Page 111 of Shattered Stars
On the surface, I have so much. All the riches of my family. Their name. My strength and power. My reputation.
But hasn’t my brief time here already shown how little those are worth?
The only thing I ever had – the only real thing – was him.
When it comes to it – when I get my chance – I’m going to kill every last one of them.
40
Rhi
Luckily,the upcoming ball proves a massive distraction to every student and teacher at the school, and Tristan’s little stunt in the Great Hall seems well and truly forgotten. At least for the time-being. It helps that, despite Winnie’s prediction, he appears to have given up on me. No more public declarations, no more ambushes in the hallway or attempts to carry my books. In fact, I hardly see him, although occasionally, I have that feeling he’s nearby, invisible and watching me.
Perhaps Summer really has found a way to use my necklace as a love charm. She still has it, slung around her neck. I catch glimpses of it tucked into her school blouse and her gym kit. It’s clear she’s wearing it all the time. I want it back. I’m going to get it back. I just haven’t thought of how I’m going to do it yet.
I glare at her now in Dr. Johnson’s lesson as she sits at the front of the class talking obnoxiously loudly about the dress she’s going to wear to the ball – the dress her father has had especially commissioned and shipped in from Aropia. She casually lets slip how much it cost – enough to have fed me and my aunt for a yeareasily. It makes me feel kind of sick, and I’m glad I didn’t ask the man in black to buy me a dress after all.
We’re meant to be practicing changing pencils into butterflies. Unfortunately, rather than telling Summer to be quiet and get on with her work, Dr. Johnson is happy to be an obliging audience and so we’re all forced to listen to every single miniscule detail about Summer’s dress – the number of crystals sewn onto the bodice, the exact shade of blue, the matching tiara she’s borrowing from her grandmother’s priceless collection.
“Do you have your dress?” Trent asks Winnie as he wrestles with his wriggling pencil.
“Nonny’s making my dress and Rhi’s dress too. It should be here in the next day or two.”
From the corner of my eyes, I notice Tristan’s eyes flick up from his own completed work, to peer over at the three of us. He’s sitting in the back row, a colorful butterfly perching on his desktop.
“How about you, Trent?” I ask him. “What are you going to wear?”
He grimaces. “I hate wearing a tux,” he says, ringing a finger around the inside of his collar and rolling his shoulders.
“So don’t wear one,” Winnie says, inspecting her own perfect butterfly.
“You wouldn’t mind?” he says. “I thought you’d want nice photos and all that shit.”
“Oh there will be photos,” Winnie says smiling, “but just wear what you’re most comfortable in. I can look glam enough for the both of us.”
Trent smiles and I decide the two of them really are perfect for one another.
I concentrate on my pencil which seems very reluctant to change its shape. I close my eyes and say the words, caressing the stupid object with my magic. It’s much harder than it looks,the pencil stubbornly refusing to shift its form. I frown. I don’t see how this will be of any benefit in the real world, anyway.
“You’re not doing that right,” a voice whispers by my ear and I flick open my eyelids.
There’s no one there, but of course I know just who it is by the sound of his voice and the familiar tug in my stomach.
I ignore him, even though he’s very close, so close I can feel his warm breath against my cheek. I am not about to start talking to him when he’s invisible. People think I’m strange enough owning a pig. I don’t need them thinking I talk to myself, too.
I close my eyes and concentrate even harder now, which is very difficult when I feel his arm brush against mine and his magic tingling in the air, begging mine to come play.
I open my eyes again. The pencil is still a damn pencil. I huff.
“It’s a very easy spell, Piglet.”
“Go away,” I hiss under my breath, smiling when Winnie turns around to look at me.
“I need to talk to you,” he continues.
Now? He needs to talk to me now. Perhaps it’s him who is insane.
I don’t respond, instead keeping my gaze locked firmly on that pencil. I’m not playing his games. I keep staring at the pencil, even when I feel his knuckles brush the bare part of my thigh between my socks and my skirt. Even when I’m sure his lips press against my throat.
