Page 62 of Storm of Shadows

But if she does sense me, she doesn’t see me, and each time, with a puzzled brow, she continues on her journey.

Beaufort told the both of us that the girl has been given a room in one of the old decrepit towers. But until I see it for myself, I have no perception of just how bad it is. Though the tower itself is solid and sturdy, its roof is thatched and will be little relief against the howling wind that sweeps the moor. The windows were built for battle not for students, long slits for archers and not for light. I imagine the place is cold, damp and dark.

The girl should come and live with us. We have empty rooms. Rooms that – while nothing in comparison to our chambers back home – are luxurious compared to this.

Although, as soon as the thought occurs to me, I dismiss it. It can never be. It is too dangerous.

At the base of the tower, she tips her head back and peers right up to the sky, blowing on her cold fingers. She stands there looking up at the sky, her lips moving as if she’s talking to herself – or maybe the heavens themselves. I can’t catch thewords above the blustering wind. Then she closes her eyes, her face crinkling in pain. A pain I recognize – one I’ve seen before.

I’ve been watching her these past few days and this is a face she’s kept hidden beneath the scowl of defiance and indifference.

I wonder what it is that has hurt her. Whether it’s her very existence – a nothing girl who’s endured the hardships of the Slate Quarter. Or whether it’s something more.

She drags her eyes from the sky and, with a heave of her shoulders, leans against the heavy door of the tower and steps inside.

I hesitate for a moment – she’s safely home, there is no need for me to follow her any further. I pass inside, following behind her as together we climb the narrow staircase. She trails the fingertips of her right hand over the rough wall as she climbs, humming a tune under her breath that I don’t know. Her voice is soft – would her touch be as soft? As gentle?

I trail my own fingers over the path of hers, catching only a glimpse of the feel of the stone through the thick leather of my gloves.

We climb right to the top of the tower. There are two doors off the landing and she stops at the first and raps her knuckles quietly against the woodwork. A male voice from within instructs her to enter and jealousy erupts out of nowhere and charges through my body. I want to grab her by the arm and tug her away. I want to batter my way into that room and strike whoever waits inside.

But then as quickly as the red mist rises, it disperses. The boy who waits inside is her friend. Harmless, pathetic. No challenge to us.

Tracking inside to listen to her conversation with her friend is unnecessary and contemptuous. It is also tempting beyond belief and so I slip inside the room with her, careful not to let mybody brush up against hers, and linger in the corner of the room. It is as bare and cold as I predicted – almost no furniture and the few pieces that there are, old and worn.

The boy sits on his bed reading a book and the girl comes to sit on the end, tucking her feet up under her and wrapping part of his blanket over her lap.

The boy closes his book and rests it down on the mattress, eyeing the girl with interest.

“I didn’t think you’d be home tonight,” he says, leaning forward eagerly. “What happened?”

She shrugs. “Not much.”

“Uh uh.” He wags his finger at her. “Don’t pretend like you don’t want to tell me when you’re here knocking on my door. Come on, out with it, spill the beans.”

“You’ll be disappointed. Nothing much happened. They locked me in the kitchen all evening while they went partying with their friends.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“They’re shadow weavers,” she says with contempt. “What did you expect?”

“Something more interesting than that,” he says, flopping back against the metal bars of the bed frame. “You haven’t even got a collar. Did they change their minds about the whole thing after all?”

“Unfortunately, no,” she examines her fingernails, biting at one, “and Beaufort offered me their collar. I refused it.”

“Ahhh,” the boy says, grinning, “so something did happen.”

“Not really. Besides, it’s clear they’re in disagreement about me being their thrall.”

“Really?”

“Thorne Cadieux wants nothing to do with me. He looks at me like I’ve rolled around in shit.”

“You do smell pretty bad.”

The girl rolls her eyes, and he tilts his head. “You’re not telling me the whole story. I notice someone fixed your nose.”

“Beaufort.”