12

I’m at the precipice of learning Dray’s ignorance of me.

His weeks of the dare have been and gone, and then some. Almost three weeks now since the game in the grand parlour, and nothing—not a look, not a slur, nothing .

It’s too easy.

My suspicions stay sharp. Can’t let myself lower my defences or drop my guard, not even a little. His attention could turn on me at any moment now.

Especially now.

Because, now, after lessons have wrapped and classes are dismissed for the weekend, I am about to take a risk.

One I have been building the courage for.

I got enough scraps of it to leave the atrium doors and stand on the top step of the stairs that descend into the grounds.

The path for the gondolas snakes around the front of the academy, all the way to the wires that cut above the dustings of the first snow. The stone paving is all sludged with wet bootsteps from the earlier traffic of students this morning who have already left for the village.

I don’t.

Not today.

Today, I have my mind locked onto one spot of peace and serenity. The rockpool.

But to make it there, I have to walk further onto the grounds. Down the steps, away from the paved path, and through the ankle-deep snow to the trail beyond the frosty trees.

And that means to pass the Snakes.

I didn’t count on them being out on the grounds today. But then, the snow started to stick the ground this past Thursday, and I decided that most of the students would be hanging around this weekend.

Snakes are among them.

Directly ahead, across the grounds that separate me on the stairs from the dotted, thin treeline before the ground dips into a hill—the Snakes form a pit.

Ok, well not actually a pit, they commandeer a crescent of stone pews, but whatever.

My eyes narrow on them.

Not a single one of them looks back at me.

It’s like I said. I would be a fucking idiot to let my guard down. I’m not reassured by their lack of glares, or that they each seem to be absorbed by things other than me.

Sat on a stone pew, Dray leans over to better see the playing cards splayed out over the flat boulder. On the other side, Landon is crouched in the snow, running his teeth over his bottom lip, deep in his blatant concentration.

I flicker my narrowed, cautious stare to the girls. Asta moulds snowballs in her fuzzy gloved hands, pressing them tighter and tighter, then weasels little stones into them. She does nothing with them but aim each solid ball at the trunks of the trees where they explode into puffs of white dust and gravel.

There’s an obvious mood to her this morning.

I don’t care to cross its path.

Serena has her back to me, but I recognise the sleek black sword that is her hair, falling down her back from the cinch of a ponytail, the same gloss of spilled ink as her form-fitting parka and snowpants. She must have been on the slopes earlier, not long back maybe.

Near the other pew, she stands with Mildred and, between them, passes the silver wink of a flask, not filled with water I suspect.

Then, finally, I lower my gaze to Oliver on the snow.

Sprawled on his back, his hat askew, and his face flushed, he brings the end of a joint to his lips and kisses it.

Teachers patrol the grounds. Security, too, sometimes groundskeepers. But the area spans so far, and there so many obstacles, like the treelines, the hills, the shrubs, the abandoned cabin, the maze of rubble, the gardens—so many obstacles, that my brother holds onto his born entitlement, and openly smokes the joint.

I hate that.

No respect in what he’s doing.

Almost like he’s just daring any of the faculty to do something about it. But, as I glance around the white grounds, the snowmen, the angel silhouettes packed into the snow, the first years giggling under the gazebo, I see not a single member of staff.

Not great for me.

Dray has every opportunity to return his focus to me. Any of the Snakes can take full advantage of this moment.

And, so, I hesitate.

Like I said, it takes me a while to build the courage.

A coward. One with a bite, like a cornered stray, but afraid all the same.

The thin soles of my ivory boots are soft on the stone steps. Sometime ago, they were swept clean of snow, but the ice is black and slippery.

I grip onto the railing, so I don’t lose my footing.

I take the last step, from slippery stone to crunching snow, and my boot slips out from under me.

My breath is a sword through me.

My arms hook around the railing—and hold, firm.

I hang, backwards, just above the steps under me.

“Careful, Liv!”

The familiar shout of my brother stills me.

I hug the railing and pull myself up. My jaw is tensed so tight that my teeth creak, and I stumble off the last step, onto the snow.

Once my boots are firm enough on the snow, I feel safe to take my eyes off the ground.

I look up.

My brother jogs towards me.

