Page 21 of Storm of Shadows
“Come in,” he mutters and I find him still buried under the rotten blankets.
“Are you getting up?” I ask him.
“Do I have to?”
“I mean,” I say with a shrug, “you could see what happens if you don’t.”
He throws back the covers and I squeal and avert my eyes – although, it’s fine, he’s wearing a striped pair of pajamas that look comfortable and warm – nothing like the ratty old t-shirt I wore to bed.
“We can both guess it wouldn’t be pleasant.” He yawns and stretches his arms over his bed. “How long do we have?”
“About forty-five minutes I think. But I’m not missing breakfast.”
“Good,” he says, rolling up onto his feet. “It’s my mission to fatten you up. Now give a man some privacy.” He ushers me towards the door. “I’ll only be five minutes.”
He actually takes fifteen and when he emerges, I can see why. Once again, he’s somehow managed to make the horrible tracksuit look stylish.
“How do you do that?” I say, shaking my head in admiration as we descend the stairs.
“It’s a talent I was born with.” He grins. “It’s not something you can teach. Although,” he examines me with a rather hopeless look on his face, “I’m sure we could do something with you. Your hair for starters–” He reaches his hand towards my head.
I duck away. “No,” I say.
“It doesn’t suit you like that.”
“I like it like this.”
“Like a sixty-year-old nun.”
“Yes,” I say stubbornly.
“Oh-kay,” he says, probably wondering why he bothered befriending me in the first place.
Luckily, Fly doesn’t seem to hold a grudge and soon he’s talking me through all the breakfast choices in the canteen – encouraging me to choose the ones that will fatten me up.
“Take some more sausages,” he says, pointing to them, “and eggs. And lots of bread.”
“The sausages look like they’re the ones from last night,” I say, picking one up with suspicion.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“You’re right,” I say, dropping it onto my plate. “Besides, being unable to attend lessons because I have food poisoning probably wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”
“Although, not fun for those of us who have to share a bathroom with you!” he says. We take a seat and Fly stirs his spoon through his bowl of porridge. “So, are you telling me you aren’t looking forward to lessons this morning, Cupcake?”
“I don’t know,” I say, braving a piece of the cold sausage and glancing around the full canteen. “I’m a little nervous they’ve got us wearing these tracksuits. It can only mean one thing–”
“Yeah,” Fly agrees, “physical torture.”
“Now, listen up,” one of the gruesome twins says as we line up along the academy field, all of us shivering against the icy wind, “because Madame Bardin has your instructions.”
He steps back and she, once again, hobbles forward in her perfectly impractical heeled boots.
I take my chance to glance down the line of students. Once again, the shadow weavers are at the far end. I should have known. No fucking potato sacks for the shadow weavers. Their academy tracksuits are made from a dark black material soft enough to stroke, with a deep crimson stitching and the academy crest.
“And so, let us start.” She sweeps her arm to the left, her cape swooshing through the air. “You are all required to completethe assault course behind me. We are looking for speed, agility, strength and, most importantly, perseverance.”
Fly groans quietly beside me.
