Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
I scowl. “You can’t find me that unpleasant.”
“I beg to differ. Why else am I transferring you?”
“What’s so unpleasant exactly?”
“Everything.”
“I wish you weren’t a king right now.”
“Why? Want to slap me again?”
I raise a tempted hand and curl a finger, ready to flick. “Can I? Can I please? On the forehead. The side of your ear?”
Quin bats me with the feathered end of his arrow; I dodge it and give his lower thigh a few good flicks.
He prods me away, rolling his eyes.
I stay there before him, and raise my head to meet his dark gaze. He watches me carefully.
“It’s an extraordinary gift,” I murmur.
“Don’t read too much into it.” He nocks the arrow and aims. “I overheard you and Akilah that night on the longboat. She said all your books had been burned. You did a good deed, saving a man; I wanted to give you access to books that couldn’t be taken away.” He jerks his head in dismissal. “Off you go.”
I reach under my cloak, to where I hooked the pearl mask, and sit it on his knees. He glances at it and lowers his bow.
“Why do you have one of my mother’s masks?”
“This one is my favourite; it matches the soldad. Wear it on Sunday.”
“There you go again, telling me what to do.” He pauses. “What do you mean, wear it on Sunday?”
“Nicostratus will explain as soon as you’re back.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?”
“You and he have the unconditional love between siblings, so I’ll leave it to him.”
Quin frowns curiously at me over the mask.
I flash him a grin. “I’ll go now.”
“A moment.”
I wait as his gaze rises and falls down my front.
“Is that a lemon tucked into your sash?”
I leap to my feet and scurry backwards. “It’s absolutely not from the conservatory.”
Quin shakes his head, laughing, and raises his bow. He aims at me while I skedaddle.
“Haven’t you learned your lesson?”
At six o’clock the following morning I meet Chiron in the apothecary, as promised, to announce my decision. He’s sipping tea over screeds of parchment on his desk. He doesn’t look up until I’ve been standing there for several moments.
He squints at me and strokes the stray scruff he’s been cultivating on his chin. “Will you drop out?”
“I won’t. I want to try.”
“High expectations only lead to disappointment.”
“Not trying is the bitterest of all failures.”
“I was told you’d be stubborn.” He shakes his head. “If you have indeed decided to stay . . .” He points upwards, to the gallery and that shadow-shrouded archway. The Crucible, Mikros had once told him. A place of punishment. He holds up the parchment he was reading. “The request came late last night.”
I squeeze the lemon I slung into a pouch at my belt. You’d better taste divine.
“Is there any room for negotiation?” I glance towards the archway and back to Chiron. “I heard the last scholar needed a hundred days.”
“With a foundation far superior to yours.”
A scuffle comes from the doorway and Makarios and Mikros fall into the classroom. Florentius follows behind them in an elegant sweep of sparkly white robes.
Chiron lifts a brow.
“We wanted to hear his decision,” Makarios says, picking himself off the floor and helping Mikros up. They face Chiron and incline their heads respectfully. “Please don’t send him to the Crucible. He’ll be stuck there forever.” Makarios looks over Mikros’s head at me with a smirk. “No offense.”
I roll my eyes. He’s right though. I’ve been struggling to keep up so far—how can I beat something that’s intentionally more difficult?
Chiron glances at Florentius, who’s hovering behind me. “Are you here to plead for him too?”
Florentius glances at me and lifts his chin. “I’d hoped he’d be leaving.” Tough nut to crack, this one. “Perhaps the prospect of the Crucible will change his mind?”
“Hardly. I’m not leaving until you’ve admitted you like me.”
He huffs, cheeks flaring with colour. “Rather wither away in the Crucible? You’re smarter than that.”
“See, you can be nice. You think I’m smart.”
Chiron halts our ‘nonsense’ and escorts me swiftly up the stairs and along the balcony.
Beyond the dark archway is a cluttered, dust-covered room with a stove and bench, a mat for sleeping, shelves crammed with jars, and a long, sturdy table big enough to hold a body.
Chiron ushers me inside. “Chamber pots behind that screen.”
I take a reluctant step into the room and the temperature immediately drops. I shiver and breathe in stale air with the mouldy taste of decaying herbs.
And I thought my windowless cell was bad.
“An intriguing case came to my attention last month,” Chiron says. “Took me three days to figure it out—” He glances past me and I turn to look—a body on a stretcher of ice, carried by a team of aklos. “Place the body on the table there. You may return in an hour.” They’re quick to leave, their footsteps fading as my gaze fixes on the preserved body—male, covered to his armpits in a white sheet. Folded clothing is stacked beside him.