Page 22 of Shattered Stars
Could she fix this for me now? Stop this restless energy, the constant scrape of the beast inside me, his incessant stirring?
Once upon a time there was another person I would have asked for advice. Someone who would have helped me despite our differences. Maybe the only other person in the world who could understand this. But he’s gone and there’s no point in dwelling on it.
I rest the letter back on my desk and, grabbing a fresh towel from the pile of laundered washing the maid has left by my door, head to the shower. Under the water, I try to stay focused on everything but the pig girl, reliving both matches from yesterday in my mind – both the official and unofficial one – thenraking over my performance, debating in my mind what I’d do differently next time.
But these distractions are useless. Temporary. My body and the creature within aren’t the only things fixated on the girl. My mind is too. It keeps straying back to her over and over again. The picture of her in my mind’s eye refusing to budge. Watching me from the stands in the stadium. Peering up at me from the ground outside the Venus common room.
I scrub at my body. It’s far sorer than it would normally be.
My limbs are heavy, my muscles ache. I feel like I’m coming down with a cold. I’m never ill. What the hell is wrong with me?
I slam the shower screen back and stomp from the cubicle, forgetting all about the towel and trailing a puddle of water after me. I stare down at that letter again, water dripping from my chin onto the paper, a gray dot staining its surface. Then another and another, smudging the black ink.
I shake the water away from my face, bend over my desk and pull out my own piece of paper. I don’t give my response too much thought, scribbling lines quickly across the surface before I can change my mind. When I’m finished, I shove the sheet into an envelope, affixing it with a matching family seal of my own and scribbling my mother’s name across the front.
Then I straighten up and hover my hand above the envelope. It flickers for a full minute before vanishing completely from sight.
I gaze down at the empty desk.
There’s no going back now.
I’m standingon the steps of the mansion at 9.55am sharp the next morning, just as directed. At 10am exactly, I hear thecrunch of gravel under heavy tires and watch as her sleek silver car glides to a halt. A minute later, the chauffeur emerges from the driver’s seat, adjusting the cap on his head and then turning to the rear passenger door.
I watch as his hand grips the handle and he tugs on it, the door swinging open and my mother’s form emerging from the darkness.
I knew she would come. She shuns the crowds, avoids the matches. But today the campus is quiet, the visiting team long gone and the spectators departed, and my letter enough to tempt her out of the shadows.
The chauffeur offers her a hand and she takes it, climbing out from the dark leather seat and adjusting the satin-black jacket she’s dressed in. She wears a matching satin skirt, black stockings and black-heeled boots. The same outfit I’ve known her to wear for as long as I can remember.
She peers upwards, her alert amber eyes observing me first and then the principal beside me.
Professor York takes this as her cue, descending the steps and holding her hands out towards my mother.
“Mrs. Moreau, so wonderful to see you. I was not expecting you.” She smiles coolly at my mother. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“I’ve come to speak with my son,” my mother says in her usually clipped tone, ignoring York’s outstretched hands and walking towards me.
She looks older than she did the last time we met. More white streaked through her jet hair, more lines hovering above her brow. Although she’s still strangely beautiful in that angular, frightening way.
The principal follows behind us. “Would you like to come to my office? I can have some refreshments sent for us and–”
“No, we’ll go to the alumni common room. I have my key.”
“And Spencer has classes,” the principal says, a tad less friendly.
My mother snaps her head around to peer at the principal over her shoulder. “He played on Saturday. I expected him to be resting, recovering and recuperating today. Or do you wish him to gain an injury?”
The principal considers my mother, obviously weighing up whether or not to argue with her. My mother stares at her unblinking until the principal bows her head, conceding. “A mother knows best, Mrs. Moreau. If you feel Spencer would benefit from a day’s extra rest, then I will sanction it.”
My mother doesn’t thank her, instead she spins her vivid gaze to me, climbing the steps to stop by my side and weaving her hand around my arm.
She’s smaller than I remember too, frailer despite her domineering persona.
“Let’s go for a stroll, Spencer,” she says, “I need to stretch my legs after the journey.”
“Thank you for coming,” I say, when we’ve walked away from the front of the mansion, around its width and towards the paths that lead through the campus grounds.
“You should have sent for me sooner,” she says.
