15

I roll onto my side—and startle at the face of a skeletal imp.

The breath cuts through me as I jerk back on my pillow. The face of the little beast is curved over the side of my bed.

Its mouth curls around black teeth before it slides out from the gap in the curtains. The drapes don’t fall back into place. The gap stays, enough that I can watch the imp drag an envelope off the nightstand—and lets it fall to the floor.

I narrow my eyes, but the critter just hisses at me before it falls away to the floorboards and scurries across the dorm room to the parted brass gate.

It dips through the gap, then slams the gate shut.

Gone back into the tunnels that lead all the way to the basement. The tunnels are too narrow to push a person through, but the imps use them to get around and tend to all the little chores, like delivering luggage and parcels, or in this case, letters.

The trick with the little critters is to attach a bronze coin. Gold and silver upsets them, it must be copper. Attach the coin to whatever parcel is delivered and an imp will take great care to deliver it immediately.

That explains why the dawn hasn’t broken through the gaps in the curtains yet.

A yawn twists me around the bed before I stretch out my hand for the edge. I lean all the way down to graze my fingertips over the floor, because nothing will get me out from under the heat of the blankets and into the dark morning chill.

The moment my fingers graze the thick envelope, I feel that it’s detailed and grooved.

I bring the envelope onto the bed and rip off the wax seal. There is only one piece of paper inside, folded, and it is a contrast to the luxurious touch of the envelope. Thick and cream, but the grooves are scattered and too coarse, and I think of the kind of stationary found in five-star hotels or airport lounges. Not custom.

Mother calls those ones pseudo-luxuries, because they mimic the quality we have at home.

I unfold the letter.

And my heart is quick to plummet to my writhing gut.

‘Olivia, I would have called to discuss this matter with you, but as it is, I am not yet returned to England from business. The connection from Japan is unreliable and I do not wish to run the risk of being misunderstood in my severe disappointment of your actions.

Thus, I think it imperative that I write to you now.’

Oh fucking drown me.

The writhing in my gut churns thicker, like a pit of worms flailing and slapping about in a tub of tar.

I read on.

‘You will—and I mean will —maintain your propriety and dignity at all times, even at the academy. You are a representation of your family, of aristos, of the heart of the Videralli, and I will not hear another whisper about you ‘rolling around the snow with a fallen gentry’.’

My face twists.

Fallen gentry.

I didn’t know that about Eric.

I always thought he was merely a gentry—and, like all elite (ancient blood) gentries, his family would have once been at the core of the Videralli, like ours, and they would have had wealth.

I just assumed what happened to the Harlings is what happens to many aristos over the centuries. Bad investments. Lazier arranged marriages. Weaker prints appearing with time. And so, the loss of wealth and power.

But to be fallen is different.

Fallen is punishment.

That means that, somewhere up Eric’s family line, a witch didn’t agree with the Videralli, enough to at least attempt to change the way it’s done.

That witch was probably killed, and the rest of the family stripped to the bone of wealth, stripped of their privileges, and forced to start again. No allies, no friends, no help.

But that is Eric’s problem.

Not mine.

Today I have my own shit to eat away at my mind.

My problem is the ache of my teeth, the sensitive touch of my mouth—that I am sure is bruised—and this fucking letter.

Huffing out a breath, I finish the last few lines.

‘It is my understanding that you behaved indecently for a woman of your status and a witch of your standing.

This will not be tolerated.

I do believe I am understood.

Father.’

My mouth curls.

Someone snitched.

No need to think hard, it was a Snake who ratted me out.

No doubt in my mind about it.

Dray was the one who watched us hike up the trail, and so my gold is on him. But then there is Asta, and she did not like to see what we were doing.

Why it would concern her in the least, I have no fucking clue. But she cared enough to watch for too long, face too sour.

The hypocrisy of it, of all the slithery Snakes, is enough to curl my hand into a fist around the letter. I chuck it at the drawn curtains at the foot of the bed.

It bounces back onto the bedspread.

I flop onto my side.

I wasn’t ‘ rolling around’ with Eric.

Such a fucking exaggeration that it borders on a fresh lie. I fell, Eric fell trying to steady me, and we knocked into the snowman we were building.

Hardly ‘rolling around’.

And even if we were, what’s it to Dray, or Asta, or any of the Snakes for that matter? Are they so concerned for my reputation that they must write to my father and report my behaviour? I mean, really, Dray had Melody practically straddling him in the pub just the other month, Oliver doesn’t hide that he’s got his tongue down Serena’s throat half the time, and Landon has a fucking gambling problem.

I marinate in it a while.

