Storm of Shadows, page 28
Light flickers from somewhere deep in the stacks of the library and, faintly across the distance, I can hear voices – hushed voices despite the lateness of the hour. With my back tight to the wall, I strain my ears.
Two voices – one male, one female.
Maybe this is some illicit hook-up and I should get out of here before I’m accused of being a peeping tom. But then I recognize the first voice. Madame Bardin.
It makes no sense. Why would she be in here at this time of the morning?
I glide against the wall, edging closer.
“There are other ways. There is no need to resort to such menial actions,” she purrs, her voice seductive and dangerous.
Perhaps this is some rendezvous after all. Maybe with one of those twins. Maybe with both.
“Not ones I am willing to take,” the other voice hisses back. A voice I know. A voice I know well.
Professor Tudor.
Madame Bardin and Fox Tudor.
Of course!
It would make sense – the woman is beautiful in a strangely intimidating way and Professor Tudor is the only young attractive teacher on campus – if you discount the gruesome twosome who may be young but are definitely not attractive. It was inevitable that they would end up together.
But why meet in the library? They must have their own private rooms. Unless this is their thing, some kind of kink.
I guess I shouldn’t judge. I did let Beaufort Lincoln finger me on top of his chest of drawers. I did let two men bathe me.
Do I really want to overhear the two of them getting it on?
I should leave. This is a private moment and I don’t want to be caught snooping yet again – especially when these two are likely to be a lot more angry about it than Beaufort. However, my feet don’t move when I ask them to. Although the two of them together makes perfect sense, there’s also something about it that is strange. Fox’s tone isn’t one of a lover and I can’t help but hang about to hear more.
“There are other options open to you,” Madame Bardin says, “you could find yourself a–”
“I said no!”
She laughs. “Always so noble, so full of ideals, so naïve. It’s what I liked best about you.”
Professor Tudor growls lowly which only makes Madame Bardin laugh harder.
“I’m not like you. I won’t take another–”
“Ahhh,” Madame says, cutting across the professor’s words – her own suddenly shrill and full of tension. “Unless you’ve already found–”
“I haven’t,” he says abruptly.
There’s a pause, one full of tension. I tiptoe forward, peering through the gaps in the bookcases until I see them.
They stand facing each other – Madame in a long black gown, cut low and clinging to her body. The professor dressed in his suit. Both wear long black cloaks pinned to their shoulders. Their hair is tussled, red lipstick smeared across their mouths and I was obviously wrong again. Maybe they are arguing now but before that they definitely were getting it on.
“You’ve found someone,” Madame says, her voice quiet now and full of tension.
“No,” Fox says, but the way his shoulders stiffen show me he’s lying. Madame spots it too.
“You can’t lie to me, Fox Tudor. You never could.” She tilts her head to one side, wiping the lipstick from her mouth. “Who are they?” Professor Tudor stares back at her and says nothing.
“You don’t want to share? And yet you used to be so eager to please me in every possible way.” She smiles cruelly and steps towards him, snaking her hand down his torso.
“Not any more,” he growls, snatching her hand away so violently, she stumbles, nearly losing her balance.
I gasp inadvertently at his violent behavior and immediately both their heads snap my way, eyes flashing in the dim light.
Shit!
“There’s someone here,” Madame says.
I smother another gasp, turn and race out of the library as quickly as I can, their footsteps discernible behind me.
“Stop!” the madame calls out.
But nothing in the world could compel me to stop. I don’t think they saw me and I don’t want them to know it was me spying on them.
I don’t stop until I’m outside. Here, I spin my vision around, looking for somewhere to hide. Choosing one of the nearest towers, I duck inside, closing the door quietly behind me and sinking into the shadows of the stairwell.
I hear their footsteps again, out on the cobblestones and then their whispered voices.
“They’re gone,” Professor Tudor says.
“Did you see them? Did you see who it was?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Hmmm,” she says, not sounding convinced. “I don’t like secrets, Fox.”
“I am aware,” he says, but then their voices fade as they move away.
I wait in the dark as long as I can bear it, just in case they are still lingering out on the pathway, and then I creep back out and hurry as quickly as I can back to my room. Inside, I beeline straight for my wardrobe, retrieving my bag from its hiding place and checking the contents. I shouldn’t have left it unguarded for so long – the entire night. However, everything is as I left it and once I’ve hidden my bag again, I climb into bed, curl up under the covers and go over the events in the library.
The conversation was strange – their relationship even stranger. Fox Tudor clearly hates Madame Bardin and yet if I’d been there a matter of minutes earlier, I’m sure I’d have seen the two of them all over each other. And the way she talked made it seem as if their relationship has been a long one. Maybe it’s one of those love–hate things. Maybe they’re exes. Maybe the sex is fueled by hate.
I imagine hate-fucking Beaufort Lincoln and decide it really is time to get out of bed because those thoughts are surprisingly hot.
I take a much needed cold shower – one advantage of living in this tower – and go in search of my friends.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Briony
The following day, Fly and I are going over likely trial scenarios yet again on our way to Professor Tudor’s class, when we find our path blocked by Madame Bardin. One moment the path ahead is empty, the next she’s standing right there – usual red lipstick painted on her lips, usual stern expression fixed to her face.
