Four
1476 Words
Sable
The headmaster’s office had two doors, three windows all tightly locked with no obvious way out.
I had checked twice.
The first time, I had been polite about it. The second time, I had thrown a chair at the smallest window and discovered that Thornvale’s glass was stronger than my temper.
The chair had lost.
It lay on its side beneath the window, one leg cracked. I sat beside it with my wrists resting on my knees, trying not to look like a girl who had just set fire to the headmaster’s funeral by standing too close to it.
The portrait above the mantel watched me.
It showed Headmaster Edrik Sorn as he had probably preferred to be remembered: severe, silver-haired and dressed in dark robes with a red stone at his throat. His painted eyes were narrow. His mouth was thinner than the line of his shoulders.
He looked like a man who had never enjoyed a meal unless someone else was denied one.
The real headmaster had died less than an hour ago.
The portrait was still smiling.
Voices carried through the closed doors. They had been arguing about me since the guards dragged me upstairs.
“Execution is unnecessary.”
“She killed the headmaster.”
“She exposed the heir’s curse.”
“She is a village witch.”
“She is Maelin Venn’s daughter.”
That last one had been repeated several times, usually by people who sounded as though my mother’s name might crawl under the door and bite them.
I leaned back against the desk.
“Honestly,” I told the portrait, “if they’re going to discuss my death, they could at least make it interesting.”
The portrait did not answer.
It only turned its painted head a fraction toward me.
I sat up.
That had not happened before.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
The door opened.
Orren Veyr entered alone.
He had changed since the hall. His black coat was buttoned to the throat, and the silver ring on his hand was gone. There was a faint grey line beneath his left eye, as though the curse had left a bruise under the skin.
He shut the door behind him.
“Stand.”
I looked at the chair. “I’ve had a difficult day.”
“Stand.”
“You could ask.”
“I could.”
“But you chose not to.”
“I am beginning to understand why you were placed in the lowest class.”
I smiled. “And I’m beginning to understand why everyone looks relieved when you leave a room.”
His expression did not change, but something dark moved beneath the floorboards.
The office wards responded to him.
I noticed that immediately. The black lines carved into the walls brightened when he stepped closer, then dimmed again when he stopped.
Orren noticed me noticing.
“Eyes on me,” he said.
“I have two. They can travel.”
“You altered a royal exposure spell in front of the entire academy.”
“You hid a hand-crushing command inside it.”
“It was a test.”
“It was attempted bloody murder.”
His gaze dropped to my hands.
The black lines beneath my skin had faded since the hall, but they had not disappeared completely. Thin marks crossed my fingers and disappeared beneath my sleeves.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Usually, people ask how I’m feeling first.”
“Usually, people are not standing over a dead headmaster.”
“I wasn’t standing over him. I was standing near him. There’s a difference.”
“Not to the people outside.”
“That sounds like a problem for the people outside.”
He crossed the room and stopped at the desk. The headmaster’s papers had been cleared away, leaving only a brass inkpot and a stack of empty parchment.
Orren placed both hands on the desk and leaned toward me.
“Did you know the spell would rebound?”
“No.”
“Did you touch the wards?”
“No.”
“Did you set fire to Sorn?”
“No.”
“Did your mother teach you to lie?”
I looked at him. “Did yours teach you to interrogate badly?”
A silence fell between us.
It was a proper silence this time, not the empty kind people used when they had nothing left to say. Orren’s face remained calm, but his fingers pressed harder into the desk.
The portrait turned toward him.
I saw it in the corner of my eye.
“Orren,” it said.
The voice was soft and flat.
Orren went still.
I looked at the painting.
The portrait had not moved its mouth.
A line of black paint had appeared across the red stone at its throat.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“The f*****g portrait just spoke so I think not nothing.”
“It did not.”
“It called your name.”
“Paintings do not speak.”
“That must be embarrassing for this one.”
He turned sharply toward the portrait. The shadows beneath the mantel stirred.
I stood, mostly because sitting suddenly felt less safe.
The painted headmaster watched us both now.
His eyes had shifted from Orren to me.
I took one step closer.
Orren caught my wrist.
His hand was cold.
Not cool. Cold enough to make my pulse stumble beneath his fingers.
“Stop touching things you do not understand,” he said.
I looked at his hand around my wrist. “You’ve been touching me since I arrived.”
His fingers tightened before he released me.
“That is different.”
“Of course, how could little peasant me forget. Yours is a royal touch.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are a village stray with a dangerous trick.”
“And you are wearing a crown that looks like something a funeral director would reject.”
For the first time, Orren looked surprised.
It passed quickly, but I saw it.
Then the corner of his mouth moved.
Not a smile. Something meaner and more interesting.
“You mistake insolence for courage.”
“You mistake fear for obedience.”
The room seemed to contract around us.
Orren’s shadow stretched across the floor, long enough to reach my boots. It stopped just before touching them.
“You should be careful,” he said.
“I’ve been careful my entire life. It’s overrated.”
“You think this is a game because you survived one spell.”
“I think you’re angry because I'm not cowering or intimidated by you.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
It was so quick I might have imagined it. I decided I hadn’t. Imagining things was how people ended up surprised by knives.
Orren straightened.
“The council will decide whether you are expelled or executed.”
“Those are very different options.”
“Not for you.”
“Do you have a preference?”
“Expulsion.”
I blinked.
He looked away first.
“Why?”
“Because execution would make you important.”
“That is almost thoughtful.”
“It is practical.”
“Your concern is touching.”
“I have no concern for you Sable Venn.”
“Then you should stop looking at me like you’re trying to decide where to bury me.”
His face hardened again.
Outside, the voices rose. Someone shouted that the royal guard should be called. Someone else demanded that Sorn’s death be avenged before sunset.
The portrait began to turn.
Slowly, stiffly, its painted head moved away from Orren and toward me.
I watched it.
Orren followed my gaze. “What now?”
“Your dead headmaster is staring at me.”
“Its a bloody portrait.”
“Your portrait has a strange amount of confidence for a dead man.”
The black line at the painted throat widened.
Orren took one step toward the door.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
“Where else would I go? Through the chair?”
He ignored me and opened the door. Before leaving, he looked back.
For a moment, the black crown mark around his heart showed through his shirt.
It pulsed once.
The office wards answered.
Then he was gone.
The door shut behind him.
I waited until his footsteps faded.
The portrait kept watching me.
“Fine,” I said. “You have my attention.”
The painted headmaster’s eyes moved toward the sealed cabinet behind the desk.
I followed his gaze.
Nothing happened.
I waited.
The portrait’s mouth opened.
A whisper slipped through the office, thin as a breath against glass.
“Maelin Venn.”
Every candle went out.
The portrait smiled wider.
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