Chapter 22
Athrobbing headache plagued me for the rest of the afternoon while I recovered from the morning’s harrowing events.
Admittedly, I felt a bit guilty for accusing Casimir of betraying me after he’d gone to such pains to take care of me following my poisoning.
I made up my mind when I spotted the Darkseer himself, heading down a hallway that led to the West Wing bathrooms.
“Casimir!” I called out. “I need to talk to you.”
He stiffened at the sound of his name, his shoulders only relaxing after he turned and saw who it was that had followed him into the bathroom.
“Christ, Farrow,” he swore, his brow furrowing in irritation. “What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait til I’ve had a piss?” He glanced around to ensure we were alone.
Before I could stop myself, my gaze flicked down to his trousers. I caught the unmistakable mirth in his expression when I glanced up.
“Sorry,” I muttered. Face heating, I cleared my throat and turned around to give him privacy to relieve himself. I raised my voice over the sound of his piss hitting the urinal. “Look, I—just wanted to… I wanted to say…”
He was still urinating.
Gods, why was this so mortifying?
I plowed on, “I’m sorry about the other night. You got me out of there after I was poisoned, and I honestly don’t know what might’ve happened if you hadn’t been there.” I cringed, thinking of Monty. “I owe you one.”
I snuck a peak over my shoulder to check if he was finished.
He zipped his trousers. “Arden Farrow in my debt?” He hummed in amusement.
I turned to face him fully, eyes narrowed. “Don’t expect any big favors.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t spike the wine at a party full of unsuspecting undergrads, nor did you lure a human girl into a dark room with a mind to cause her harm. You don’t need to apologize for anything.”
I nodded, averting my gaze to the dirty bathroom tiles. “Well… I am sorry for what I implied about you considering Devereaux’s offer. I know you wouldn’t betray me like that.”
And there it was. A declaration that, against my better judgment, I trusted him. I dared to lift my eyes to his and found him studying my face intently, his expression inscrutable.
“I see,” he murmured.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek before I remembered it was still sore from Evren’s assault. “At this point, you’re the only person I can trust. Besides Gwen,” I admitted, releasing a heavy sigh.
Abruptly, his expression shifted, and he approached me so quickly that my first instinct was to back away. “When were you going to tell me what happened this morning?” he demanded.
My stomach lurched. “What? How did you know—?”
“For one thing, your face is bruised.” He tapped his jaw to indicate where my skin was blemished. “For another, nothing goes on in this place without me knowing it.”
I clenched my teeth defensively. “I was going to tell you. It only just happened this morning! I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Worry me?” he repeated in an incredulous tone. “I think it’s a little late for that. Every second that you remain at Ouverham is another fucking day Devereaux might decide you’re not worth the trouble. And by that, I mean—”
“I know what you meant!” I interjected irritably. “He might have me killed. Thank you, but I am fully fucking aware of my mortal peril.” After all, Casimir hadn’t been in that classroom when Devereaux had tortured a poor butterfly to death.
When I crossed my arms and refused to meet his gaze, he added, in a gentler tone, “I would understand if you wanted to reconsider, you know.”
“Reconsider? Reconsider what exactly?”
He made a face as though the answer was obvious. “You wouldn’t be breaking your bargain with me by going away for a few weeks. After all, you did promise not to interfere...” He sighed in exasperation when I was slow to grasp his meaning. “I’m giving you an out, Farrow.”
Oh. Oh.
“No thanks,” I replied coolly.
“Sinclair was right. You are stubborn,” he muttered.
That was enough to set my temper boiling once again. “You know what I would find helpful?” I spoke through clenched teeth. “If everyone stopped treating me like a fragile, stupid little girl.”
He blinked, briefly surprised at my venom.
And then—
“Is that really what you want, Farrow?”
“Yes,” I ground out.
I moved toward the door, but Casimir was too quick; he reached it first, blocking my exit. My nostrils flared in anger, even as heat crept up my neck at his sudden proximity. Was he seriously not going to let me leave before he had the final word? I glared up at him, bracing myself for a fight.
“Have it your way. But no more secrets.” Without another word, he moved aside to let me pass.
As it turned out, Devereaux wasn’t the only one I needed to worry about. My real punishment came that evening when, at last, I returned to our dormitory to find Gwen sitting at her desk, arms crossed and jaw set in an expression of restrained, but unmistakable fury.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded the second I threw my bag on the floor. “I’ve been worried sick. I almost called the police!”