“Miss Storm,” she says, attempting to wrestle her mouth into an unconvincing smile. “I would like a word.”
“With me?” I say, utterly shocked. She’s hardly said one word to me since I started at the academy – both in and out of class. She’s far more interested in the shadow weaver students. She hardly gives us commoners a passing glance. Her sudden interest in me can mean only one thing. She knows it was me. My stomach plummets.
“Yes, you. Let’s go to my office where we can talk in private.” She spins on her heels and starts pacing away and I take it I’m meant to follow her. I peer at Fly with alarm, an expression I find mirrored on his own face.
“What did you do?” he mouths at me.
“I don’t know,” I mouth back.
“Miss Storm?” Madame calls, and I jerk into action, hurrying along behind her.
Her office isn’t anywhere near her classroom. It’s housed in the same building as the Great Hall, up a grand staircase and along a plush-carpeted hallway. The door to her office stands directly alongside the one marked Headteacher. I wonder if the elusive head is in there at this very moment. I wonder if anyone has actually checked he’s still alive.
Madame Bardin unlocks her office door with a wave of her hand and we step through into an elegant room, the carpet a dark maroon, her desk carved from a polished ebony, and heavy velvet drapes hanging around the ancient windows.
“Please,” she says, motioning towards a low maroon sofa that blends with the carpet, “sit.”
I do as she says, finding myself sinking into the sofa and my knees nearly hitting my chin. I shuffle forward until I’m sitting on the edge and rest my hands in my lap.
What the hell is this about? Did she see me in the library yesterday?
Madame remains on her feet, leaning back against her desk and tossing her glossy hair over her shoulder.
“You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”
I do. Muriel smoked like a chimney and it’s left me with an aversion to the smell, but I hardly think I can say no to the Madame.
I nod.
“Thank you.” She opens one of the drawers, takes out a small silver case and a box of matches. She examines me as she opens the case and selects a slim cigarette.
“You’re from Slate Quarter?”
I clear my throat. She makes me nervous. “Yes.”
She clamps the cigarette between her lips, strikes the match and holds it to the end of the cigarette, all the time staring right at me. Then, she shakes away at the match until the flame extinguishes and takes a long drag, closing her eyes as she does. Her eyelids are painted a dark plum color and they’re lined with black kohl that ends in a flick at the edge of her eyes. Her lids still closed, she plucks the cigarette from her mouth, and exhales a cloud of gray smoke; the smell doing nothing to lessen my unease.
“And did you know Professor Tudor back in Slate Quarter?” She opens her eyes and stares at me. Her irises are a violet that glow through the swirl of smoke from her cigarette.
“I knew of him, yes. But there isn’t a person in Slate Quarter who didn’t,” I frown, “who doesn’t.”
“He’s much older than you.”
“Yes.”
She takes another drag on the cigarette. “Ten years perhaps.” I nod. “So you can’t have been friends. Perhaps your families are acquainted.”
“No.”
“And yet you seem to have a friendship now?”
“What?” I say. Sure, Fox and I have had a couple of conversations – which, judging by his behavior and attitude, might be pretty rare – but we are most definitely not friends. Far from it. “He’s my teacher.”
“Yes, and any relationship between the two of you would be highly irregular and, it goes without saying, inappropriate.”
“There is no relationship,” I say, confused. Why would anyone think there was? She’s the one having a relationship with him.
She stubs out her half-smoked cigarette into a glass ashtray that rests on the top of her desk, and leans forward.
“If he’s made a move on you,” she adopts a concerned expression, “if he’s said anything inappropriate to you–”
I shake my head. “I don’t know where you’d get such an idea, but he hasn’t.”
She leans back, peers over her shoulder and then back at me.
“He is a very good looking man and charming. You won’t be the first student at the academy to have developed a crush on the professor.”
I frown. Hang on – is she accusing him of making a move or me?
“I don’t have any feelings for the professor,” I say with irritation.
“It’s perfectly natural to feel that way about an older man with–”
“I don’t. Professor Tudor and I have barely spoken since I started at the academy. I’m not interested in him – or anyone else for that matter.”
Is that true? The way Beaufort kissed me this morning has me thinking I’d like him to do that again.
“Well, that is a relief, Miss Storm,” she says, that forced smile returning once again to her mouth. “We could do without those kinds of … complications.” She beckons for me to stand and walks me to her office door. “Of course,” she says, holding the door open, “if anything did happen. If the professor were to … be sure to come and tell me immediately.”
I mutter something indistinct and duck out of the room. If I did have any secret to tell, any concerns about the behavior of any of the faculty, Madame would be the last person in the realm I’d choose to confide in.
The very last.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Fox
The students filter into the classroom one by one, and I scan my gaze among them. Anticipation races through my body, making my fingers tingle and my magic hiss.
But it’s all for nothing. The girl is not among them.
Again.
For the second time, she has chosen to skip my lesson.
