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They're here for degrees in general politics, which is another way of saying that they're learning to be worldly wives to their future noble husbands or wives. Psychology is unfortunately a course we all share this year, and to my dismay, they also attend the recreational center right after our lecture.
I go to swim for an hour or two. Raverdays and Preordays are the only times when I can do so, given my outside assignment on Strejadays and the volunteering for the rest of the workweek. They, naturally, come to dance. One cannot hope to ensnare a duke or a prince without knowing all the fashionable dances.
Without the exercise, I'm stiff and unfocused. The first thing can be annoying. The second? Deadly. Still, I have considered changing my hours, to avoid dealing with the three Cs in the changing room. So far this year, they've ignored me, other than chuckling when I walk past and calling me names.
I decide the spoiled brats' presence isn't going to determine what I do with my time. They can insult me. They can try to trip me. They've done so before, and I have thicker skin than to let it get to me. Much.
The third week,Icome to regret that decision.
CHAPTERFOUR
THE TRAP
Istart this week fantasizing about murder by the end of the day.
Murder, I tell myself, isn't the answer. There has to be another alternative. Maybe I can just pour a potion into Chira, Caelin, and Camil’s favorite cherry liquor—something that would give the three Cs genital herpes, or penny-size zits to mar their flawless skins. That has to be better than murder.
I know what my family would say, if I ask for advice. Murder all the way. Destroy the bodies. And above all, get a great alibi. The three Cs have somewhat relevant families; it wouldn't do to amass mortal enemies before I even turn twenty-five.
Unlike every other Frejr, though, I have mostly clean hands. It's been years since they've spilled a speck of blood. I intend to keep it that way. I'm not weak or squeamish. I just don't think that the answer to every conflict is at the end of a bloody blade.
Still, after waiting for three hours in nothing but a towel for the waves of students to get out of the university’s ancient corridors, my resolve is wavering.
At first, when I met them, the three Cs were nice to me. That lasted a day. Then they realized I'm not a bloodthirsty, cutthroat witch like the rest of the Frejrs. And to the Cs, that meant I'm nothing.
In hindsight, I should have hidden my intention to become a healer, or at least, the fact that I don't use magic. By admitting as much to everyone in class, I painted a target on my forehead. At first, there were minor pranks and when it became clear that I wasn't one to go crying for help to my cousins—or worse, my great-grandmother—the students started to see me for what I am: defenseless.
And currently, clothesless.
Their fear of my family means that no one will cross a line by purposely harming me—at least not without a hell of an alibi. So they've taken to humiliating me. They're great at doing so without getting caught.
I take a peek down the corridor, left and right, before dashing out. My bare feet cold against the polished marble, I run as fast as I can.
The university students’ dorms adjoin to the building—I just need to get to the courtyard and pass the kitchens, then I can sneak in unnoticed through the indoor pool both building share. There should be some clothes in the lost and found basket on the ground floor. And Ineedclothing. If I turn up like this at the tower of magiks, Marwouldcommit murder. She'd do it like she does everything else: flamboyantly, proudly, mercilessly.
I'm not about to open that can of worms if I can help it.
I tighten my towel around my breasts, wishing I'd opted for a longer one, but my gym bag had been full.
Said gym bag disappeared right after my shower, with all my changes of clothes and my shoes. While I can't technically be certain that the culprits are the three Cs, they are generally at the heart of every successful prank pulled on me.
Chira Mallone, princess of Flaur, Caelin Esthera, the daughter of a duchess from somewhere in Anderkan, and Camil Ostra, the richest girl currently attending Five,hateme. I don't even know why. Two of them are demis, so it can't be racism. It used to keep me awake at night, wondering why the hell they despised me so much. Now, I don't care. All I want is for them to leave me alone.
Back to the murder. Daydreaming about it is somewhat comforting. Maybe I can brew an eversleeping potion, and slip that in their drinks rather than use a hex. That isn't murder, right?
Except I don't brew magik. I could ask Callan. He's the most proficient at potions, and he'd do just about anything to annoy Mar.
Hearing a familiar, annoying chuckle, I glance over my shoulder, but the corridor I just left still seems empty. That doesn't mean that the three Cs aren't here. They could be using an invisibility spell. None of them are seasoned witches, but they have enough money to pay one to do their bidding—as they’ve proven the number of times they’ve attacked me with various spells.
“Careful!” a woman screams.
My head snaps back to face forward, and I try to stop, but I'm running far too fast. My body hits a hard, tall surface that shouldn’t have been in the courtyard. It wasn't, moments ago when I was looking.
Propelled backward with the momentum, I fall on my ass, hard enough to bruise my tailbone.
"Ouch." My legs hurt. My feet hurt. My back isn't too happy with me. I hear the sound of glass breaking against the pebbled tiles before I can focus on the disaster in front of me. There are hundreds of little white and blue bits, on and around me. I wince, for my ass as much as the thing I've clearly broken in my flight. The damage is irreparable. At least without magiks.
I look up, and up, and up again, until I meet a pair of silver-gray eyes.
