Page 60 of The Bleak Beginning

The RA watches them go, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. Once he’s out of sight, she rounds on me.

“And you,” she says. “What were you thinking, letting them up here?”

I opened my mouth to protest, to explain that they’d shown up uninvited and unwanted, but it snaps closed again because I realize I don’t care.

My patience has run out. I refuse to let any of the Legacies dominate me. Last night marked a pivotal moment in my plan for revenge, and regaining control of my life here at Altair.

Do I want any part of the Altair games? No, and I’ve made that abundantly clear time and time again, but the Legacies weren’t getting the hint, so I decided to give them a taste of their own medicine.

I may be a social pariah, but I’m done being a pushover.

The rain had held off, creating an overcast sheet of gray that blanketed our view for the day. The air was thick and damp, adding a chill to the already somber atmosphere.

Sutton had her sketchbook, and I had my eyes.

The wooded area around us is green and lush, a stark contrast to the gloomy sky above.

“Done,” Sutton says turning her sketchbook in my direction. “What do you think?”

I lean in to examine her drawing, my eyes darting between her detailed rendering and the actual plant before us. Her artistic talent never ceased to amaze me, the way she captured not just the form but the essence of each specimen.

“Atropa belladonna,” I murmur, recognizing the deadly nightshade’s distinctive berries and bell-shaped flowers. “Beautiful and lethal.”

Sutton nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Just like you,” she teases, nudging my shoulder with hers.

A distant rumble of thunder causes us both to look up. The slate-colored sky has darkened, promising the rain after all.

“We should head back,” I say, reluctantly rising to my feet. Sutton sighs, closing her sketchbook with a soft thud.

“Just a few more minutes?” she pleads, her eyes scanning the forest floor. “There! Name that one,” she says, pointing at the earth.

It had become a game, an unspoken competition between us. As we walked through the dense woods, Sutton would point at something and challenge me to remember its name and characteristics.

My eyes follow where her finger had gone. The cluster of yellow-brown mushrooms growing on the damp forest floor are huddled together beside the base of a tree stump. The tangled mass of gold spilling onto the surrounding area.

My mouth quirked to one side. Easy.

“Honey fungus.”

Sutton quickly flips open her sketchbook, her pencil flying across the page as she captures the mushrooms in swift, sure strokes.

“Armillaria mellea,” I added, recalling the scientific name. “Parasitic and highly destructive to trees, but edible for humans. Though I wouldn’t recommend trying it without proper identification.”

I crouch down, carefully brushing aside some fallen leaves to reveal more of the fungal network. “Fascinating organisms. They can spread for miles underground, connecting entire forests.”

“No way! Tell me more,” Sutton says, eyes alight with interest.

“They’re parasites. They infect and kill trees, then feed on the dead wood. But they’re not all bad. Some plants have evolved to live symbiotically with them.”

As I speak, the first drops of rain begin to fall, pattering softly on the canopy above us.

“We really should go,” I say, glancing anxiously at the darkening sky.

“Almost there.” Sutton’s pencil dances across the page for a few more seconds before she nods, satisfied. “Okay, done,” she says, closing her sketchbook and tucking it safely into her backpack.

I really needed to get my bag back.

We start back along the narrow trail, our footsteps muffled by the carpet of damp leaves. The rain is falling steadily now, creating a soothing rhythm as it filters through the canopy. Droplets cling to Sutton’s eyelashes, and she blinks them away, her face tilting up to the sky.

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