I press my hand flat against the intricate carved vines. My throat feels like it wants to clog up with emotion.
Papa has worked hard my whole life. Raising me alone, he did everything he could to give me the best and most comfortable life possible. And when I told him I wanted toattend the academy, he started quietly working that much harder, saving up for my books and travel and everything else I need to be a student here.
Yet here I am, slumped in a lonely stairwell, on the verge of being expelled, of losing everything I’ve—he’s—worked so hard for.
I picture the letter from him sitting in my nightstand beside my bed. I’ve not been able to bring myself to write back, to tell him about the fire in the greenhouse, the community service, the stoic minotaur who’s been saddled with me.
I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’m one erratic flame away from failing. It’d break me. And him.
He’s always believed in me, I think, feeling tears well up along my eyelids, thick as the rain still running down the small high windows.But what if he’s wrong?
Chapter 6
Lyra
ANOTHER WEEK PASSES, ANOTHER WEEKEND arrives, and I find myself waking early—though this time without Alina having to snow on my face. Not that she could’ve anyway; she stayed in Raelan’s room last night, even though the headmistress communicated in no uncertain terms that such a thing is strictly forbidden. But I’m certainly not telling anyone.
I dress quietly, careful not to wake Poppy and Maeve. And this time, Juniper slips into the deep pocket of my old worn sweater, the one with the hole in the cuff, opting to join me for my community service instead of staying curled up in bed.
Breakfast consists of a day-old muffin and a cup of black tea, and then I’m pulling on my warm boots and slipping out of room NT33. The stairwell is silent save for the whisper of flames dancing in sconces along the walls.
“Did you eat enough?” Juniper asks in her soft sleepy voice.
I look down to find her head poking out of the pocket of my sweater, her paws gripping the edge of the fabric.
I shrug one shoulder. “Probably not.”
She gives me her version of a stern glare. “You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I know, I know.” I yank up my wild curls and knot them on top of my head. “I just want to get this over with. I’ll eat when I’m done.”
“I don’t approve.” With a displeased twitch of her whiskers, she sinks back down into my pocket.
Rolling my eyes, I continue down the winding stairwell. I don’t pass anyone on my way through the drafty castle, and Juniper is still my only company as I pass through the courtyard and into the morning fog, headed toward the groundskeeper’s hut.
The days continue to grow colder as winter draws nearer. Midterms will be here before we know it, then Samhain. And soon after that, we’ll have our winter exams, and the semester will be over.
A knot forms in my gut at the thought of the semester’s end—and whether or not I’ll still have a place here come spring.
I’m feeling grateful all I had was that stale muffin. My stomach is trying to dance right now, and if I’d eaten anything more, I might be sick.
When I arrive at Mr. Axton’s hut, he’s already outside working at the garden bench, and I get the opportunity to observe him as I finish meandering down the windingpath through the valley. He’s wearing the same worn-out trousers he had on last time I was here, but today his upper body is clad in a long-sleeved forest-green tunic, and something weird happens in my stomach when my gaze traces the round muscles in his shoulders and arms, the ease with which he flexes and moves.
His horns stand stoic atop his head, looking smooth and shiny as he tips his head this way and that. For the first time, I wonder what they might feel like if I were to run my fingertips across them. Are they smooth, the way they look? Or do they have a deceivingly rough texture?
I’m still pondering this when he looks up and meets my eyes. And immediately, his narrow, and a glimmer of suspicion shines in them.
“What?” I ask, hoping he didn’t catch me staring as I come to stop a few paces from him.
His dark gaze continues to assess me. And after a too-long pause, he says, “I didn’t expect you to be on time.”
A flicker of irritation warms my insides. “You barely know me. Maybe you shouldn’t come to conclusions quite so quickly.”
His eyes remain narrowed. His mouth works as if he’s deciding which words to spit out. But then he says simply, “Maybe.”
And that’s that.
He goes back to whatever he’s working on, leaving me standing there in the early-morning fog still curling around my ankles and his hooves. After standing there a short while longer—being ignored by him all the while—I let out a sigh and move to stand beside him.