A storm of emotions erupts in my stomach. Disappointment. Rage. Irritation. Fear.
Is it because she knows the truth?
I close my eyes and battle the storm into submission.
I will not lose control. I will not betray the way I feel. I will not make the mistake of hunting her down again.
I wait until all the students are settled and then I ask calmly, hoping the strain in my voice does not give me away, “Miss Storm is not here.”
“Thank goodness,” one of the Smyte twins mutters under her breath. It’s pathetically transparent how jealous so many of the other students are of her – just because she’s caught the attention of the Princes. A bunch of spoiled, arrogant brats.
“Has she chosen to skip my class yet again?”
I direct my question towards her friend, who, despite my calm tone and calm demeanor, quakes on his seat.
“N-n-n-n-no,” he stutters, swallowing hard. “I think she’ll be along soon. She had to–”
“I’m not interested in hearing excuses!” I snap.
“But–” he protests feebly.
“Quiet!” I thunder. “You all have a duty to attend my class. But that duty does not just extend to yourselves. I expect all my students to be present and if they are not, that reflects on all of you.” I glare at the students sitting in front of me, although I doubt they can see me hidden away in the shadows. “Therefore, you will all be punished for Miss Storm’s tardiness.”
“What the fuck?” some obnoxious shadow weaver shrieks from the front row.
“Silence!” I boom, my irritation getting the better of me. “Take out your pens and paper. I will not be teaching you until Miss Storm is good enough to join us. You will sit in silence, copying the following lines from the board.” I brush my hands through the air and my shadows race towards the blackboard, scribbling nonsense sentences in white chalk.
“This isn’t fair,” Lynette Smyte moans.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“She’s such a little bitch. Someone needs to put her in her place – once and for all,” her sister whispers in her ear, so quietly I expect she thinks no one would hear.
“And I suppose, you think, you are the person who should do that, do you, Miss Smyte?” I ask her.
She peers through the shadows at me with a whole heap of disdain. “Yes.”
“How?” I ask, the danger obvious in my voice.
“Fry her like a slice of bacon. It would be good practice.” She smirks.
Anger crackles inside me. I’d like to fry Henrietta Smyte like a slice of bacon. Somehow, however, I manage to keep it together.
“It’s not her fault,” Briony’s friend starts to protest, but any further words are interrupted by the opening of the door and the girl herself strolling through without a damn care in the world.
“You’re late!” I roar.
“I am,” she snaps back, meeting my angry glare with one of her own. For a moment, our eyes are locked together like that and her scent slithers towards me, softening everything inside me, making me hungry instead.
“We’re copying lines from the board, Miss Storm. Take a seat. You can see me afterwards.”
“Now she’s here, can’t we–” the first shadow weaver starts to argue.
“No,” I say, then I lean back in my chair and spend the next ninety minutes watching her. Transfixed by her. Mesmerized by her.
“This is becoming a habit,” I growl at her when we’re once again alone. “Tell me what the hell makes you think you can miss my lessons? Because I’m pretty certain I made it clear last time that I won’t tolerate it.”
Perhaps being alone like this is dangerous and foolish. Perhaps I shouldn’t fall for the temptation.
But we’re here now. Once again alone.
She rolls her eyes at me like I’m being unreasonable. “It wasn’t my choice.” I snort. “Madame Bardin asked to see me.”
An icy cold sweeps across my skin and into the pit of my stomach.
“Madame Bardin?” I say quietly.
“Yes, she asked to talk to me in her office. I couldn’t exactly say no.”
“Talk to you? Talk to you about what?”
The obnoxious expression falls away and the blood rushes to the surface of her cheeks. For the briefest of seconds it distracts me, my stomach moaning in agony.
“I’m not sure …” she mutters. “It was private.”
I stalk towards her and grab hold of her wrist. “What did she want to talk to you about, Briony?” It’s the first time I’ve used her name, and the sound of it takes both of us by surprise. It sounds so personal, so intimate.
“You,” she hisses. I nod. Me. I’m not surprised at all. But does that mean the Madame is aware about how I feel? I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m only surprised the girl herself has not realized. It must be written all over my face. Clear in my every move. “She seems to be under this deluded impression that the two of us are … I don’t know what!”
My fingers are wrapped tightly around her wrist. Her pulse thunders beneath her skin – skin that is so delicate, so paper thin, so fragile.
I say nothing and my eyes stray to the pulse in her neck, thundering away too – the skin there just as vulnerable.
“Which is utterly ridiculous,” she continues, “considering it’s the two of you who are–”
“What?” I say, dropping her wrist.
Even more of that blood rushes to her cheeks. “I saw you together – this morning in the library. I know you’re together.”
“We are not together,” I say firmly.
“Right,” she says sarcastically, “not ‘seeing each other’ but still messing around. Whatever. I’m really not interested in becoming entwined in whatever sick games the two of you are playing.”
“We’re not playing any games,” I say, although as soon as I say it I wonder if that’s really true. “We’re not together. We’re not screwing around – if that is what you are insinuating. Whatever you thought you saw this morning, you didn’t.”
