. . . no longer requires employment . . . studies will take up the bulk of her time . . . thanks you for the kindness and generosity . . . will be staying in room 312, which I have paid out in full to the end of the year.

“Spirits take that meddlesome dolt, I will wring his neck.”

“We moved your things up to the room, Jessamin, books and everything. We didn’t know what to make of it, but the instructions were quite clear and, well, it’s such a fancy room!” A door slams next to us and I meet a glaring pair of eyes as one of the chambermaids swishes away. Clearly not everyone is as pleased with my fortune as Ma’ati.

I rub my forehead. “And you’ve already replaced me?”

“I’m sorry, but the girl came with the letter and her references were all good. And Jacky Boy has been needing someone who can give more hours.”

“Well, you’ve done no wrong, of course. I have to get to class. We can sort it out when I return.”

Ma’ati smiles and hands me the key to room 312. “Oh, your friend was by last night to see you. Kelen?”

I grimace. He’s going to think I’m avoiding him. I do want to see him, really, but he feels rather low on my list of priorities right now. “Did he leave an address?”

“No. He wanted to wait in your room, but Jacky Boy wouldn’t let him. He’s very protective of you.”

I laugh. “Kelen isn’t good enough for him?”

She shrugs. I want to ask more, but I’m already running late. I kiss Ma’ati’s cheek and head to my room. No. Not my room. Finn’s room. I refuse to take the guest stairs, and instead make my way up the narrow hidden flight. Someone bumps me roughly from behind.

“Oh, beg pardon, milady. Only shouldn’t you ought to be using the stairs for proper folks?” The chambermaid glares at me.

I don’t have time to set her straight. I hurry up, angry at her and at myself and especially at Finn. “This isn’t funny,” I hiss in the general direction of my shadow as I walk into the room. “You have no right.”

My books are carefully stacked on the generous desk, but I try to ignore the opulence of the room. The sky-blue silk duvet and matching drapes. The mounds of feather pillows. The window seat perfect for reading. The dressing table. The private bathroom.

I fail at ignoring it. But I will not accept it. I grab my books and barely have time to change into my school uniform. My satin gloves—Eleanor found a near-match—look ridiculously out of place.

“And now you’ve made me late.” I throw one of the pillows at my shadow and stomp out of the hotel.

I arrive out of breath and cross as a hornet to pick up a book from my carrel in the library. When I see the back of someone sitting in my spot, it is too much. “Sir, if you tell me this is no longer my carrel, I cannot be held accountable for my reaction.”

Finn turns—the black book known as Sir Bird open in his hands—and smiles.

Seventeen

“I WONDER WHETHER THE ACADEMICS AT THIS institution are as rigid as they ought to be.” Finn looks pointedly at the slate I left on my desk. Someone has drawn a crude rendition of a woman’s body—mine, probably—along with mathematical equations for the size of her rather impressive bosom.

Go back to your island, rat is scrawled at the bottom.

“Yes,” I say, dryly. “Their calculations are entirely wrong. It reflects poorly on the school.” I drop my satchel at my feet. The sight of Finn in his dark blue three-piece suit sitting in my study carrel is too much. “What are you doing here? And what did you do at the hotel? You had no right!”

“I’m sorry about that. But I intend on taking up more of your time than you can afford to lose, and thought it only fair you have fewer responsibilities.”

“That’s not your decision! And—wait, what is that on my slate?” I lean over his shoulder, squinting. Next to the line about going back to my island is an odd symbol that I don’t recognize. It seems to have been etched there. I reach out a finger to run over it, but Finn blocks my arm.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Hugh, a lanky boy with a perpetual sniffle, stands up from his carrel three down from mine. “Can I borrow a pen and inkwell? Mine won’t seem to work.” A boy next to him hands one over. “No, this one won’t work either.”

“It was working fine for me, give it here. See?”

“But it won’t write for me! Neither will this pen.” Hugh growls in frustration and then sits back down out of sight. “Spirits below, what is happening? Not even my chalk will show up on slate. Here, let me have a go at yours.”

There’s low, confused murmuring. Again the other boy says, “It works fine for me.”

“Why won’t any of my instruments mark?” Hugh walks by, smashing a piece of chalk against a small slate. It leaves no mark.

Finn stands, moving out of the way for me to sit in my carrel. “Hmm. Puzzling.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with you, now, would it?” I ask.

He shrugs, long, slender shoulders lazily rising. “I may have put a curse on whoever wrote that horrid thing. Just a small one. Though I suppose a month without being able to write something down will be inconvenient for a student.”

The laugh that bursts out of my mouth earns me the ire of everyone around us. I put my gloved fingers to my mouth, trying to push some of the mirth back in. “I am still very cross with you.”