The rolled joint is gone from his hand and, with a flickered glance over his shoulder, I see that Dray has it now, pinched between his fingers, but his attention is on us.

The frown he wears burns into the back of my brother’s head.

But Oliver doesn’t feel it the way I always do, or he doesn’t give a shit. He makes for me, slowing his jog the closer he gets.

His thick gloves are dusted with snow, but gone is his hat, and so the brown of his hair is darkened with dampness. Strands stick to his face, his temples, and for a moment, he looks young again. Suppose he is young, still. I mean, we’re only twenty-two. But young in the way of flushed cheeks and wide grin and no malice in his eyes. Youthful.

“What?” I hiss, unkind. “What do you want?”

He slows to a stop, and his breaths heave his chest, so I think he has been out here in the snow a while. Maybe earlier on the slopes with Serena, since he, too, wears his black snowpants.

“A lot of things, now that you ask,” he says with a one-shouldered shrug.

I swerve my gaze over his shoulder.

Still, Dray frowns at Oliver’s back for a moment—and then slides his gaze to me. He lifts the joint to his lips and, softly, lures a deep inhale. Vapours lick up his face, but do nothing to dull the sharp blue of his eyes.

I turn my cheek to him.

Oliver leans his shoulder on the pillar at the foot of the steps. Blocking my way, he towers over me.

I back up onto the bottom step just to be a bit taller.

His grin tugs wider. “Have you started your gift buying for New Year?”

I sniff, but the red of my nose hasn’t started to leak yet. “What’s it to you?”

But yes , the answer is.

All I do is sift through magazines and brochures and think up gift ideas and ways to get through my miserable existence.

He reaches into the chest of his jacket, then tugs out a rolled stack of glossy paper. “If you are in need of inspiration…”

It’s a thin, slick brochure of timepieces. Art .

I take it with both hands.

The cover glistens up at me.

That lovely familiar fragrance of glossed pages wafts up at me. I draw in a deeper breath. When I was little, I used to lick the pages. Doesn’t taste as good as it smells. Still, I once got Dray to taste a corner, forever ago. He spat it out.

Oliver taps his gloved fingertips on the brochure. “I circled all the pieces I like. But the one circled red, with a few exclamation marks for pizzaz, I am extra fond of.”

I arch a brow at him, and find that it’s always easier to sass him than Dray, though I manage both, but I’m sure that’s nothing more than sheer pride.

“You can’t buy things yourself?”

“I could buy a watch for close to a hundred grand.” He shakes his head, the grin doesn’t fade. “But Father might make that pruned face of his. You know, Liv, someone has to be the responsible offspring.”

I almost smile. Almost.

But I pinch my mouth instead. The way Father sometimes does when he doesn’t approve of something but can’t quite be bothered coming out and saying it. Mother tuts or clack her nails instead.

Oliver clears his throat and mimics Father’s familiar lecturing tone, “Son, if you are take on the title of the estate, I must trust that you are able to do so with dignity, with discretion—” he leans closer and whispers the final words as though they are a great scandal “—with propriety!”

I kick at his shin. “You smoked too much.”

He doesn’t flinch.

I stuff the brochure into the crossbody bag tucked at my waist. Already, the cherry-blossom-hued leather is peeling, since I’ve shoved and kicked all around Bluestone throughout the weekends. I’m not so kind to my belongings. But I’ll just get a replacement when I need to.

Now, I understand.

If Oliver had his bag in the state of mine, all scuffed and scratched, then maybe our father would judge him for it. Look down on his abilities, his capabilities.

And so he needs me to indulge in wicked spending on his behalf.

I secure the strap over my shoulder and sigh up at him. “So what are you getting me for New Year?”

“What do you want?” he asks but answers his own question before I can, “Not clothes. Not shoes, you hardly wear any of the ones in your collection.”

True.

Shoes look prettiest when in the closet, on their shelves and in their boxes. I pick out some favourites, I wear those few over and over in a year, then replace them with new favourites, like my Mary-Janes. Favourites. I alternate between those and boots that reach between my ankles and calves for inside the academy. My ivory snowboots are for the outside.

Clothes, I like. But it’s such a dull gift—and always, far too risky.

“Jewels?” He shakes his head. “No, you have never cared much for jewellery.”

