Chill. It’s fine.
I take a sip of tea, promptly burn myself, and realize that today is destined to be averybad day.
THE ACADEMY GROUNDS ARE FOGGY and drizzly. When I tip my head back to look up at the dense gray clouds, my cheeks get misted on.This weather is going to turn my hair into an uncontrollable mess of frizzy curls.
Unlike the other students, who are probably warm in bed or curled up in front of their fires, I’m tromping through the wet toward the groundskeeper’s hut. I have to pass through the big stone wall encircling the academy, and when I move under the barbican, the air gets even colder. My hands are buried deep in my trouser pockets, and the toes of my boots are already spattered in moisture and leaf matter. Thankfully, my fire magic keeps me warm despite the cold hanging heavy in the air.
Of course this guy lives on the edge of civilization, I think, still feeling half asleep and grumpy from having to get up so early for something I so dearly wantnotto do.
If only my magic would cooperate, I wouldn’t be in this mess. But I don’t know how to get it under control.
Maybe Mom could’ve taught me.
The thought sets me immediately on edge, and I banish it as quickly as it arose. There’s no room for things like that in my head. I’ve already got enough going on without letting myself perseverate over what-ifs and if-onlys.
And besides, she doesn’t deserve a thought from me. Not one.
Huffing out a breath that steams in the chill air, I continue down the winding cobblestone path, which meanders through an open field toward the Mistwood, and toward the dense tree line at the edge of the grounds.
I see and smell the woodsmoke before I see the hut. The smoke curls through the fog, thick and tinged with the light scent of sage. The trees in the Mistwood are dark with rainand moisture, their trunks creating a backdrop of shadow that’s almost impossible to see through. And there, standing at the edge of the woods, is the groundskeeper’s hut.
It’s quaint, with a thatched roof and a large front door. Potted plants crowd the area in front of the hut, dripping with moisture, the flowers and exotic plants lending bright pops of color to the otherwise dreary autumn atmosphere. A few orange and red leaves cling to my boots as I approach the front door.
I can’t believe Moonhart is punishing me like this...
With a furrow in my brow and a downward turn of my lips, I pull one hand from the pocket of my trousers and rap my knuckles against the door.
There’s movement inside the hut, the thumping of steps across the floor.
Then the door to the hut swings open.
And I have to tip my headbackto meet the groundskeeper’s eyes.
I’ve seen him around the academy grounds, though I’ve not exchanged a word with him since the Samhain festival last year, when he was gruff and unfriendly at the mead table.
Even now, his dark brown eyes are narrowed, and his lips are pulled into a deeper frown than mine. His face is human in appearance, though his nose is a bit wider than is typical, and his septum is pierced through with a golden hoop that winks in the low gray light. He’s got a scruffy dark beard and long dark hair, and his ears are slightly elongated and pointed. His most noticeable feature—apart from his hulking frame, swishing tail, and hooves—is his spiraling blackhorns. They’re ridged and glossy, twisting up and out from either side of his head. Some minotaurs choose to adorn their horns with jewelry and delicate chains and other items, but his are bare. They catch some of the light from the fire burning in the hearth behind him, their surface twinkling like faceted onyx.
I cease my observance of him and refocus on his narrowed eyes. He says nothing, just stands there in the doorway, looking down at me like he’s considering slamming the door in my face.
And honestly, that’d be just fine. I could report back to Headmistress Moonhart, and maybe she’d assign me community service with someone else, like the cook. I wouldn’t mind hanging around in the kitchens, taste testing pastries and learning how to whip up the perfect spiced hot chocolate.
“I’m Lyra Wilder,” I finally bring myself to say, since he seems uninterested in speaking first. “Headmistress Moonhart sent me—”
“You’re late,” he says, deep voice silencing mine with a heavy rumble.
I give him an approximation of an innocent smile. “Am I? I could’ve sworn I left on time.”
Yeah, I’m late. I may have agreed—or been forced to agree—to this ridiculous community service, but I don’t have to beeagerabout it. And besides, it doesn’t look like he was busy or anything.
My gaze slides to one side of the hulking minotaur. He’s too tall for me to see over his shoulder, but through the space under his arm where he’s holding open the door, I canmake out a quaint living space, a fire crackling in the hearth, and a hot cup of something steaming on a side table beside a well-worn book.
Yeah, looks like he wasrealbusy. I let out a quiet scoff.
When he notices my curious gaze, he shifts in the doorway, blocking my view. His dark gaze appraises me from curls to mud-stained boots. “Those your work clothes?”
Glancing down at myself, I shrug. “Guess it depends on the work.”
He huffs out a breath. It doesn’t sound entertained. “Gloves?”
