As we run, I notice that many of the doors have been flung open by the magic surge. Some of them are hanging on their hinges, some of them are burned, some of them have had holes blown through. It’s a fucking mess. Magical Maintenance are going to have their work cut out for them tomorrow.
Finally, he slips into a room at the end of one corridor, through a jagged hole in the door. I don’t recognize this place—it’s a wing I haven’t been to before. It looks…nice. The doors here, though ruined, are all paneled mahogany, unlike the cheap MDF doors in the dorm rooms of my wing. There’s plush carpet on the hall floor—a far cry from our scuffed laminate—and actual magetorches in sconces line the walls instead of fluorescent lighting.
This must be the south wing, where the rooms cost a bomb in boarding fees.No matter, I think. Likely all the rich folk would have been at the charity gala, or else drinking in the bar downstairs where cocktails are like, thirty magecredits apiece. They often dothat of an evening rather than hanging out with us plebs in the common room (not that I hang out there, anyway).
I creep along the shadowed corridor, careful to keep quiet so that Percy doesn’t hear me and get spooked. I’m practiced at approaching skittish cats, and the plush carpet swallows the sound of my footfalls, so I’m practically silent as I enter the darkened room.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and when they do, I have to stifle a gasp. This room is so far beyond anything I’d imagined. Our dorm rooms, the ones that the likes of me and Bridie Masters and Pen Ferguson occupy, are utilitarian, consisting of nothing but worn carpet, a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe made of pine. We try to make them look as nice as we can, we really do. Some of us stick posters up, or perform decorating charms. And I have the bar fridge stashed beneath my desk—a lucky find I picked up off the pavement because a neighbor no longer needed it.
But this room?Thisroom! It’s absolutely stunning. The walls are a dark sort of paneled wood, and there’s an actual fireplace set into the far wall, though it’s not lit. The bed is big, a four-poster, and lined with silky white curtains. The bedclothes are rumpled, but in that styled-for-a-magazine-shoot kind of way: a navy duvet spread over crisp white sheets; pillows and cushions piled high at one end, leaning against a carved wood headboard. I nearly salivate at the walls of bookshelves, all stuffed with leather-bound books. And the antique desk is enormous, also mahogany, an elegant magelamp with an actual lampshade perched atop it.
I edge closer, unable to stop myself from running my fingers along the desk’s varnished surface. There are pieces of parchment scattered about, a fountain pen in a stand, and a high-backed leather chair. It’s all very elegant, and refined, and…
Where is Percy?
I drop to my hands and knees and begin to crawl around. I’m trespassing in some rich person’s room, someone who has way more money to pay lawyers than I do. I need to get in and out, fast.
Percy isn’t under the desk, and he’s not beneath the bed. I search behind a cushy, wingback armchair that sits in what I presume is the “library.” I even paw through the unnecessarily extravagant number of pillows. Who needs this many pillows, anyway? Fucking royalty? I roll my eyes. Perhaps someone has stashed a pea under the mattress.
There’s only one more place to look. A door, fitted into the wooden wall, is standing ajar. I tiptoe over and push it slightly. It opens silently, without resistance.
The scent of men’s cologne hits me immediately, something that smells vaguely familiar. Ignoring this fact, I whisper softly into the darkness.
“Percy? Are you in here?”
There’s no answer. And it’s dark. So I flip on the magelights, which flicker into brightness.
Oh hell no. This wardrobe isenormous. It’s almost as big as my entire dorm. And no—oh no. Oh no no no no no.
I recognize the clothes here.
Lining each rack are rows and rows of linen shirts and equally many neatly hung trousers. Hanging in the far corner are several clean, pressed coveralls, and on the opposite wall are scores of fancy robes; I spot dress robes and tuxedo robes and travel cloaks and numerous long, soft, woolen scarves. A neat row of ties have their very own rack, and displayed on a shelf beneath the window there are cuff links, a spare strap, and a shiny silver fob watch, imprinted with the initialsHFB.
Oh, lords save me.HFB.
I’m in the bedroom of my worst fucking enemy.
I need to get out. And quickly. Dropping back to the floor, I begin searching through the many shoe racks, all lined with shiny, expensive-looking shoes. There are studded boots and loafers and dress shoes and—thank the gods—Percy himself. He’s wedged himself unceremoniously behind a pair of brogues. Or at least I think they’re brogues. From the looks of it, Percy’s let off a mini explosion, and the leather is kind of charred.
Good, I think vindictively.
“Percy,” I whisper, keeping my voice low and urgent. “Come on. Quickly! We need to get out of here.”
He’s silent for a moment, before his voice rings, loud and clear, inside my head.I don’t think I shall, he says.I am comfortable here, and besides, perhaps it would do you good to be exposed to someone with better fashion sense.
I scowl at him. “My fashion sense is just fine, thank you very much.”
He gives me an appraising look with his slitted yellow eye.The cardigan you are wearing says otherwise.
I give a groan of exasperation. It really isn’t my fault that I’m forced to buy clothes at charity shops. “This isn’tfunny, Percy. Do you know whose room we’re in? If we’re caught, we’re going to be in so much fucking trouble. Harrisford Briggs is a selfish, pompous, arrogant prick and—”
And it’s like this—on the floor, insulting Harrisford, with my bum high in the air—that I hear the drawling voice behind me. The voice that never ceases to fill me with incandescent rage.
“Chan? Is that you?” Harrisford says. Then, he adds, as my heart pools in my stomach, “What thefuckare you doing in my room?”
6
Harrisford