Tacky, sometimes. To wear chunks of diamonds and gems all over, I just think it looks tacky.

Mother is a minimalist with her diamonds. Less is more. I find that even less is better.

Even now, the earrings I wear are simple gold hoops about the size of Oliver’s enlarged pupils.

He eyes me closely, as if he can lure out the answer, one I don’t even know myself, because I have everything, and so I want for nothing. Or, more accurately, I want for the things money can’t buy. Like Dray being shredded by a snowmobile.

Maybe money can buy that…

Oliver tuts. “A tiger.”

“A tiger?” I lean into the railing. “A tiger in England? Running around my horses, my swans? I don’t think so.”

“I know.” He draws back a step, ready to retreat, to return to his friends and leave me now that he’s mostly gotten what he wants: a deal.

“Not another bird, Mother hates their screeching.”

She had them all moved to the aviary out back when I was twelve, then the indoor ones were placed in a newly built extension just to get them out of the Blue Wing, the side of the manor where the rooms are mostly cerulean.

“Not a bird.” He zips his jacket past his collar, up his neck. The cold is getting to him now. “A Savannah cat.”

I blink. “First generation?”

“Of course.”

I look him up and down for a moment before I nod, sharp. “You have a deal.”

He winks before he turns his back on me, then jogs over to the pews. He trips a sophomore on the way, makes sure to shout “watch out” before he barges into him, sends the poor guy flying.

Before Oliver reaches the rest of the Snakes, I look over at Dray. Always best to keep an eye on him.

He watches me already, but there’s nothing intense about his stare. It’s a frown, a slight crease of the brow, a twist to his mouth, and it’s as though he’s merely considering me.

He lowers his gaze from my face to the coat that drapes me. The hem reaches down past my hips, and the hue is a lovely cream to match the fur hat tugged onto my head.

Both of these items, Dray himself picked for me.

Two winters ago, when our families shopped a day away in the heart of Milan, Dray picked the hat and the coat, then put them on my trying-on pile.

That doesn’t mean anything, though.

He picked out something for Serena, too.

It’s just another of our ways, another way to wear our masks.

But before his gaze can lift back up to my face, I push from the steps—and not a second later, a snowball goes flying by me.

I flinch.

Instinct cringes me into the railing and I half-drop into a crouch.

But the snowball whacks Melody square on the back instead. Wasn’t meant for me.

I didn’t even see her there, on the path. Looks like she’s coming back from the village, what with the two paper shopping bags she has huddled in her arms.

Melody and Mildred must be fighting again.

Sisters, just two years apart.

Melody curses, loud enough that it echoes once, twice. Then she drops the bags to the path with a thump. She lifts her gloved hand and sticks her middle finger up, stiff—and aimed at her grinning sister.

Shoving from the steps, I duck around her, then scurry my ass out of there.

Snowball fights are banned, that’s a one-way ticket to detention, but that doesn’t mean they don’t break out from time to time, and with the Snakes a lot of snowballs end up having stones and pebbles in them. Mysterious, huh?

Mildred’s snowballs hit extra hard.

My mouth was bust open from one back in fourth year. Split my lip and cut my gum. That strike was enough to send me slamming to the path.

Mildred turns the snowballs into ice. Not completely, but solid enough to do some damage.

She can control water as an element. It’s considered a fairly common print. At least a dozen in a coven of elemental witches is needed to wipe out a town with a tsunami. But Mildred makes one heck of a snowball and I am not keen on being around that.

I take the trail that winds around the dead, frosted trees, and I head to the rockpool.

I made the right call. Before I turn around the whitish trunks, a cry splits the air and I stagger around in time to see that Melody has run over to the pews and she’s throwing a parade of punches right at her sister’s face.

Don’t know what she’s thinking.

Mildred got the muscle in the family. She got the stocky build, the solid arms, the legs like pillars. She stands almost as tall as the guys.

And Melody is a slender thing.

Maybe I’ll start a rumour that Mildred stole Melody’s food or something when they were kids. There’s something there that I can use.

My own little schemes of payback.

Like the rumour I spread that Mildred eats cake, if you know what I mean. Or that Oliver has to pluck nose hair every morning. He doesn’t but that doesn’t stop the rumours spreading through the school. My favourite is that Dray gets his butthole bleached.

