Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Kirin is roaring with laughter as he pulls up, finding me cursing and flailing in a bunch of bushes that don’t want to relinquish me.
“I saw all of that,” he says. “That was worthy of the circus. Are you hurt?”
“No,” I sigh, giving up for a second. “I’m just stuck.”
Kirin gets off his bike and offers me his hands, hauling me out of the twiggy embrace of the plants that probably saved my life. If I’d hit something else, like a rock, I might not be having this conversation.
“Get on,” he says. “I might be able to get you back to the house before Einar finds out what the hell you just did.”
“The bike…”
“Me or Rafe will come back for the bike,” he says. “Get on. Quick. God, Darcy. You know how to make bad things worse, don’t you.”
He speeds me back to the mansion, and takes me in the side door, what’s called the servant’s entrance. It has some stairs and passages that aren’t obvious in the main parts of the house.
“Go up and get showered,” he says. “And go to bed before you can get yourself in even more trouble.”
I do as he says, not feeling much less sorry for myself than I did before. As I stand under the water, I try to count my very limited blessings.
I’m not hurt, and the bike still runs. I’m lucky. I get to live another miserable day.
CHAPTER 17
Darcy
The thing about accidents is sometimes you don’t know how much damage you’ve done until later.
I wake up the next morning, and I can barely fucking move. It’s not the cane lines. They don’t help, but they’re not the reason getting up feels like pushing through aching Jell-O. Everything bends, so I don’t think anything is broken, but God, it does not feel good to move. What I need is a heat pack and a lie down. I know that’s not going to happen. Einar can never know what I did last night.
I sneak around for a little bit, looking for Kirin or Rafe, thinking one of them might make some excuse for me, but they’re both gone.
I end up putting on the damn uniform that Einar expects me to wear, the thick stiff fabric feeling unpleasant against my skin. These fucking uniforms suck. They were designed by someone who doesn’t understand that being rubbed by something that feels like it’s been starched by a vengeful god all day is the most distracting thing possible. It also has a high collar that doesn’t really even fit girls, so it jabs into my chin every time I try to put my head down a little bit.
I hate this uniform. I didn’t hate the academy before, even though I snuck out all the time, but I think I am starting to hate it now. It used to be my only option, but now it feels like a prison I keep being pushed back into.
I straighten the jacket and adjust the britches and boots. It’s all very neat looking, but it truly feels awful to wear. Maybe the stiffness of the uniform will explain how awkwardly I move.
“Darcy! Breakfast!” I hear Einar call my name. Another awful day is beginning.
Einar
It is yet another day of being back in the academy and frankly I’d still rather not be here. Making polite conversation with other instructors, many of whom are both awed and slightly suspicious of me and my intentions, is not easy.
The fact that the director talked me back into teaching works in my favor. The story that I came across a runaway and decided my influence was needed certainly works. But I think everybody knows that there is a certain strangeness to my sudden reappearance on the scholastic scene.
I left with something of a dramatic exit several years ago, not planning on returning. I had become entirely devoted to the Blood, and I think they knew that, though they would never have said it out loud. Calling one of the academy’s most prominent scholars a terrorist would be absolutely scandalous. People want to believe the best of me, and it is my job to let them believe.
I have to keep my wits about me. I am surrounded by enemies. Another way to think of it is I am the enemy, infiltrating the heart of the mainstream tyranny. Another way to think of it is…
“Move, Darcy!” I snap the words with some urgency because Darcy just got hit, and not for the first time.
I’m combat training Darcy’s cohort, and they’re sparring. She’s half the size of a lot of the young men she’s training with, and it is very clear they give her no quarter. They’re not using real swords, and that is a good thing, because she’d be missing an arm and damn near a head by now.