“I never am.”
And with a farewell air-kiss to Daddy and a wave to Rye, she dashed out the door.
Because Raven’s Head School for the Magically Gifted was literally built upon land once owned by the Woodcross family, all Embry had to do was jog straight down the hill from the estate, through the gates of the Raven’s End Cemetery, and she was on school grounds before Daddy had finished his breakfast. Well,ifhe’d eaten the rest of it.
By ten minutes before first bell, Embry exited the dorm at Raven’s Head with her best friend and fellow senior prefect Amethyst Oberon in tow, showered and scrubbed to glowing, houndstooth blouse paired with her requisite school-branded vest and skirt.
Embry was not only on time; she was early.
But just as soon as the two witches stepped into the morning sunshine, Merlin, Headmaster Martinelli’s pet red-tailed hawk, swooped down from one of the quad’s many towering oaks and deposited an enchanted navy envelope into Embry’s hands.
“Please tell me Merlin didn’t just unload his leftovers,” Ames joked from over Embry’s shoulder. The hawkwasrather fond of dropping desiccated carcasses on anyone who could be overheard grousing about how they thought a raven might be a more appropriate companion to the headmaster of this particular school.
Embry waved the envelope. “All business today.”
Despite improvements to technology over the past century, Raven’s Head did not care to adopt a PA system of any kind to communicate with its students and faculty. Too crass, impersonal, and,well,basic, for an institution of its caliber. Magically augmented notes from Merlin were standard for communication. Embry opened the missive, and Headmaster Martinelli’s voice shimmered up from the spelled ink, relaying the message in both visuals and audio. “Head Prefect Embry Woodcross to administration.”
Ames checked the Old Main clocktower. “So close to first bell? That can’t be good.”
Embry straightened the cross-body satchel she wore—1999 Chanel once owned by her mother—and ensured her prefect pin was perfectly square. “Save me a seat in calc, will you?”
“Left-hand window side, second from the front?” Ames confirmed.
“Amethyst Oberon, you’re complete perfection.”
Ames fluffed the ends of her shiny black curls, teeth flashing white against her flawless dark brown skin. “I always am. I’ll also save your ass by explaining very nicely to Miss Hemlock that you’re on official prefect business and not simply arriving late for your grand entrance.”
Embry brushed it off. “She knows I’d never do such a thing. Real fashion doesn’t need tardiness to be noticed.”
And with a quick hug scented of rose water and high-end makeup, they parted ways, Ames to the STEM building, and Embry toward administration. It was a brisk walk, seeing as the offices of the Raven’s Head elite were positioned within literal screaming distance of the dormitory in the event that the generational magical scrapping between the Witches, Bitches, Stitches, and Glitches went overboard. It’s not as if anyone had everdiedfrom a little magical misunderstanding, but some factions (cough, cough, Bitches) were mighty territorial by nature and, at least once a semester, there was a screamer. Or two.
At this moment in time, no one was screaming, but Headmaster Martinelliwasbouncing on her heels, pantsuit utterlyprofessional but the rest of her body waving like a giant balloon at a car dealership. The hawk glided to the leather cuff on her arm, landed, and proceeded to bob and weave as the headmaster continued to wave. As a demigoddess descended from the line of Freyja, one would think she’d be a little more glamorous and a lot less frazzled, but a hundred years in educational administration could change a person.
“Head Prefect Woodcross, there you are! Your haste is most appreciated.” Martinelli’s makeup-free face was stretched round, her severe bob seemingly straining to keep up. Embry wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the woman so pressed.
Embry schooled her face to be placid and helpful—exactly what Martinelli seemed to need right now—though she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that being addressed as “Head Prefect Woodcross” rather than “Miss Woodcross” would likely never get old. “What can I—”
“I need you to show the newest member of our senior class to her room and first period.” Her voice was businesslike despite her disheveled presentation. “Come, Miss Riddle, we have seven minutes to get you there. A detention warning would be a terrible way to start.”
Martinelli turned and beckoned heartily. Embry blinked in the sun, barely making out three shapes pushed up against the administration building’s exterior. A slim figure separated herself from the mélange of grays and fell in line with the headmaster.
This girl was petite and pale in that full-moon way, hiding under curls fried to within an inch of their life by a blond so platinum it was nearly silver. The effect only made her look more washed out, her kohl-rimmed eyes a colorless black as they watched Embry. And she wore abackpack. Embry had never in her life seen a student at Raven’s Head wear one. Even the freshmen knew satchels, messenger bags, heck, even briefcases, were the only way to go. Yetthis girl’s backpack was so full it threatened to send her sprawling. She might have well and truly toppled over if it were not for the fact that she was clutching an entire wardrobe’s worth of school uniform pieces in her spindly arms, one awkwardly managing both the wad of clothing as well as the telescoping handle of a roller bag.
“We have quite the paperwork to attend to,” the headmaster announced, gesturing to the shadowy figures Embry took for the girls’ parents. “Oh! And no need to dress in uniform yet, Miss Riddle, what you’re wearing is acceptable for physical education.”
Embry stifled a gasp.First-period gym?That was shorthand for the world’s shittiest schedule, sponsored by late enrollment.Especiallyfor a senior.
“Thank you, goodbye, and welcome to Raven’s Head, Miss Riddle.” Martinelli all but shoved the new girl down the handful of stairs to the brick walkway before proceeding to charge toward her office. The new girl waved a pitiful goodbye.
Heart tugging, Embry smiled warmly. “Embry Woodcross. And you are?”
The girl stepped forward, the roller bag scraping along, its wheels struggling on the seams between bricks. “Oakley—er, do I call you Head Prefect Woodcross?”
“Not necessary. Only administration does that. Embry’s fine. Nice to meet you, Oakley.” Embry checked the time. Five minutes now. “Let’s get you to the gym.”
Embry offered a hand to take the girl’s luggage, and Oakley looked almost relieved to comply, though that relief was superseded by a hesitant glance over her shoulder toward Martinelli’s office. “I thought I was supposed to go by my room first?”
Embry tapped her watch and began lugging the roller bag away. What’d she have in this thing? A dead body? “No time to get you settled with the dorm wards. So, what we’re going to do is stash your luggage and uniform allotment and get you to class.”