I’m sneaky about it, too. Don’t just outright tell someone these lies if they don’t trust me. I tell Courtney or James, I murmur it, but loud enough that the students at the table behind me, or the ones standing in front of me in the buffet queue, will hear it… and it holds more merit that way.

That’s the pain of it all, isn’t it?

I might be ostracised, but I am just like them. Deadblood, sure, but raised to be as cruel and sneaky.

I watch the fight tumble down the hill.

Mildred does not pull her punches.

My teeth bare with a grimace.

It’s a wonder she still acts like this. She never quite grew up, did she? Mildred hasn’t changed from first year, not emotionally, not intellectually. She’s a fucking moron.

A grunt.

And I’m sure most would be surprised to learn that she’s twenty-two.

Serena looks over at me.

She’s the only one of the Snakes not watching the fight tumble down the hill. As though she waits for a secret moment, and uses it to look over at the trail—and she does something so strange that it furrows my brow.

Her slender hand lifts, gloves wrapped thinly around her fingers, and she waves. It’s a delicate wiggle of the fingers, so slight that I would have missed it if it weren’t for my stare locked onto her hand.

I make an unkind face before I pull away and stomp down the path.

It’s not a moody stomp, just the decline of the ground beneath me making my steps wobbly, my hips sway, and I pray I don’t go skidding.

Serena’s wave is a niggle in my mind as I make my way to the rockpool.

When we were friends, so long ago, I used to feel sorry for Serena. She lives so far from the rest of us. There are other aristos families in Milan, of course, but no witch children our age, in our year at Bluestone.

She used to call a lot.

Asta’s family founded the Videralli country, Monaco. They live in some fancy hotel in Monte Carlo, which isn’t all that far from Nice, where Landon’s family estate sprawls out in vineyards, then creeps onto the beautiful cliffside shores.

Veils make it easier to visit.

That’s what Oliver does when he has some days to spare on the travel during school breaks. But the travel is exhausting and can’t be done too often.

So it’s really at Bluestone and the aristos gatherings they all have the most time to spend with one another.

Still, there is no substitute for the closest bonds forged.

I see that in them, up there.

Asta sticks to Serena, who hardly glances her way.

Landon, though an aristo, has become Mildred’s shadow. She’s upper gentry, but through her friendship with him, she’s earned herself a nice key, the key to the gilded gates.

That’ll bode well for her later, when she steps into a higher role after graduation— wife . Her connections will put her in the path of other aristos men.

Melody, too, perhaps.

She seems more the type to romanticise an advantageous marriage than her sister would.

I blow a puff of cold, misting air and, with it, throw all thoughts of them out of my mind. The gentle trickle of water falling down a narrow creek, then rolling over rocks into the shallow pool, it’s a lovely song that soothes me.

I drop onto a log and, for a moment, just sit and listen.

My lashes flutter shut.

The creek is gentle, a piano tune I could never muster, that the keys could never achieve beneath my fingers. No matter how many times I try to mimic it, I fail.

The melodies that come naturally to me, my soul, my fingers gliding over the keys, they are less serene and always more distraught.

I long for my pianoforte.

I listen to nature’s tune, until it’s interrupted by a choked, chugging atrocity.

I glare up at the clouds.

One of those krum planes, the little rickety ones, flies far over the neighbouring mountain’s summit and disturbs the music.

To any krum in those planes, peering out the windows, Bluestone will look like nothing more than a chalet. Private grounds. And the village, a private ski resort.

The enchantments mask us and push the niggle in their minds to turn around, it’s not worth the visit, not worth the bother to come here, that there are better views elsewhere.

For that reason, the planes don’t come around often, or for very long. Still, it’s nice to catch a glimpse of them, even if they disturb nature’s song.

“Student,” a man’s voice shouts from behind me.

I jerk around on the green log. But before I can look at the one who advances on me, the backside of my breeches slips over the wet moss.

I fall off.

The ground is soft on my landing.

I throw a glare up at the intruder, and the blame burns in the hazel of my eyes. But that look of outrage falters.

Eric climbs up the steep hill.

The gentle grey of his snowjacket blends with the backdrop of snowy trees and mushy hills and uneven ground. But I see his crooked smile well enough.

