Page 71 of Storm of Shadows
“No,” I say, meeting his glowing eyes across the distance.
There are some shocked gasps in the classroom and beside me Fly groans, then whispers, “Briony, don’t. It isn’t going to end well.”
But I don’t care. They’ve had their little shows of public declarations. Now it’s my turn. I am not their thrall. I’ve never agreed to it.
I wait to be interrogated further but I’m saved by the tower bell signaling the end of the lesson.
Like everyone else, I go to gather up my belongings.
“Miss Storm, please stay behind. I’d like a word.”
“Oh shit,” Fly whispers.
I shrug like I’m not afraid of the professor. Would I have been afraid of Fox Tudor? Probably – sure he was charming but I’ve learned many times that charming can be deceptive. I would still have been wary of him. Now he’s an intimidating professor who likes to lurk in the shadows, I am definitely afraid of him plus the punishment he is likely to dole out for answering back. I try my best not to show it though, waiting on the bench for all the other students to leave with that same passive expression glued to my face.
The heavy door slams behind the last student and, I concede, I’m more than just scared; I’m terrified.
The professor steps out of the shadows and into the feeble light of the lamps, moving across the stone floor silently until he’s standing before the first row of benches.
He’s as pale as before, his eyes that strange glowing color, but just as strikingly handsome as before, his suit just as immaculate.
“Why does Henrietta Smyte believe you to be the Princes’ thrall, while you deny it?”
My brow creases in confusion. I thought I was going to receive a berating, not a further grilling. Although, perhaps, the grilling is to help determine whether he should proceed with the berating.
“I’m not denying anything. I simply don’t agree with the statement.”
“That you are their thrall?” I nod. “Then why would Henrietta believe otherwise?”
He stands with his hands on his hips in a menacing fashion and even though he’s several feet away, he still seems to crowd over me.
I stare into those strange eyes of his. I have questions of my own and maybe if I’m a little more cooperative he might help me. Then again, this is the one topic designed to rile me up.
“Why? Does it matter?”
He’s a little taken aback by that, burying his hands in his pant pockets. Then he collects himself.
“How about I ask the questions and you answer them like a good student?”
“And if I don’t want to?” I say, unable to help myself, despite how afraid of him I am.
I’ve been afraid before, very sure I’m in for a beating. Even when I’ve known it to be foolish, there have been times when my mouth just can’t help from running.
He pulls back the first row bench, sliding it easily despite how heavy it must be and seats himself down in front of me, resting his forearms on his thighs and leaning in closer.
“You have a sharp tongue for a girl from the Slate shitholes … you’re different from her.” His glowing eyes skip across my face. “Although you have the same hair. Of course, she always wore it down.”
I sit up straighter, shuffling forward on the bench. “So you do remember her? Were you here at the academy when she was here?”
A slow smirk forms on his plush lips. I’ve walked straight into a trap. “How about you answer my questions and then I’ll consider answering yours?”
I sigh and lean away from him. Can I trust him? I don’t think I should be trusting anyone. I suspect Amelia failed to keep her own secrets guarded and look what happened to her.
Fox remembers that Amelia and I looked alike, but then again, we were sisters, that could be a lucky guess. Is he dangling this titbit in front of me as a way of persuading me to talk when really he has no information at all?
I try to read his face. I can’t tell. He’s like a closed book.
“It’s simple really,” I tell him. “They want me to be their thrall. I don’t want to be.”
