Page 14 of Taste of Thorns (The Firestone Academy #3)

Chapter Twelve

B riony

“Assholes,” Fly mutters the next morning as we both stare at the new addition to my door.

“See, I told you, they hate me.”

“Not everyone hates you, Cupcake. Some people are just bitter and jealous, that’s all.

” He bends down and rubs at the paint with his finger.

“I’d tell you to own this like a badge of honor (like all those bitches aren’t dying to screw the Princes themselves!) but actually it looks hideous. Let’s remove it.”

Fly goes to fetch some water and soap and we set to work attempting to remove the paint from my door. However, as hard as we scrub, the bright red letters remain in place.

“What the hell did they use?” Fly says.

“Some kind of magic?” I venture.

“Or the blood of ten virgins sacrificed under the full moon,” Fly mutters, throwing down his cloth in frustration. “Okay, well, if we can’t remove it, we’re going to jazz it up.”

“Do we have time?” I say, my stomach rumbling for breakfast.

“Not now, we’ll tackle it after dinner tonight.” He taps his fingers against his mouth, considering my door. “I’ll need to swipe some supplies.”

“Oh-kay,” I say, wondering what the hell he has planned.

It must be something big, and getting bigger by the moment, because he’s totally lost in thought all the way through breakfast and on our walk over to lessons. Although we don’t reach the classroom, instead we find everyone gathered on the paths. Clare pushes her way through the crowd to find us.

“What’s going on?” I ask her.

“The Madame’s canceled lessons for this morning and she’s sending us all out to pick ice mushrooms instead.

” I look at her blankly as she adjusts her glasses.

“Apparently they’re really useful for brewing potions, they only sprout after snowfall and they don’t last for long so she wants us gathering as many as we can while they’re here. ”

I peer around the group of gathered students. Someone is handing out baskets to all the Iron, Granite, and Slate kids.

“Where are the shadow weavers?” I ask.

“Not required to undertake manual labor obviously,” Fly mutters, as he turns the basket over in his hands. “This is so not me.”

“You’re gonna have to suck it up,” I tell him, hooking my basket over my arm, and turning towards the Titan twins who are trumpeting on their whistles.

“You have an hour and a half to gather as many ice mushrooms as you can. They can be found by digging in the snow,” the larger of the twins says.

Fly mutters under his breath, flipping up the collar of his jacket.

“You must return here with your pickings. Students with a less-than-satisfactory crop will be penalized.”

“Great!” Fly says, peering down at the snow like it might bite him.

“You don’t like snow?” I ask him.

“It’s cold and wet. What’s there to like about it?”

“It’s pretty,” Clare tells him. She looks across the group of students. “Would you mind if Damian came and picked mushrooms with us?”

“Do you mind if we interrogate him senseless?” I ask her.

“No, that sounds kind of amusing.”

“Then go,” Fly says, giving her a little push. “Go get your boy. Stars know, we’re going to need some amusement.”

Once Clare has collected Damian and he’s said hi to me and Fly rather shyly, we follow Clare out towards the forest.

“There’ll be more ice mushrooms at the edge of the trees,” she explains.

Clare takes Damian’s hand in hers and they lead the way, talking and laughing together quietly.

“They really are adorably sweet,” I whisper to Fly.

“If you like that kind of thing.”

I elbow him. “Oh come on.”

“Okay, yes, they are very sweet.”

“I can’t imagine holding hands with Dray or Beaufort that way.” I sigh.

“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 guaranteed that 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.”

I soon realize that, despite his declarations that everyone is an artist, Fly has given me the easiest and safest job as well as step-by-step instructions, while he tackles all the intricate details of his design.

“How do you even think up all this stuff, Fly?” I ask him, as I drag my brush back and forth over the wood, turning it from a dull brown color to a bright, electric blue.

“What stuff?” he says, chewing on the end of his paintbrush as he considers the shapes he’s creating.

“This design, the dress, the kite?”

“It’s just how my weird and wonderful brain operates. Ideas are popping up all the time. I just wish I had more opportunities to actually implement them.”

“You can make me another dress if you want?” I offer, totally selflessly.

“Cupcake, if I could get my hands on some material, I would. Your wardrobe is atrocious.”

“My wardrobe is mostly what Clare could spare me.”

“And Clare’s clothes totally suit her. She has the geek look down to a fine art.

It’s very cute. No wonder she’s snagged herself a guy already.

Do you know how many men have that whole librarian/hot teacher fantasy thing going on?

Oh, wait,” he says, flicking paint at me, “you totally know about that fantasy, right, Miss I’m-screwing-the-hot-professor. ”

“Information which should not be broadcast everywhere, remember?” I say, flicking paint back at him and peering towards the staircase.

“Don’t worry. Your dirty little secret is safe with me. But this is why you need new clothes. You’re hot property now. You need clothes to match.”

“Me? Hot property?” I giggle.

“Don’t do that,” he wags his finger at me, “you may not be my favorite snack, but there’s clearly something about you that these boys like.”

“Probably the fated mate thing.”

Fly shakes his head. “There was the not-so-nice hottie from Slate too, wasn’t there? He’s not a mate. You’re definitely hot stuff, Cupcake. Don’t knock it.”

To be honest, I rather like the idea of some new clothes.

I am fed up of walking around in a mismatched collection of clothes – most of which are too small for me.

If I asked the Princes, I’m sure they’d buy me new clothes.

I get the impression they have more money than they can spend.

But I am not Odessa. I don’t want to rub the academy’s noses in my good fortune.

I’d much rather have my friend make me clothes, especially as he enjoys it.

“Where do you usually find material?”

“My sister-in-law usually buys the stuff when I’m making her something. But she already sent me that dress. Trust me, that’s her one good deed done for the year. I’ll have to keep looking. Maybe we could swipe some old curtains from one of the classrooms.”

“Err, great?” I say with no enthusiasm. Dressing in curtains does not sound sexy in any shape or form.

“Don’t be like that. There are some gorgeous velvet curtains in the Madame’s classroom.”

“You want to steal the Madame’s curtains?” I squeak.

“No, I enjoy being alive. But I can dream about it.”

The mural on the door quickly falls together, and I see how bold and outrageous the design is; with swirls of color and geometric shapes, embracing and complementing the word scrawled on my door. I totally love it.

“This is incredible, Fly,” I tell him, as I stand back and admire his work. He stands back too, wiping paint from his face.

“Hmmm,” he says.

“It is!” I fling my arms around him and squeeze him tight. “You’re so talented!”

“Yeah,” he says, with a little sadness. “Just not in the right way.”

“In exactly the right way,” I whisper, squeezing him even tighter.