Page 17 of Storm of Shadows
“What’s that meant to mean?” I ask, stuffing half a sausage into my mouth.
“No offense, sweetie, but you’re a little on the skinny side.”
“You can talk,” I say, jabbing my knife in his direction.
“I’m lean,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
“There is?” I say chewing.
“Yeah.” He jabs his own fork towards my clavicle. “No one wants to see that much bone.”
“Jeez, thanks,” I say, adjusting the collar of my shirt and darting my gaze around to see if anyone else is staring at my bones. It’s then I realize several are in fact staring right at me, although they all dart their gazes away as soon as I catch them at it.
Bizarre. I shake my head and return my attention to my food.
When we’re done, Fly smothers a yawn with his hand.
“Orienteering myself can wait. I’m heading straight back to my room and into bed. You coming?” My eyebrows shoot involuntarily up my forehead. Fly quirks one of his own. “Just to be clear, that wasn’t an offer. I mean, back to our rooms.”
“In a bit,” I tell him. “I think I’m going to have a snoop around first.”
“Suit yourself,” he says as we shuffle out of the canteen and then out into the dim daylight. “Come call on me for breakfast tomorrow, okay?”
“You don’t want me to wake you for dinner?”
He shakes his head and I wave him off, then pull my map from my blazer pocket. Is it my imagination or are people out here staring at me too? I’m good at disappearing into the background and it is brutally unsettling. I pick up my feet and walk along the pathways until I find a quieter spot, then I study the map again.
Nyneve Tower.
I’ve never forgotten the name. It’s been seared into my memory like every other detail.
I find it marked out on the opposite side of the campus from my own tower. Peering skywards at the surrounding towers, I catch my bearings and set off along the weaving pathways. I pass other students as I walk and am not immune to the funny looksthey give me or the whispered comments. At one point I actually stop and examine my reflection in a low window, checking my skirt isn’t tucked into my panties or I have dirt all over my face. The black eye does look pretty awful. Maybe that’s the cause of all the sudden interest. Back in Slate Quarter, I’m ignored and I am one hundred percent happy with that situation.
Finally, I reach the base of the tower. I can already tell from its lack of crumbling walls and roof made from actual tiles that it’s a hell of a lot nicer than the tower I’ve been assigned. Which must mean she made it to the academy ahead of a lot more students than I did.
A little pride has my mouth curling into a smile. I’m not surprised. Amelia was brave, determined and clever. She would have found a way.
The smile fades as I think of her, the sadness creeping in instead. I push against the door before the grief grounds me in one place altogether.
In the entrance way there is a group of girls, dressed in their gray uniforms, chatting together. Their eyes swivel my way and I am tempted to turn around and march right out.
“Can we help you?” a girl with thick brown hair arranged in waves about her shoulders asks me. She’s no shadow weaver, but she still manages to make the uniform look a lot better than mine, plus, rather than cuts and bruises, she’s wearing actual make-up on her face.
“I’m just heading to my room,” I say, lowering my head and hoping to pass by without any trouble.
I just want a glimpse – just one little glance at her room. I’m sure it won’t tell me anything. I know she is long gone. But nonetheless, I possess this insatiable urge to see it.
“Urgh,” the brunette says, “I think you must be mistaken.” I let that passive look overcome my face, one I hope disguises how keen I am to get up those stairs. “Slate, right?”
Even though I know I’d be better off with my eyes downcast and looking bored, even though I understand it would give me more chances of having this girl leave me alone, I can’t help myself. I lift my chin with just a smidgen of defiance.
“I mean, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you?” Her lip curls in disgust. “Look at your face. Did you walk into a wall or a shadow weaver’s fist?” She titters and all the girls behind her do the same.
I notice there isn’t a scratch on her – at least I don’t think so. Maybe the layers of make-up are hiding her own injuries from last night.
“What’s wrong? Did they rip out your tongue too, sweetie?”
“No,” I say. “I have my tongue.” I go to move past her. She clearly has the appetite to toy with me and I do not have the patience. I want to see that room.
