Page 72 of Ocean of Ink
“I am always honored to serve, Your Highness.” Heathford did not move. “Would you like me to cover up the wall once you leave, to avoid–”
“No,” Castien cut him off sharply. “None of this is to be removed.”
There was a moment of silence. “I was not suggesting to paint over it as we have done in the past, Your Highness. There is a tapestry with the Valengard crest in one of your trunks. Perhaps I could adhere it to the wall to ensure privacy in the event that someone arrives unexpectedly.”
Castien ran a hand down his face. “Right, yes, that-that would be good.”
“I will see to it. Are you finished with your breakfast tray?”
Castien had taken breakfast in his room while he finished his letter to Wren. It had been difficult to write, considering he wasn’t prepared to give up a secret. He couldn’t go back on his word now. If he did, then she was likely to halt their communication entirely. He glanced at the barely touched food.
“Yes, I’m finished,” he murmured, then drifted back to the wall.
Castien kept hoping that his Gift would connect new dots with the old. He also felt this peculiar pull to it. The compulsion concerned him, but he never denied himself when the urge came about. Nor did he stop himself from reading over Wren’s letters and journal whenever he liked.
“I don’t wish to bother you while you work, Your Highness,” Heathford entreated. “But given the time, perhaps it would be best to wash up? Your class will begin within the hour, and you are not yet dressed.”
Castien looked down at his clothes. His white shirt was half buttoned and covered in ink and pencil smudges, along with his hands. His trousers were rolled up at the bottom, exposing his bare feet that he had somehow managed to splatter ink upon as well.
“Thank you for the reminder, Heathford. Is there a fresh pail of water?”
“Yes, Your Highness. I boiled it on the stove. It should be warm. There is a stack of clean rags and a bar of peppermint soap available as well.”
Castien nodded and headed to the powder room while stripping off his shirt. It would take the entire stack of rags to get his skin clean, and even then, it wouldn’t be entirely gone. He set to work scrubbing at his hands and arms.
Heathford cleared his throat outside the door. “Do remember to wash your face as well, Your Highness.”
Castien set aside a blackened rag, then retrieved a clean one.
“Thank you, Heathford.”
He dunked the rag in the warm water and scrubbed his face with it. The water sharpened his senses and gave him a new perspective. He would need to keep a level head going into class. The secret he revealed in his letter was enough information to give Wren for one day. He needn’t let her feel his emotions by letting down his guard.
As he washed, he began walking through the history of the Lucent Enclave for the last three hundred years. He had committed much of it to memory as a child, and the action of going through the major events served to center his mind and remind him of his ultimate purpose: to become emperor.
Castien exited the powder room after scrubbing his skin raw. He put on the academy uniform Heathford had laid on his newly made bed, then walked over to his desk. Out his window, he saw several of his housemates leaving for their classes. They walked into the mist and all but disappeared. Castien squeezed his eyes shut as thoughts of Wren’s love of sunshine appeared. Madness. It was madness.
He placed the letter and his two essays in his school bag before securing it closed. It was likely to be much easier to give Wren a letter today, since he imagined Ambassador Westover would send them off on their own again. He slung his bag over his head and across his chest.
“Am I presentable?” Castien turned to Heathford, who stood by the hearth, stoking the fire.
Heathford straightened. “Yes, Your Highness. You look refreshed.”
Castien dipped his chin. “Good. I am off to class.”
Heathford bowed in response. Castien headed out the door, down the stairs, and into the mist. As he walked, he battled to keep his mind on the Lucent Enclave instead of Wren. But thoughts of her seemed as inevitable as the fall of the Adiran star, as sure as the rising of the Tides. There was no escaping. Castien could only try not to drown in her.
The click of the door locking silenced the classroom. Ambassador Westover’s shiny black leather shoes clicked against the wood floor. He unbuttoned his black and white striped suit coat as he walked. Beneath it was a plum-colored shirt buttoned too low to be considered decent for a professor. Or anyone, for that matter. A golden clockface suspended by a matching chain gleamed atop his exposed chest.
“My dear students, I trust you had a productive week?” Westover asked, though he did not wait for an answer. “I will accept your essays as soon as I finish giving you your next task. Do pay attention, as this assignment is worth a fourth of your grade.”
Wren clenched her toes in her satin slippers as the anxiety of her fellow peers crawled over her like a swarm of ants. Castien did not so much as shift in his seat beside her. His cool gaze stayed trained on the ambassador.
“I will present each pair with a problem, and you must determine how to solve it with your Gifts.” Westover’s eyes gleamed. “In two weeks, you will present to the class how youcombined your Gifts to come to a solution. You will also write a detailed dissertation on the manner in which you arrived at your conclusion.”
A woman whom Wren had come to know as Adalin Zeldair raised her hand. She had done so the last time they were given an assignment as well.
“Yes, Miss Zeldair?” Ambassador Westover asked, all amusement leaking out of his voice.
