Page 29 of Storm of Shadows
“You have?”
“Of course,” he sighs, “a man can dream.” His eyes flick to mine. “Being the Princes’ thrall would hardly be a chore, would it?”
“We’re not talking about that. I already told you, it isn’t happening.”
“I have a feeling you won’t get a choice in the matter, Cupcake. I know guys like them, and they don’t really take no for an answer. They always get their way in the end.”
“I also know guys like that lose interest pretty quick. I bet they’ve already picked out a different, better thrall and haven’t given me a second chance.”
Fly sighs. “You’re probably right.”
I glare at him. I wasn’t expecting him to agree so easily with me.
“So,” Fly says, “we’re free until tomorrow morning – at least I am. You have somewhere you have to be at 7pm.”
“Not happening!”
“Well then, what do you wanna do?”
What I want to do is get up into Amelia’s old room, but I daren’t try again so soon after yesterday’s attempt.
“Stuff my face and then sleep for twelve hours straight,” I say, instead.
“You don’t want to check out the campus? See what’s going on?”
I shake my head. Definitely not.
“I may have to reconsider this friendship, Cupcake, if you’re gonna be this dull.”
“I completely own up to it. I am dull and boring and ordinary. There is nothing special or exciting about me at all.”
“Hmmm,” Fly says, “you see, I’m not so sure about that. A boring person wouldn’t say that.”
We join the line at the canteen, collecting up a tray and moving slowly along the line.
It’s then I notice something strange about the canteen. Something I failed yesterday – in my desperate rush to consume food – to notice.
“Where are all the shadow weavers? Do they not need to eat? Do they live off the air itself?”
“Did you really think they’d be eating with commoners like us?” Fly says.
“I guess not. Where do they eat, then?”
“They have their own private dining room.”
“Of course they do.”
“You would probably be allowed there as their thrall.”
“I’m going to ignore that comment.” I change the subject again and we talk about the test we just took in the Great Hall. “It made my head ache,” I confess.
“Mine too,” Fly says, resting his fork and knife down on his plate and pushing it away. There’s still a good third left on his plate.
“Can I have that?” I ask.
He nods. “I didn’t find the test too bad,” he says. “Better than any physical test anyway.” He darts his gaze around the canteen, then leans really close and whispers, “I’m hoping they’ll assign me Granite Quarter.”
“You don’t want to go back to Iron Quarter? To your family?”
