Page 86 of Wings of Destruction

I suck in a breath and press to the wall when the bell rings and the classrooms open at the same time.

Students flow into the hallways, released from their classes and laughing together.

Red and gold school uniforms mark them as the same. They know their place.

How many of them will actually make it to graduation?

I shut my eyes and wait for them to pass. If any of them pretend to hide their pity, I won’t have to see it. It’s better that way.

Ignoring the things I’m not ready to face yet.

The creaky joint in my elbow protests when I lift the bucket off the ground. Cool water laps over the side and immediately soaks between my toes.

Ether take me.

Finally, the halls empty again, and the chatter dies to a low drone in the distance. A second bell dings, the final warning before being tardy, and I push away from the wall.

The students have left detritus in their wake.

Stray papers and lost pens, hair and thread and drink spills, lost buttons. Crumbs from snacks shoved into hungry mouths before professors scolded.

It’s not my problem.

Not this time, anyway.

On any given day, Milkin might change her mind, and decide my silence is troublesome rather than relieving.

I take the turn at the statue of a small pirouetting girl done in cast bronze, her fingers reaching into the sky like she’ll brush the underside of a cloud if she’s lucky enough. Two doors down, a gold-plated sign hammered into old wood says the gym is for private use only.

She has to know. It’s the only reason why she’s sent me to this place, where I know the corners of the room better than the cracks along my knuckles. I’ve handled every practice weapon, stomped across every square inch of the mat. But I’ve never pushed the door open to the right of the main entrance.

It hasn’t mattered.

I steel myself and head into the gym with my head held high. There isn’t a spot of dust on any of the shelves and cobwebs are banished the second they even think to exist.

I’ve used the gym in the hush of midnight but didn’t think about who cleaned it before.

And once I see inside the adjacent locker room, things will change. The gym will be branded by ownership and my own tender grasp on it will fall away. Someone else uses this space during the daylight hours.

The locker room will surely mark their presence. There will be little things, kicked off shoes or spare uniforms. There will be towels with monogrammed initials in the corner, perhaps.

I draw out of my head and find I’m inches from the door.

Acid surging in my veins, I head inside, and pull up short. The elite, my mind supplies, and my face twists in a sneer.

The ultra-lux private locker room has rows of mahogany cubbies empty and waiting to be filled with changes of clothes and exercise accouterments.

The benches are padded with velvet cushions in a rich red. My tired mind conjures images of people like Evie lounging on those cushions with attendants waiting to feed her grapes.

Choke on them.

I’d slap the grapes right out of her mouth. Or his.

Even the image isn’t enough to help me with the exhaustion.

This is a space designated to the top tier of the school, those who rule the roost as sure as any monarch. Most places for public education have their own versions of royalty.

I’ve been using one’s private gym.