Page 23 of Shattered Stars

I’m quiet. I don’t want to talk about this out on the path. A few students hurry along, late for their lessons. I don’t want them overhearing. I already see the way they glance at us from the corner of their eyes. They’ll be spreading this piece of gossip as soon as their backsides land on their classroom seats. Mrs. Moreau seen out in the open. It hasn’t been known for years. I don’t care.

My mother senses my reluctance to speak out in the open and she’s silent too, following my lead as I weave us along the paths. The day is overcast, the air thick with humidity and the coming fall. The light gray.

Her nails pinch the skin of my arm and her heels crunch the gravel underfoot. Under the perfume she wears, I smell her scent – sharp against the floral tones.

We walk around the gymnasium and the dueling pitch, deadly quiet today, and past the practical magical labs, its tall chimneys lost in the low-hanging cloud.

We’re passing the door, when I hear a pupil hurrying on the path behind us, their breath panting loudly in the quietness.

I keep walking, eyes trained right ahead, refusing to look that way, even though the hook in my belly strains towards her, even though I’m damn curious to look.

But my mother stiffens.

She halts suddenly beside me, her head snaps over her shoulder and her amber eyes flash.

I can’t help glancing too, watching as the Pig Girl swings the building door open and disappears inside.

My mother stares at the closing door.

“Who is that girl, Spencer?” she says, her eyes returning to their normal color.

“No one,” I mutter, tugging gently on her arm.

“No one?” she says. “I do not recognize her.”

“She’s new. Joined the school several months back.”

“From where?”

I pause. “The wastelands.”

My mother snaps her head back around to me. “An unregistered?”

I nod.

“She’s powerful.” I glance towards the door. “Come on,” she says, “I’ve walked far enough. Let’s talk.”

The alumni common room is a long ancient room that rests alongside the Great Hall, its floor formed of old wooden boards that creak as we walk inside, battered leather armchairs spread around its walls, more paintings of previous pupils adorning thewall. It’s a room present students are not permitted to enter. Only those who are honored alumni of the school are allowed to use the room, each given their own key and permission to enter whenever they like.

My mother walks straight to the nearest window, opening the heavy shutters that block out the dull light. Then she turns to face me, resting her hand against the back of the nearest chair.

I stand facing her on the other side of the room. The distance between us feels vast as always.

“The pills are no longer working,” she says.

“No, they aren’t,” I say, “I’m sure Principal York must have told you–”

My mother waves her hand through the air in irritation. “Yes, yes, but I assumed that was some boyish prank. If there’s been a problem – if there is still a problem – you should have contacted me sooner, Spencer.”

A problem? She has no fucking idea.

Suddenly, the weight of it. This burden – this cruel stupid burden – is too much. Too fucking much.

I sink into the nearest chair and bury my face into my hands.

“I thought I could sort it out myself,” I say, my voice catching in my throat. “I thought I’d be able to control it, to get a grip on it.”

She huffs with more irritation.