Page 41 of Fractured Fates

“Everyone needs a phone,” Trent tells me, “you don’t have one?”

“No, and I don’t have any money either so I don’t think I can afford–”

“I have an old one I’m not using. I was going to take it apart and use the parts to build something.”

Winnie leans in and whispers with clear admiration: “That’s what he does. He’s like a genius.”

The top of Trent’s ears, poking out through his hair, sizzle red. “Anyway, you can have it if you want.”

“That’s kind but–”

“Hang on. I’ll fetch it for you.” He ducks inside the dark gloom of his room, blue lights from several devices illuminating a rumpled bed, and returns several minutes later with what looks like a brick, a charging cable wrapped around it. “You’ll need to charge it. And don’t worry, it’s already wiped.”

“Erm, thanks.” I take the gift from his hands. It’s the first gift I’ve ever received from anyone who wasn’t my aunt. If you exclude the food the man in black bought me. That, however, was him doing his job. This is actual generosity. From someone I just met. A sensation I can’t describe swims in my belly, half discomfort, half gratitude.

“Thanks, Trent,” Winnie beams at him, “see you in class.”

“Yeah, see you in class.”

He closes the door and Winnie insists we return to our dorm to plug in my new phone before next class.

Coach is waiting for me outside the classroom.

“You left my class without permission, Missy.”

“I did. Spencer wasn’t teaching me–”

“No one leaves my class without my permission.” His tone is calm and measured. He doesn’t sound angry, but that somehow makes him more menacing. “You have a problem, come and see me about it. Now, as you missed half an hour of my class, you can make up for it this evening. Be in the gym at seven on the dot. Do not be late.”

He turns and storms away. A second detention. Yeah, I’m totally rocking this whole school thing.

The next lesson is Magical History and Politics and the little old lady teacher, Mrs. Hollyhill, quickly realizes I know about as much as a newborn babe. She sends me off to the library with a long list of books to read, and tells me to come back when I’ve caught up.

Armed with my map, I find the library back in the mansion. It’s almost a similar size to the Great Hall, its ceiling nearly as high. Only here the space is filled with shelf after shelf of books, all towering up towards that ceiling. I’ve never seen so many books in my life before. Small paperbacks, giant journals, tatty old looking things, and brand spanking new volumes. Some inscribed with gold lettering down the spines, others with illustrations or plain simple text. The place smells of dust and old paper and the aroma is somehow welcoming. Armchairs and squidgy sofas are dotted about the place as well as desks with lamps.

I show the librarian my list and she helps me navigate the maze of books until I have a pile so high I can’t see where I’m walking as I search for an armchair. I sink into one in the corner, finding its belly must have given way with the weight of all the students who have sat here over the years, and start flicking pages.

Most of it’s dull historical accounts of battles and political negotiations that happened hundreds of years ago, mostly on the other side of the ocean. I yawn, debating whether to skip ahead to more recent history, attempt to fill in some of the blanks in my knowledge. But my eyes glaze over and my eyelids droop.

“Sent to catch up too, huh?” I jolt awake and find a boy my age staring down at me. He has neatly cut brown hair, a plain face and slightly crooked teeth.

“Huh?”

He lifts his arm, showing me the three books he holds in his hand.

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my neck and sitting up straighter.

He grabs a chair and drags it towards me, taking a seat and resting his forearms on his knees. “You’re new?”

“Yep.”

“Me too. Been here about a term.”

“You’re new?” I was under the impression I was some kind of anomaly.

“My family moved over from Aropia. Some of the stuff they taught us over there is different from here. I’m trying to catch up.”

“Tell me,” I ask him, “how long until the ‘new kid’ label wears off?”