Page 13 of Storm of Shadows
I stare at my own door, markedStorm.
“How did they do that?” I ask, tracing my fingers over the embossed lettering.
“Magic,” he calls from his room. I hear him flop down on a mattress, the bed creaking under his weight. “I’m going to sleep. If I’m not out waiting for you in the stairwell in thirty, come wake me up. You owe me for that cake!”
I twist my own iron ring and push the door open. It’s dark inside, the narrow window just as small as all the others in this tower and it’s definitely no warmer than the stairwell. I find a switch on the wall by the door and press it. A dull bulb hangingfrom a cord in the exposed ceiling flickers on. Immediately, there’s a scurrying in the roof. I’m guessing Fly’s right about our furry roommates.
The bulb casts a dull light across the room and I stand and stare at it for several minutes. Back in Slate Quarter there’s electricity in the factories and workhouses, places the like of me are sent to work. But in the homes, we rely on candles and gas lamps. I’ve spent a lifetime scrambling around for matches. Light has never been something that can be summoned at the flick of a switch.
Fuck the shadow weavers – this is magic. Invented by some clever nerd in Granite Quarter. And yet it’s those damn shadow weavers who earn all the privilege, all the praise and all the riches. Just because they were lucky enough to be born with magic in their veins.
The room is bare, straw scattered over the cold stone floor, a wooden bed with a hard–looking mattress and rough blankets standing in the center, and an old wardrobe propped against the far wall, a cloudy mirror pinned to its door.
I half expect to find a bucket in the corner for me to do my business in, but as there is none, the bathroom must be elsewhere.
I stride directly towards the wardrobe, flinging back the doors. The left side has a rail, the right three shelves, and the door a hook. I hesitate. It’s not exactly secure. I can lock the bedroom door, but if anyone gets inside …
I scoff. I’m being silly. Why the hell would anyone want to come into my room? Especially a room like this?
There’s no need to worry.
Still, I unpack my bag, laying my few pieces of clothing and my meager possessions on the shelves – one photo frame, two books and a collection of broken pens and pencils. Then I lay my almost empty bag in the bottom of the wardrobe, beneaththe rail and, pulling one of the blankets from the bed, bury it underneath.
I stand back and examine the effect. It’s well hidden. Of course, someone might question why I’d leave a blanket in the cupboard when the room is so cold and if they were to go rummaging, they’d find it. I just have to hope that won’t happen.
The final shelf I reserve for the pile of gray uniform clothes. The material is scratchy and repaired numerous times. It looks suspiciously like a potato sack.
With a sigh, I close the wardrobe, catching a glimpse of my reflection as I do. My hair has come loose, wisps floating around my head.
I remove the clip, unwind my hair, then brush in the loose strands with my fingers, wind it in a tight coil and secure it firmly to the base of my skull.
Then I follow Fly’s lead and lie down on the bed. The one pillow is lumpy, the springs in the mattress clearly rusted solid, but it’s more comfortable than the tree, better than the floor.
I close my eyes and the image of the shadow weaver comes hurtling back into my mind, his pale eyes boring into mine, the weight of his solid body pressing me into the earth.
I swallow, pushing the memory to the back of my mind.
There are hundreds of us at the academy and I’m betting they’ll keep the shadow weavers separate from the rest of us. Wouldn’t want us polluting their air.
I’ll probably never see him again.
I wake to a pair of hands shaking me fiercely.
“You were meant to wake me up!” Fly says right in my face as I blink awake.
“Oh shit, are we l–?”
“Late? Not if you change into your uniform right now and we start sprinting.” I glance at him. He’s already changed into a pair of gray pants, a gray shirt and a tatty old gray blazer – the Firestone crest embroidered on one side.
“I’m giving you three minutes, Cupcake, and then you’re going to have to fend for yourself.”
“Shit,” I mutter, as he dashes out the door and I strip off my grubby clothes and pull on the uniform. It scratches against my skin and smells of moth. At least I won’t be the only one wearing this, though. It’s the one benefit of this uniform. We’re all going to look hideous together.
Once we’re out on the cobbled pathways, we realize we’re not as late as we feared. There are other new students out here too, all walking in the direction of the central campus building.
There are no shadow weavers among us. Everyone trudging along with us looks as exhausted and worn-out as we do. Most have gray shadows under their eyes, several have cuts and bruises to their faces. One or two are even hobbling.
I may have ended up with the worst bedroom in the academy and no points awarded for the first trial, but it seems it may have been worth it after all. I think of the girl out by the tent. Madame Bardin said she’d fainted. Was that true?
