Though it still doesn’t really explain why I’ve noticed her in the lunchroom. Or why I’ve memorized the way she makes her tea when she thinks no one else is looking.
And perhaps it doesn’t explain why I insisted thatshedress Pudding’s wounds, when I probably could have taken my myth.creat knowledge, applied it to a smaller reptile, and managed it myself.
No.I was just worried about my familiar last night, that’s all. I wasn’t thinking straight. After all, Pudding came into my life at a particularly vulnerable time, and since then I’ve been very protective of her…Some might say overprotective. I most definitely wasnottrying to spend more time with Gwendolynne Guiying Chan.
I swallow, suddenly extremely conscious of the movement my throat makes as I do so. Gwendolynne is no longer looking at me, but instead is staring very hard at her scroll, a faint tinge of pink dusting the tops of both cheekbones.
“Chan?” I say eventually.
“Yes, Briggs?” she responds, still determined to not look at me.
“Do you have plans for tomorrow night?”
She gives a nervous laugh, a flush creeping across her décolletage. “Oh, you know me,” she says, rubbing at her neck. “I’ll just be chained to my desk, studying.”
I almost spit out my coffee but manage to swallow it down. “Can you take a night off?” My hands are clammy; I tighten my fingers around my cup. Something about the dates on Nora Chapman’s lists has given me an idea…and unfortunately, it involves my father.
Finally, she looks up, giving me a wary look. “Why?”
“Because,” I say, my mood darkening, “we need to break into my father’s study.”
10
Gwendolynne
The next day at our weekly dean’s lecture, the dean, Professor Kaur, is away. Apparently she’s unwell, so Seamere’s vice dean, Professor Thomas Pickering, is standing in.
The vice dean’s speech is all about the magical power surge that happened in the common room two nights ago; Professor Pickering assures us all that it’s a “one-off event” and that “no students were harmed” and that we should all focus on our studies and exams in a few weeks’ time.
The professor’s speech baffles me because for one, there’s no mention of the other power surges that have been occurring across London—including the one at the charity gala. And two, studentswereharmed. Several students, in fact. Heloise is still in the infirmary, and her empty chair is like a burning hole beside me.
At the conclusion of his lecture, Professor Pickering invites questions from the audience.
A fifth-year student at the back of the hall raises her hand. “What about the rumors about MLO involvement, Professor? Some people have been saying that it might be connected—”
Professor Pickering harrumphs and cuts her off. “I would encourage you not to listen to unfounded gossip, Miss Larsson.” Withone finger, he pushes up his wire-rimmed glasses. The overhead lights catch the beads of sweat that have sprung out on his forehead. “There is absolutely no evidence that a terrorist organization like the MLO could breach Seamere security. However, if anyone has any concerns about the matter, or wishes to discuss these…rumors…in more confidence, see me in my office.”
I mull over this as the vice dean continues to answer questions, fielding several related to how much time students can legitimately take out of classes in order to tend their injured familiars.
While it’s true that the MLO sneaking into Seamere is unlikely, that doesn’t necessarily make it better. Even if it isn’t them that caused the explosion, shouldn’t that still be a cause for concern?
I cast a surreptitious look around the room. What if it’s one ofus?
Professor Pickering doesn’t seem worried, however. Any further questions about magical surges or explosions are quickly and expertly shut down. I begin to suspect that the professor has been given some sort of media training.
It’s only when we’re finally dismissed that I realize I’d been clenching my fists the whole session. My palms are covered with little red crescents from where they’ve been indented by my nails.
I’m supposed to meet Harrisford by the large paddock tonight, fifteen minutes after the end of class. I’d suggested we meet somewhere outside since I didn’t want to risk him coming by my dorm again. When the time comes, I rush to my room: Fifteen minutes is just enough time to throw on some clean clothes and smear on some lip gloss. It’s silly, but I’m actually nervous, my pulse erratic.
My thoughts keep sliding back to what had happened in the library yesterday. How—and why—had Harrisford known the way I take my tea? As far as I can remember, I’ve never told him. He can’t have been watching me that closely, can he?
Unless…I pick up my brush and drag it through my hair, barelynoticing it snagging in my knots.No.It’s probably just because Harrisford is highly observational and likes to figure people out. I suspect he wants to know everything he can about his rivals—including me—so he can properly destroy them.
Percy watches as I try to scrape my hair back into something resembling a hairstyle. He’s lying on my brown cardigan and has burned a hole right through it. It could well have been intentional, but I’m not brave enough to ask.
I still don’t understand why you humans insist on grooming yourselves with those dreadful plastic things, he observes dryly, as my flat hair fights a losing battle against Earth’s unconquerable gravity,when a tongue is clearly so much better.
“I don’t have spines on my tongue, Percy. It’s less functional than yours.” I let out a sigh, then give up on my hair, letting it tumble loose around my shoulders. Momentarily, I consider trying a hair-volumizing spell. But I’m not well practiced at doing them, so I decide it’s not worth the bother.