My scowl remains the whole hour that passes before dawn comes, and the misty light starts to pierce through the curtains.

I drag myself out of bed.

The grand parlour is empty when I find my way to the coffee machine.

I don’t want to make three trips, so I fill up three mugs, then—pushing them into a triangle—carry them to the desk by the tall window.

The natural light washes over the inks and papers I spread out.

I stare at blank paper and work on my first coffee. When the mug is drained, I set it aside—and I write to Father.

It’s an effort to keep my sour mood spilling into the ink of the fountain pen.

‘Father,

I’m sorry—and shocked—to read your letter this morning. I write hastily for that reason.

Eric Harling and I were not, as you put it, rolling around the snow together. I recognise the incident you are referring to, and please allow me to explain.

I was speaking to Eric to ascertain if he would be available for tutorship. He has taken an apprenticeship under Master Milton for Star Theory, as you might know, and as you are firmly aware, I do struggle when converting calculations into predictions. Perhaps it’s a magic handicap result, perhaps it’s that my mind isn’t prediction-inclined.

Eric and I were discussing tutorship when I took a tumble. He, obviously, tried to help me up, but the frost and the ice is all over the grounds. He fell, and we both knocked into the snowman that his friends were building.

We got up, laughed away the embarrassment, and then I was invited to help build the snowmen.

I apologise for not being aware that a simple snow game was improper, despite that I carried myself according to my standing and the elevation of my family the whole time.

I wish I had more to tell. But that is all that happened.’

I pause.

The end of the fountain pen winds up in my mouth, and for a long moment, I chew on it.

My mind is in a morning clash behind a weary fog.

I can’t decide whether to snitch on Oliver or not.

I don’t know if he was the one to tell our father about this ‘incident’ with Eric. Wouldn’t surprise me. But the niggle reminds me of Dray, watching from the treeline.

How long we had his attention, I don’t know.

But writing to my father to tell on me doesn’t fit him.

I slump in the chair.

Snatching a fresh, hot mug, I start on my second fill of morning coffee. But it’s one of those thick sleepy mornings, where my face is puffy and my eyes dull, that I don’t think it will ease with caffeine. It’s the sort of tired that needs a long, deep dunk in icy water.

Setting down the empty mug, I press the tip of the fountain pen to the paper, and continue.

‘I hope you will grant the tutorship.

I will benefit greatly from the help. The senior year workload is proving more challenging than I anticipated. But I do try.

Please be safe on your business trip, and when you speak to Mother, tell her I love and miss her, as I do you.’

I say nothing about it. Nothing about anything.

I sign the letter and let the ink dry.

If it’s Dray who snitched, then what can I really tell Father?

The rift between me and Dray, whether or not my brother gets involved sometimes, is just that—between me and Dray.

The rules, the corruption of aristos, the ‘deal-with-it-yourself-or-not-at-all’ expectation we all live by.

Besides, his family is a strong ally of ours and any wedge driven between us could be disastrous. If Father even allowed the wedge to form.

This is one of the do-it-yourself times.

Only, without magic, what can I do to defend myself?

Not a whole fucking lot.

Without much interest in sport, there’s not a lot of opportunity to knock into either Dray or Oliver and bust their noses open on feigned accident. I definitely do not hit the slopes at Bluestone. I only ski when I’m forced to at society gatherings and my nose gets all runny. I hate it. I avoid it like I would avoid warts.

This pen and paper, the ear and eye of my father, it’s all the weaponry I have.

I touch my fingerprint to the letter. It comes away clean, and so the ink is dry.

Still, I blow over it once just in case, then tuck it away into an envelope.

I finish the third mug of coffee, lukewarm now and too milky, as I address the envelope.

I take it to the grate, a small, round iron barrier that’s tucked beside the sideboard, and stuff it through the gaps. Then I poke a copper coin through the little hole and wait for it to land on the envelope.

It does.

I whistle, thrice.

Witches around Bluestone tend to shoot sparks down the tunnel to alert the imps of their letters or to summon them, but I don’t have sparks. The imps have learned my whistle. And Father must tip them enough copper coins that they come to my call.

I leave the grate before any imp shows.

The urge to crawl back into bed is strong. But I fear if I do, I will fall asleep for too long and sleep through the morning classes.

Instead, I get ready for the day.

I pick out my patent Mary-Janes for the day of indoor lessons, a black cardigan to pull over my bowed shirt, and a plaid skirt. As always, the tights are thermal lined.

The others are only now rousing in their beds as I brush my hair into a high ponytail. I hear the rustle of bedding, the thumping of pillows, the containment of yawns.

I leave them to their sleepy morning.

I take my backpack and head to breakfast.