Page 37 of Spark of Sorcery
Clare.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew more than Professor Tudor and Professor Cornelius combined!
The only problem is how to introduce the topic into our conversation subtly without giving myself away. Subtlety is not exactly my forte.
I spend most of the morning coming up with clever ways to shoehorn it into our conversion, then chickening out. In the end, with the ball approaching, I simply blurt it out.
“Ever wondered where the academy got its name?”
“Nope,” Fly says. He has several pins in his mouth. He’s insisted on raising the hem of Clare’s dress because, and I quote, she is not living in a convent.
“They say the first firestones were found in this location,” Clare says.
“Oh,” I say as casually as I can, “they never really taught us much about firestones back in Slate Quarter. The lessons were more … practically focused.” I pull a face.
“Yeah, we didn’t learn much about it,” Fly mumbles around his pins.
I look at Clare hopefully, but she’s concentrating on the passage she’s reading.
“Clare?” I prompt.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, “I’m getting seriously invested in this relationship between two dudes from Iron Quarter. Their relationship is seriously on-again off-again and so much drama.”
“We were talking about firestones,” I say.
She’s still focused on the book. “I don’t really know much about them – except there’s that statue outside the Great Hall.”
“There is?”
Fly laughs. “You can’t really miss it. Big, ugly bronze thing with those three ugly dragons.” He stabs a needle into Clare’s dress. “Honestly, I don’t understand the obsession with dragons. They are so flipping ugly.”
“What’s it got to do with firestones?” I ask.
“Briony,” Fly says, clearly doubting my intelligence, “that giant oval thing in the middle of the statue – that’s a firestone.”
I’m about to open my mouth and ask more questions but my words are cut off by the roar of an engine. It’s so loud I swear the floor vibrates beneath us. Fly goes to investigateout the window, although how he can see anything out of those long narrow slits, I’ve no idea.
“Yep,” he calls. “The shadow weavers are back.”
“Oh yay,” I say flatly.
“You’re not fooling anyone, girlie,” he calls back, still staring out the window, “we haven’t forgotten that flush yesterday.”
“I bet they’ll be seriously disappointed with their audience today.” Surely, no one’s stupid enough to hang around outside just to ogle some stupid vehicles when it’s this frigging cold.
“There’s still quite a crowd out there.” He swings back around. “Right, if the shadow weavers are back then that definitely means it’s time to put those books away and start getting ready. You girls go get showered. I’m nearly done with this stitching.”
I shiver at the thought. “There’s no way I’m showering today,” I say. “I don’t want to catch pneumonia.”
“You won’t and if you did, I’m sure Beaufort would cure you.”
“Still, I’d rather not freeze my tits off.”
“Briony,” Fly says, striding towards me and taking ahold of both my shoulders. “I love you. You’re a truly wonderful human being. But you stink and your hair needs washing.”
“I do not stink,” I say, lowering my chin and attempting to sniff myself. “I took a shower yesterday.”
“Cupcake,” he says gently, “in Slate Quarter it may be acceptable to bathe once a fortnight but everywhere else we wash daily.”