“Sorry,” he laughs around the word. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Well, you did.

I don’t say that, of course.

I hope the flush of my face can be passed off as a result of the frosty air, and I push up from the mushy ground. Slush clings to my breeches. I swat at the discoloured snow.

I frown at him. “Did you call me a student?”

He shoves his gloved hands into his pockets. The cheap material screeches against the roughness of his snowpants. “No, actually, I called myself one.” At my blank look, he adds, “Today I’m a student, not a teacher.”

“Oh.” I nod and it takes the sludge of my mind a moment to keep up. The time we had a moment and I had highlighter on me. I asked him if he was my teacher that day.

It’s hard to read Eric.

He’s so smiley, friendly, amiable. But he turned down a flirtatious moment. He allowed it for a moment, but then thought better of it.

Still, I am certain this guy is flirting with me.

I just don’t know if I want to risk rejection again.

It’s embarrassing.

“If I was your teacher today,” he says, “I might ask that you take another shot at your essay. And I might tell you that Master Milton has mentioned that you would benefit from a tutor.”

Surprise isn’t what flattens my mouth, but rather the disappointment. Hardly fair that another senior gets to find out just how poorly I do in class.

That’s my business.

And Father’s.

But I seize the opportunity.

“What about you?”

He hesitates. His mouth parts, but no words come for a moment before, “Me?”

I right the askew hat on my head. “You’re probably the best tutor I could have for that class.”

His lips part further. He raises his brows and just nods.

Don’t think he was really hinting at himself for the position. But apparently, he likes the idea after a moment.

A smile sweeps his pinkish face. “Sure, I could do that.”

“We’ll pay you, of course,” I blurt it out before he can think I am trying to squeeze anything out of him for free. “I mean, my father will.”

His smile turns inwards, like he bites down a laugh at my expense, and I know I’m making a right ass of myself.

“Do you…” Eric pauses, then loosens a sigh. He waves his hand over his shoulder, a gesture back to the slope he hiked up to get to me. Must’ve seen me come down the trail. “Do you want to come with us?”

“Us?”

“Down there—the old football pitch.” He drops his hand to his side. “A few of us are… Uh, well…,” and he fumbles out the words that heat his cheeks and put that sheepish grin on his face. “We’re enchanting snowmen to attack the village.”

The sheer shame of the confession has his complexion the shade of pickled beetroot. He runs his hand over his face, down his smile, and scoffs at his own silliness.

But I think the silliness sounds rather fun.

“I don’t know if your friends will want—” me “—an outsider around.”

“Oh, no, they’ll be fine with it. I’m trying to get in as many antics as I can when I have my teacher hat off.”

“I was actually going to read over Courtney’s article,” I start and look up the trail, as though I’ll find the Snakes storming towards me, to kill any fun I might have, to cut down any smiles I might make.

“Evil snowmen are way more fun,” Eric says and takes a step back. He lifts his hand and offers it to me.

“What a terrible thing for a teacher to say.”

Still, I grab my flimsy bag and slap my hand down on his.

It’s a fucking risk.

But I choose the snowmen.

My favourite part of it is decorating the snowmen.

It takes a while to get to that point.

Packing the round balls of snow is something I’m damn good at. I work faster than the guys, I pack better, but that’s because it’s a favourite pastime of mine, one I never quite grew out of. Used to hit the servants with killer snowballs every winter. Mr Younge was my favourite target.

I keep my gloves on and, though I have discarded my coat and my hat on the boulder that Piper is perched on, sneaking a cigarette away from prying eyes, I pack more and more into giant balls.

Eric and Teddy work together to pack all that icy dust into formidable, solid builds of their own.

I’m sure that at least two hours have passed, maybe even more, before we have eight snowmen.

And then comes my favourite part.

Decorating.

I like the crunch of the snow as I shove the carrot (stolen from the mess hall, thanks to Teddy) into its little round head. I like to find the perfect sticks for arms and forage perfectly round black stones for buttons. I like to carve the fanged teeth into its face and place nests of foliage on its head for hair.

And since I have no magic, enchanting it into a bundling, rolling gust of rage aimed right down the mountain for VeVille, that’s not something I can take much pleasure in.

But I do watch.

The snowmen, one by one, flop onto their sides, then roll.

