down and licks the dessert right off. I squeal, jumping backward and he laughs.
“You’re such a fucking child,” Beaufort mutters.
Dray licks his lips. “Of course, if you wanted us to stay, we could smear this mousse on other places on your body too. Then, afterwards, I’d be happy to lick it off.” He winks. “Slowly. In a way that would make you moan.”
I swallow. Dray is way more unpredictable and flirtatious than Beaufort and he has heat creeping all over my body.
I keep my face expressionless though and shake my head.
“You have free rein of the place,” Beaufort says, ignoring Dray. “Try not to trash any more rooms, okay?”
“Why? What will you be doing exactly?” I ask with suspicion.
“We’re going out,” Dray says. “Party in the Onyx common room.”
“You have a common room?” I snort.
“We do.”
“And you want me to stay here while you go off and party?”
“Unless you want to wear the collar, little thrall,” Dray says, his eyes falling to my throat. “Then we’d be happy to take you.”
“No, thank you,” I say.
Beaufort doesn’t say another word, walking straight out of the kitchen. Dray picks up his jacket from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and slings it over his broad shoulders.
“Okay,” he says, heading for the door. “Have fun then, little thrall and don’t get up to any trouble while we’re gone.”