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“And the lighter,” Jane says.
It hurts Storm to relinquish that, but she does.
“Good. This is it, Storm. No more. Do you understand? I don’t want to deal with this smoking issue again.”
“Sure,” Storm nods. “I understand.”
She’s very carefully not making a promise. She’s saying she understands, because she does. She understands that she is caught in a situation in which gratifying her own urges comes secondary to being obedient. That realization comes with a tinge of shame that she might understand were she to think about it more deeply, but she will not. Instead, she will continue to avoid the great morass of feelings that threaten to overwhelm her when it comes to matters of Jane and her discipline and flee back to some other part of the school where she might imagine herself entirely independent once more.
Having gotten out of trouble, she is already looking for more.
She does not have to go too far to find it.
On her way back from Jane’s office, she happens to run into Laura. It’s probably not a coincidence. She still has eyes on her, and those eyes are designated to be Laura’s.
Ordinarily, she might pretend not to notice, or maybe even give Laura a wave. Today, after all she has been through due to that woman, she stops and gives Laura a displeased stare.
Laura cocks her head to the side, perhaps surprised to be glowered at by a student who suddenly seems to have the energy of an authority figure.
“Snitch,” Storm narrows her eyes at Laura.
“For your own good.”
“Hardly. It’s because you want in her pants.”
Laura’s expression cools further. “It is not appropriate to make comments on other people’s relationships that way.”
“Yeah?” Storm smirks. “What are you going to do about it? Tell on me?”
It’s not that she’s bitter about Laura going to Jane about the smoking. It’s that she’sverybitter about it. All of this could have been avoided if Laura could just have had the slightest bit of chill. This woman is proving to be quite the thorn in Storm’s paw, all things considered.
Laura gives her the usual impassive look. The one that suggests she cannot be goaded, because she is above the machinations of a teenage brat looking for a fight. That response truly gets under Storm’s skin. There is nothing worse than someone who will not fight. When Laura does not respond, Storm continues on her way with a head and heart full of fresh rebellion.
She knows precisely who can help her now.
Hazel deWinter is in her second year at Birchbane. She is a slim, dark-haired girl with deep brown eyes and a quiet demeanor. Frau Lotte describes her as a wallflower. Storm thinks of her more like a Venus flytrap.
Hazel’s family are merchants and have been for generations. At Birchbane, Hazel has taken up that banner and become the go-to girl for anything a girl could want. Some items, like cigarettes and wine, she always has in stock. Others take a little time, but she always comes through.
Hazel’s room is three down from Storm’s on the left. Most of the girls keep their spaces relatively as Birchbane has designed them. Hazel’s room has been completely redesigned from the ground up. Not even the bed remains standard issue. Her style is best described as Victorian Gothic, or vampire, if you’re basic.
Red velvet, black silk, and a great deal of noir lace set the scene for this young lady whose aesthetic is reflected in her dress as well, black silk with a frilly white collar. Hazel is regarded by some as a bit of a freak, but she is quietly rich enough and self-possessed enough not to care.
Storm taps on her door. “Is the shop open?”
“Always,” Hazel intones, looking up from her worn copy of Interview with the Vampire. “What can I do for you?”
“I need some more cigarettes. Jane took mine. And a lighter. Or matches.”
Hazel produces a matchbook from a high end hotel, holds it between her pointer and middle finger, then frisbees it over to Storm with a snap of her wrist. Storm catches it and slips it into her bra, feeling so much better for having the ability to create fire back on her person in some ancient Promethean impulse.
“That’s on the house” Hazel says. “But the cigarettes will cost you.”
“How much?”
“A hundred francs.”
Storm stares at Hazel, assuming she must have misheard her. Hazel sits cross-legged on her bed with a beatific smile appropriate to a Buddha.