I sank onto my bed shamefacedly, feeling like a teenager caught sneaking out. “I’m so sorry, Gwen, I should’ve called.”
“Should’ve called?” she screeched, and stood abruptly, her expression downright murderous. “I thought you were dead! You’ve been gone for nearly three days.”
I sat up to see the tears spring to her eyes.
“I’m truly sorry, Gwen,” I pleaded, more softly this time, before launching into my practiced story.
I explained how I’d been drugged by someone at the party, how Casimir had rescued me and allowed me to recover at his place until I felt well enough to return to campus.
It was as much of the truth as I dared to share, leaving out my encounters with the vicious Morpher and poisoned Daemon wine.
Her eyes widened in horror as I relayed my story.
“I’m fine now,” I added hastily, “Really, Gwen. I promise.” It was unfortunately all too believable that someone might have tried to slip me something at Bryce’s party.
“Those assholes.” Gwen sniffed, tears leaking from her pale cheeks and onto her shirt. “Do you know who did it?”
I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak, in case Gwen heard the lie in my voice.
After a few minutes, she seemed to recover somewhat. “Well, you could’ve at least called me,” she said. “I’ve been worried sick. I even tracked down Bryce outside of class this morning, but she said she hadn’t seen you since Friday.”
I winced at how badly my negligence had affected Gwen, who had been such a wonderful friend to me.
Gwen, who had generously loaned me her dress…
I closed my eyes as I recalled the ruined silk dress stuffed into the bottom of my bag.
Between recovering from my poisoning and being dragged into a room and beaten by Daemons… I had been a poor friend as of late.
“Please forgive me, Gwen. I’ve been a terrible friend and I’m going to do better,” I vowed, approaching her desk to offer her a hug.
For a moment, I was afraid that she might deny me, but a second later, she’d flung herself into my arms. She dragged in a ragged breath before she released me and regarded my oversized sweater and jeans with a disdainful expression.
“They’re borrowed,” I explained.
In a rare display of generosity, Casimir had loaned me some of his clothes, since I couldn’t exactly stride onto campus wearing the blood-stained dress from the party. I still wore Gwen’s silver heels beneath Casimir’s baggy black jeans.
“Listen, before you forgive me,” I said with a grimace, “there’s one more thing I have to tell you.”
After securing her promise not to murder me outright, I reluctantly showed Gwen the ruined silk dress, all the while profusely apologizing and promising to reimburse her for it.
Unsurprisingly, Gwen was extremely gracious about the whole thing and refused to accept any money, which only compounded my guilt.
The following days passed in a haze as I forced myself through the motions. Study, sleep, eat, repeat. Anxiety clawed at my gut throughout an excruciatingly long lecture with Professor Skinner. I jiggled my leg impatiently as he droned on and on about Julius Caesar. Or was it Alexander the Great?
I was itching to run back to Ash Hall and retrieve the Book so I could interrogate it about the ritual again.
Casimir and I had agreed to meet early on Saturday morning to practice resisting and detecting glamours, giving us eight days until the full moon to figure out how to stop the ritual.
I successfully avoided Devereaux and the Gilded Circlites until my luck ran out.
On Wednesday evening, I narrowly avoided a head-on collision with none other than Monty Prescott on my walk back to Ash Hall. I skidded to a halt, my heart stuttering like a wild rabbit caught out. Monty, it seemed, had no desire to repeat what had occurred at the party.
“Oof! Apologies, Arden—I mean, Miss Farrow—” he corrected himself with an unctuous formality that grated on my nerves.
He avoided meeting my gaze directly; however, glancing down, I realized that his right hand—the very same hand Casimir had threatened to break—was in a cast. My eyes widened at the sight of his injury.
“What happened there?” I asked.
Monty winced as though the question triggered a painful memory. “Oh, I’m just clumsy, I suppose,” he laughed weakly. “Hurt myself in a sailing mishap.”
The lie grazed over my tongue like bitter charcoal. I scrunched my nose in distaste.
Monty’s smile did not reach his eyes as he waited for me to speak. His body language plainly said he was eager to end this interaction and flee the vicinity as soon as possible.
“I see,” was all I could think to say in reply.
Monty’s eyes darted around the corridor, toward the darkened hall behind me. He swallowed. “Anyway, I’d best be off.” He began backing away as though I were some venomous serpent poised to strike.