Page 64 of Storm of Shadows

“Alchemy,” she says, when we have all taken our seats, “is an art form, not, as many of you have no doubt been led to believe, a science. Only a truly great creative possesses the vision necessary.”

She smiles at the shadow weavers with admiration and they all seem to grow about three inches in front of our eyes.

She’s just about to open her mouth to start speaking again, when the classroom door swings backwards and Dray Eros walks through. He has his blazer slung over one shoulder, his shirt sleeves yanked up his arms, most of the buttons of his shirt undone and he’s chewing gum.

I peer at Fly. Dray Eros hasn’t been in any of our classes so far but this one he seems to be joining.

He slides his hand through his long white hair, ruffling it so it’s even messier, and, ignoring everyone else in the room, strides towards a desk at the front of the room. He glares at the boy already occupying the seat, and the boy hops up immediately, scampering to the back of the classroom without a word of complaint. Dray slings his jacket onto the back of his chair, and flops down into the now vacant seat.

Everyone in the classroom gapes at him.

Madame Bardin has a notorious reputation. Madame Bardin made it clear on the very first day that she won’t tolerate tardiness.

I wait for her to unleash this temper we’ve all heard so much about. Or at the very least give him a taste of her wicked tongue.

Instead, she gazes at the latecomer as if he is sunshine itself, forcibly dragging her eyes away from him to reconnect with the rest of us.

“However,” she continues as if there was no interruption at all, walking through the rows of desks, “there are some acts of alchemy that don’t require creativity or magic. Acts that even the most pathetic of you should be able to manage.” She peers at me and the other Slate Quarter students huddled at the back of the classroom, pressing her hand to her stomach like the sight of us all makes her physically sick.

“And so,” she says, waving her hand through the air, small cauldrons appearing on the desks in front of us, “today we will see if you are indeed capable of brewing such concoctions.” She clicks her fingers and a pile of ingredients plus a piece of paper with a list of instructions appear by our pots. “You will work in silence. Begin.”

I peer down at my equipment. The cauldron is cracked all down one side. The metal utensils are bent out of shape and I’m pretty sure most of these ingredients are rotten. Around me theother students are looking just as doubtful. One boy raises his hand.

“Is there a problem?” Madame Bardin asks sweetly, her mouth curved into a pleasant smile. However, her magic hisses and swirls around her, and the boy leans away and shakes his head.

Madame strolls back to the front of the classroom, immediately engaging in conversation with the shadow weavers. I see their equipment looks brand new and made of far more advanced materials. Their ingredients also look fresher and there are a lot more of them.

I check my list; yep, I don’t have half the things we’re meant to. I’m guessing we’re being set up to fail here.

I shrug off my own blazer, pull back my sleeves and follow the instructions, improvising and adapting as best I can. Every so often I can’t help gazing to the front. Most of the shadow weavers are half heartedly stirring cauldrons, or dumping ingredients into their pots, using their magic to mix and simmer the concoction.

Madame Bardin sashays around their desks, lending guidance and advice, leaning into them as she does, her hands resting on their shoulders, or stroking down their arms.

Maybe she’s just a tactile person, but it doesn’t seem entirely appropriate, especially the way she lingers over Dray, leaning right over him and offering him a flash of her impressive cleavage.

Discomfort bubbles in my stomach. Is that jealousy? Am I jealous?

No, definitely not. I hardly know Dray Eros. And what I’ve seen of him, I don’t like. Arrogant and self-conceited.

As if he hears these very thoughts in my head, he turns right around in his seat and rewards me with one of those infuriating winks of his. A wink that makes my knees involuntarily weak.

How the hell does he do that? How does he succeed in making one look so devastating?

I avert my gaze and spend the rest of the lesson with my eyes fixed on my concoction. The instructions say we should have formed a thick treacle that can be used for healing wounds. Mine is a thin liquid that smells of pig shit.

Madame Bardin struts around inspecting each of our results and informing us in no uncertain terms that we are stupid, untalented and beyond hope. All of us except the shadow weavers of course. The praise she heaps on them is almost embarrassing and I can’t get out of the classroom fast enough, even if I do find Dray Eros lingering by the exit waiting for me.

He leans with his back and one boot against the wall, chewing his gum languidly. When he sees me his eyes light up and he pushes off the wall and shoves Fly to one side, taking the position next to me.

“Caught you looking, little thrall,” he says.

I keep my gaze trained ahead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t, huh?” He chuckles, ruffling his hair like he did earlier and letting the locks fall across his face. “Tell me, did you like what you saw?”

I glance towards him and his eyes flick around my face with excitement.

I give him my most unamused and unimpressed look. One I hope conveys my message.