Page 63 of Storm of Shadows
“That’s becoming a habit.”
She touches her nose and frowns. “I hate him. I hate them all. I don’t want anything to do with them.”
“And do you think they’ll give a shit about what you want?”
She scoffs. “No, shadow weavers, remember? When have they ever cared about anyone but themselves?”
I stare at her face. There’s none of that pain now. Just bitterness and hatred, pure hatred.
I’ve always been led to believe that the subjects from the other Quarters love us – that they admire and revere us. The shadow weavers. The beings that keep the realm peaceful, that protect us from the dangers and the threats.
My assumptions have only been confirmed since we arrived at the academy. The other students have looked at us with awe and admiration, have practically kissed the earth we’ve walked on.
Any other student would probably give the life of their own grandmother to take the girl’s place and be our thrall.
But not her. She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want us.
She hates us.
I slink away.
Not us, me.
The monster.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Briony
The next day sees our first lesson with Madame Bardin.
To my surprise, Fly is twitchy as hell about it.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, as we walk along the pathways towards her classroom, Fly biting his nails down to the nub.
“We got on her wrong side right from day one, Cupcake. I have a bad feeling about this.”
“You really think she’s going to be that bad?”
“I’ve heard some girl talked back to her and she turned them into a rat.”
“That sounds like a rumor,” I say skeptically, then seeing the fear on Fly’s face add, “Forever?”
“For a week.”
“Ahh, well,” I say.
“You’d like to be a rat for five minutes, let alone a whole week?” he screeches.
“No, I suppose not.”
After Fly’s warning, I was kind of expecting Madame Bardin’s classroom to be similar to Professor Tudor’s – down in some torture chamber somewhere. Or, considering the nature of her discipline, some kind of laboratory with boiling test tubes and simmering vessels. It is neither. Her classroom is situated in one of the more ornate academy buildings, and though it is dark and dingy like every other room in the academy, it has a luxurious feel about it: heavy velvet curtains draped around the window, a crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling and elaborate pieces of art housed in gilded frames hanging on all the walls.
Madame herself wears her usual black gown, heeled boots and red lipstick. Today the gown is particularly low cut and she looks more like she’s heading out for a dinner party than about to conduct a lesson.
“Be seated,” she says from the front of the room, one hand resting on her hip.
As usual the shadow weavers grab the seats at the front and she greets them all by name, ignoring the rest of us completely.
