Chapter 8 #3
The path is too slippery.
I watch my uneven steps, as though it’ll somehow save me from losing my footing and falling on my ass.
That would be a poetic first day back for me.
Oliver walks with me, hands in his pockets, head tucked down to protect himself from the icy winds spearing around the mountains.
It’s a brisk walk to the doors that open to the atrium—and it’s already buzzing.
Students are peppered around, dotted in the mess hall through the second set of double doors, and a few are disappearing down the narrow corridor, the direction of the Living Quarter.
But it’s the bulk of natural muscle that hooks my gaze.
Mildred’s stocky frame lurks in the atrium, and she looks even bigger with her sister beside her.
Melody seems even more of a frail stick this semester.
But there’s nothing frail about the sharp look she throws over at me.
I glower right back at her—because even after all these years of pure torture, I haven’t learned a thing about backing down.
Just can’t swallow back that burn of fight that rears up, that… pride.
That’s what it really is, isn’t it?
Pride.
The fault of all aristos.
Oliver slips a hand out from his trouser pocket, then steals mine into his grip. A statement that has me double-taking.
And I’m not the only one.
I swear Melody’s full lips part and her lashes flutter right before her face tightens into something grim.
Without tearing her gaze from us, she reaches up on her toes and whispers into her sister’s ear.
As quick as a lightning bolt flashes through the clouds, Mildred swerves around to glare at me.
Outrage widens her eyes and—after a beat—she glances down at my hand, clasped in my brother’s firm grip.
Her beefy face furrows.
I have the fleeting thought that she could do with a bit of preening on those bushy eyebrows of hers, the same way she always seems to perfectly comb her hair back into a stern bun.
Silent, Mildred glowers as we pass through the atrium, her face growing hotter and hotter, and beside her, Melody watches like a stunned fish.
Oliver doesn’t spare a look on them, on anyone. He stalks for the open doors of the mess hall… and I feel the weight of the statement.
He announces our reconciliation, our alliance, a shield thrown in front of me—
But there is no reconciliation.
None that he’s earned.
Behind the closed doors of our home, the bloody crumbs of a lamington tell the truth.
Oliver and I are at odds.
A lump swells in my throat, choking me.
The double doors of the mess hall arch ahead, just steps away from me, but already gazes are latching onto us from all angles.
Why it feels like a thousand arrows, notched and aimed, and my brother’s hand on mine is itching at my skin through the glove, I don’t know. I only know that I am instantly uncomfortable.
Panicked, almost.
A ball lodged in my throat.
Students looking for familiar faces, their friends coming in through the doors, pause when they see us, the Craven twins, hand in hand for the first time in a decade.
The heels of my boots plant on the wooden floorboards.
That itching on my skin cranks into a blaze, like an allergic reaction flaring up.
I yank my hand out of Oliver’s.
Startled, he blinks at me—then understanding hardens his face.
I take the moment to run him over with a pointed look, head to toe, before I scoff and march into the mess hall.
I head straight for the buffet.
If he follows me, I don’t know.
I don’t look back.
My pace is swift, then I’m snatching a tray off the pile. I clatter and clang it along the buffet, then park myself at the empty table I always take.
The one I sit at with Courtney and James. The one closest to the doors, the one that catches a draught from the outside, and so no one else takes it.
It’s the worst table in the hall.
And I sit alone.
Courtney and James aren’t here.
Some of the other students I spot around the hall are from The Home for the Misplaced. So maybe Courtney and James have arrived and gone to the dorms early.
James is probably already concocting faux ailments to get himself into the infirmary.
I eat, then head to the dorm.
In all my time at Bluestone, my dorm room, dorm mates, and even my bed, have all stayed the same.
So my bed is still the one closest to the door when I drag myself in.
The curtains around it are pulled and roped, my luggage stacked on the floor, and the comforter pulled tight over the pillows.
The only sign of disturbance is the dancing orange warmth from the hearth.
I stalk to the edge of my bed.
The view to the next bed over is direct—and the curtains are pulled shut.
Courtney’s in there, asleep.
Guess she couldn’t be bothered waiting up for me, to at least say hello, or invite me to wake her with her curtains parted.
I throw a dull look at the lamp before I flick the switch. The light is meagre, dim and shadowy.
I struggle in it, fishing around my luggage for pyjamas, and it takes too long before I’m worming myself under the duvet.
Head on the feathery pillows, I stare at the closed curtains around Courtney’s bed.
I must be awake for a while, because sleep still hasn’t come by the time the door gently creaks open and bootsteps come treading softly into the dorm room.
Serena and Asta are considerate enough to stay hushed as they get ready for bed.
And I’m grateful that Serena doesn’t approach me, even with my curtains still pulled aside and roped to the posts.
I roll around onto my other side, turning my back to their silhouettes moving around in the dusky light, and I tug the blankets over my head.
It isn’t long before Asta’s faint breathy snores fill the room. It isn’t loud, but it fast becomes irritating.
I shimmy onto my knees, tangled in blankets, and yank the curtains shut.