Page 43 of Taste of Thorns

“That’s because you’re too busy being slutty with those boys. You’d be pulling them down into the nearest snow drift and–”

“But I think I’d like to do the sweet hand-holding thing too,” I muse.

“Then you should totally do it,” Fly says, hooking his arm through mine. “The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Clare identifies a clump of snow she thinks will deliver and we start digging with our hands, all complaining of numb fingers within minutes. As we dig, we question Damian about where he’s from, his family, his interests and lastly his hopes and dreams for the future.

“I’m really hoping I end up back in Granite,” he says, glancing towards Clare.

“You will,” she says, plucking a first mushroom from the snow and holding it up for us all to admire. I understand immediately where it got its name. The mushroom is a clear white color and its flesh is brittle. It looks like it was sculpted from ice.

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” I coo.

“But toxic. So don’t eat it,” Clare says, dropping it into her basket.

“Toxic, shit! Why does the Madame have us gathering toxic mushrooms?”

“Like I told you, good for potions.”

“Yeah, but what kind of potions?” I say, side-eyeing the mushroom in her basket.

An hour later, all our baskets are full, even Fly’s who made a lot of fuss about the snow, and we stroll back towards the academy. I find myself next to Damian, Fly, and Clare arguing about the merits of cold versus hot weather.

“You really like her, don’t you?” I ask him. The boy can’t keep his eyes off my clever friend.

“I’ve never met anyone like her. Someone who’s interested in talking about quantum physics and the natural history of butterflies.”

I smile. “And she’s pretty cute too.”

“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I hope we end up in Granite together.”

I stare down at the snow. I’ve tried not to think too much about the future. About what happens when we leave the academy. I’ve made these friends and these connections. I’ve met people who mean the world to me. It seems so cruel that we don’t get to decide our own futures. That it isn’t guaranteedthat Clare and Damian will end up in the same Quarter together. That they don’t get a say in their own destinies.

It seems even crueler that, if we’re all sent to different Quarters, we might never see each other again.

Fly is still complaining about chilblains and frostbite at dinner that evening, although his mood brightens considerably once we’re done eating and he can drag me back to our tower. I find he’s been busy. Outside my door, scattered across the landing, are all kinds of art supplies – paint pots, crayons, brushes, and marker pens.

“Where in the realm did you find all this?” I say.

It’s not like they’ve been teaching us art classes here at the academy.

“I have my ways,” he says, tapping the side of his nose, “and my contacts.”

“And what are you planning on doing with all this?”

“I changed my mind. We’re going to own the hell out of that.” He points towards the four red letters. “I have a design.” He pulls a piece of paper from his blazer pocket and unfolds it, revealing a picture drawn in pencil.

“Are you hoping I’m going to help, because I should warn you now, Fly, I cannot draw to save my life.”

“Nonsense, everyone can draw.”

“Not me.”

“About time you learned how then. Here.” He hands me a large paint brush. “You can paint the outside of the door in blue.” He slides a pot of paint my way. I stare at the brush and the paint like they are both alien objects.

“I should really go visit, Blaze.”

“Afterwards,” he says sternly, shaking his finger at the door. “Get to work.”