Ch. 3
"Why are you snooping around my classroom, Ms. Carlisle?"
His voice is like velvet drawn over a blade. Smooth, rich… but sharp enough to cut through bone. I flinch and whirl around to face him, pulse hammering against my ribs. Professor Bellamy stands in the doorway, cerulean eyes unreadable. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him with an almost delicate click.
I start walking—not toward him, obviously. I skirt the far edge of the room, weaving behind the first row of desks, trying to act casual despite the fact that I feel like a criminal caught red-handed.
“I, uh… forgot something,” I say quickly, trying not to trip over my words or the stair leading to the second row.
He cocks his head. "Did you?"
I edge toward the far side of the room, tracing the perimeter that will eventually put me near the door.
"Yep! My pencil."
His gaze narrows. "You forgot your pencil."
I nod. "My… lucky pencil. I never take a test without it."
He begins to walk, slow and deliberate, one hand casually tucked into his pocket. "Is that right?"
"Yep." I gulp. "I owe all my spectacularly mediocre grades to her, so I, uh… had to circle back."
He takes another step toward me, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m in a hunter’s crosshairs. He’s the jaguar, and I’m his prey.
Gods, the way he’s looking at me makes my every nerve ending stand at attention. I hate how I notice the way the light hits his jawline, how perfectly his shirt is tailored, how much taller and broader he is in real life than he was in my dream.
I have to get out of here.
"If you’re looking for favors, Miss Carlisle," he says, voice purring, "you’re going about it in a very strange way."
I inch past the last row of desks and finally have a straight path toward the door. Time to go!
"I-I just remembered where it is,” I stammer, “and that somewhere… is not here. Sorry to bother you!"
I bolt. Not dignified, not graceful. Just sheer panic-pivot-and-run. I half expect him to call after me or threaten detention or turn me to stone with a single look, but the only thing I hear as I race out into the corridor is the creak of the door as it shuts behind me. Hopefully forever.
A week later, I’m standing in front of the student placement board in the commons, squeezing my eyes shut like that might change the outcome.
I whisper a prayer to any gods still listening.
Please, for the love of magic, let that D turn into a B. Please!
I peek, and immediately wish I’d stayed in bed: Desdemona Carlisle, Class D.
D for dumb. D for delinquent. D for disaster.
The senior academy has six classes. At the bottom is Class F, home to the muscleheads and freeloaders, who only go to this school because they can throw a discus like a Greek god, or because their parents literally pay the school to keep them enrolled. Then, at the top is Class A, where the students with the most preside—the most money, the most brains, the most prestige, and influence.
The senior student council is entirely comprised of Class A students, and each one comes from a family line so storied it could fill its own library. Just like a certain Princess Eleanor.
Which means, thanks to my abysmal class placement, I can kiss any chance of getting within fifty feet of her this semester goodbye.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I need to talk to her. That dream I had… it’s been rattling around in my head every night since. I’ve tried rationalizing it, brushing it off, but no matter how many times I convince myself it was a fluke, something in my gut says otherwise.
So, I make a decision. Probably not a wise one.
I run back to my tower and throw on the best outfit I own: a tartan skirt, crisp white peasant blouse, dark maroon vest, knee-high black socks, and oxblood platform loafers. It’s ironic as hell, basically wearing a schoolgirl uniform at a school that doesn’t require uniforms, but Eleanor and the other populars have made the style almost mandatory for anyone hoping to be anyone at Widdershins.
I pull my thick, shapeless brown hair into a high ponytail, slap on some mascara and a swipe of lip gloss, then stare at my reflection.
Better. Not them, but close enough.
The student council hall looks just as decadent and ancient as the rest of the Academy’s sprawling campus—all gothic arches, stained glass, and marble mosaics. The electric current of old magic is soaked into every stone, making it feel like the walls are watching, no matter where you are.
At the entrance, Cressida Vale lounges against the railing, tossing her platinum hair over one shoulder. Next to her is someone nearly as absurdly attractive. Of course.
I walk up, heart jackhammering in my chest.
“Well, look who came dressed to impress,” Cressida drawls, eyeing me like she’s evaluating a bug on a microscope slide.
“Just here to say hello,” I mutter, trying not to sound defensive.
Cressida’s grin takes a sharp edge. "Have they started letting the help in through the front door now? How quaint."
The other student laughs, and Cressida stares at me, waiting for a reaction. I don’t give her one as I stare back at her, my placid smile never leaving my face.
Cressida hides a shudder behind an eye roll. “Freak,” she mutters before gesturing for me to pass.
Inside is even more ostentatious than the outside. I wander one marble-lined wall after another until I spot Eleanor through a glass-paneled office door. Her copper hair gleams under the chandelier light. She’s talking to someone… and my stomach twists the second I hear his voice.
Professor Bellamy.
I duck behind the wall beside the door, pressing myself against the stone, heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears.
I listen.
They’re talking about course loads, future plans, references. Eleanor’s voice is smooth, refined. His is calm, professional. There’s no tension. No flirtation. No secret longing glances or breathless innuendo.
Where is the seduction? The salacious whispers? The slow, delicious corruption of power?
Their meeting is… painfully appropriate.
So, that’s that. My dream really was just a dream.
I’ve heard that dreams do that—piece together bits of memories you don’t even remember making. I mean, I’d already known of Eleanor, and if Professor Bellamy really is as famous as the rumors say, I probably saw his picture in a magazine once. Hell, after a while all the gothic architecture starts to look alike. My mind stitched it all together into something outrageous because I was tired, and overworked, and maybe just desperate for something in my life to mean something.
But it doesn’t. I’m not a seer. I’m not special.
I’m just Desdemona Carlisle, Class D.
And that’s all I’ll ever be.