This far up, we can’t actually see the attack. The village is, after all, a half-hour downhill, and that’s on the gondola.

But we know well enough what will happen.

The snowmen will burst through doors, barrel through windows, tornado through houses, smash into anyone in their paths, then explode in gusts of snow.

Makes for wet furniture.

I’d be pissed if was a villager.

But I’m not, so I laugh.

My hands are numb and raw by the time nightfall inches dangerously close. Even through the leather of my gloves, snow has leaked and dribbled.

I think my bones are frozen solid when Eric leads the way back to the boulder. Piper fixes another cigarette between her blueish lips, stained from the cold. Her hands tremble as she sucks in as much killer air as she can before we head back to the academy.

I sit on my coat, legs crossed into a basket that I set my bag on. And, for a little while, Teddy passes around a bottle of cherry.

I have some. Just a few swigs.

I almost ask Teddy about the blackout dust. But I’m sure his friendliness today is mere manners, not much more, and so I don’t want to be rude.

I find myself filtering the words I do speak, but the rest of the time sticking to tight smiles and nods of the head.

These aren’t my people, and so I am not certain how to behave around them.

Not to mention the glares aimed down at us.

The incline reaches up to the thin treeline. Right on the other side of those trunks are the pews—and the Snakes gathered at them.

Asta found her way to the other side, and she leans her back against a tree, arms folded, and her narrowed gaze a set of daggers aimed down at us.

A mere reach behind her, Dray has his boots planted in the snow. With his back to the pews, he drags his curious frown over me—and the others. New people, witches I haven’t been seen with before now.

There’s a calculative edge to his sharp gaze.

Eric casts a look up the slope at them.

For a long moment, a pulse in time, he stares up at the treeline—then, with a clench of the jaw, says, “Guess we should go back in now.”

There’s no bell to warn students who strayed too far that it’s time to get back to Bluestone. No one needs a bell-triggered avalanche barrelling down the mountain.

But I am not so sure it’s the late hour that’s triggered the end of our day out here.

Teddy and Piper run ahead.

Eric hangs back and waits for me to tug on my coat and hat.

He sticks to my side as we hike up the slope’s path, buried in fresh snow.

“We better watch our backs,” Eric says with a scoff.

He nudges his chin in the direction of the treeline.

I trace the gesture.

Asta hasn’t budged from her spot against the tree.

But Dray has moved closer.

He stands at the edge of the hill, the straight drop just at the toes of his boots, and his hands buried in the deep pockets of his black snowpants.

His frosty gaze sears into me.

On the pew just behind him, through the sparse, wispy trees, Landon leans back with a shout and hands him a silver flask.

Jaw clenched, Dray twists around and snatches it a bit too hard. Still, he doesn’t pull his gaze from Eric and I climbing up the path. His scowl reaches through the mist of the chilled air, and I feel it’s burn on me.

He makes no move for us, but he watches with a ferocity that’s wrinkled into a confused frown of sorts, like he’s coming to some awful understanding. A realisation that won’t quite settle with ease.

I don’t trust him and his makut for a fucking second, so I don’t dare look away. I don’t give him an easy opening.

“Are they always like this?” Eric asks, a whisper. “With you, I mean.”

“Yeah,” I breathe the word with a huff. “They are.”

An icy breeze rushes over the grounds.

Dray’s sawdust hair rustles over his face. The tips brush over the dark arches of his eyebrows before he swigs back whatever liquor is in the flask. His swallow is harsh, it flexes his jaw, and it’s as though he forced down razors.

Finally, at the other end of the treeline, I feel safe enough, determined enough, to turn my cheek to him.

If I wasn’t with Eric, I would run.

But I don’t.

I pretend I am braver than I am, and every step back to the academy is tense, and painful, and wrought with the anxieties nipping away at my insides.

In the atrium, Eric spares me a grin and a ‘ see you later ’ before he leaves for the grand parlour.

I head into the mess hall. I am in desperate need of supper, of hot soup, scalding teas, and then— ooh —a bubble bath that burns me to the bone.

I do just that. Eat alone, then rush back to the dorm room to get some pyjamas and my toiletries tucked in a soft pink caddy with little compartments and that can sling over the shoulder for these longer trips—

The longer trip to the baths.