Bright Flame, Deep Shadow (lesbian story)

Hestia

It's been almost an hour, and the Professor still isn't back yet. I tried to sleep on the little couch next to the unlit fire, but I couldn't keep still long enough. I even tried to read some of the books on the shelves around the walls, but the tiny writing made my eyes go weird after a while. Then, I began to pace. By the time Martel gets back my feet will probably have made a hole in the rug.

Every time I get to the tall window at one end of the room, I press my face to the glass and peer out into the night. With the lamp behind me it's hard to see anything but myself and the moon. It doesn't stop me looking again every few minutes, though.

Every time I get to the other end of the room, I check the grandfather clock in the corner, as if it could tell me why the fuck Martel is taking so long. It can't. Obviously.

I jump when the clock strikes midnight, twelve clangs that are too big for the tiny office.

Martel explicitly told me to stay here, that I was in danger. But he should be back by now, shouldn't he? If he's hurt, nobody would know. He could be down in that archive or something, and nobody would know where to look. If he was all right, he would at least have come and checked on me. Wouldn't he?

Maybe I'm not the best student ever, but I'm not stupid enough to think that going to Tanvik—or any other teacher, for that matter—is a good idea. Ardyan would get in trouble then, and getting Arabella cast out would've been for nothing.

I'm going to have to look for Martel myself.

I go to the door and jiggle the handle a bit, but it's firmly locked. That's no different to what I expected, but it was worth a try. I'm way too high up to climb out the window, and I'm not exactly built for that anyway. I never learned to pick lock, either. When I lived at the workhouse, I could look out of the window nearest my bed and see down into the square and watch people get hung for burglary. Learning how to break into a house never seemed worth the temptation. My only hope is to hope that there's a spare key lying around somewhere.

I've known Martel for the whole time I've been at this academy, and if there's one thing I've noticed about him, it's that he's careful. His desk is always tidy and he hardly ever has a hair out of place. I've watched him double- and triple-check tests before he gives them back to us the next day. A guy like that must have a spare key to his own office, for an emergency. I just have to hope its in here, in case he ever locks himself in or something, and not in his classroom. He wasn't expecting to have to keep me here, though, so he couldn't have moved it just to stop me getting out.

The first place I check is the drawer under the desk. There's not much there, apart from a few quills and pots of ink and a weird brooch thing shaped like a clock face. No keys, though.

I start to pace again. There's no other cupboards in the room or anything, except for one that only holds a few dusty, half-empty bottles of wine (but no glasses, for some reason). I have to pace the room a few more times before something catches my eye.

A slim wooden box is fixed to the wall in the narrow gap between it and the grandfather clock. I only spotted it when I glanced at the clock, but that seems like a good place to keep a key. Not in plain sight, but not hidden either.

I can just fit my arm into the space. The box is long and thin and the slats on its face slide up like a window shutter. Inside, eight keys hang on four hooks. When I look closely, I notice that they are really four keys with a spare of each. Two of the keys are on a thick, rusty iron ring, so I slide the others onto it. I take them all—I don't know which one's I'll need to get into the archive. That's what they have to be for, isn't it? Who else in this Academy would be happier to look after a room full of dusty old books than Martel?

When the lock on the office door silently clicks open, I let out a breath I never realised I'd been holding. Before I leave, I grab an iron poker from a bracket by the fireplace. After all, Martel said I was in danger, and I'm not going to do much damage with my training dagger, especially as I left it in my bedroom.

The halls of the Teachers' Keep are empty and silent, though light streams from under a few doors. Even so, I get to the bottom of the tower without anyone knowing I was ever there in the first place. The door to the courtyard creaks when I open it, but then so do the eaves when the wind blows.

Ardyan told me that the entrance to the archive was in a shed on the other side of the wall, so I cut across the lawn to the gate opposite to the Teachers' Keep. The only sound I make is the crunching of my feet on the frost that's beginning to form on the short grass.

Until I pass the statue of Myrtis of the Moor, when a hand snaps out and grabs my ankle. I tumble to the ground, biting back my curses and splitting my lip instead.

I scramble for my poker, but someone straddles my back and crushes me against the dirt. They grab a fistful of my hair, almost ripping it out at the roots. I expect to feel a blade at my throat, but none appears. Instead, my head is shoved down against the cold earth, and my attacker leans down to whisper in my ear in the same instant that my fingers close around the iron poker.

"Give me one fucking reason I shouldn't strangle you and leave your body for the crows," she hisses. I know that voice. It's cracked from crying, but I know that voice.

I shake my head as much as Flick will let me. "I can't," I whisper. "I probably would if I was you, but you're not me, are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" The grip on my hair loosens a little.

I seize my chance. My shoulder cracks as I launch the poker over my shoulder. Flick gasps as it hits her, not hard, but it's enough to catch her off guard so I can scramble out from under her when she lets go of my hair in shock. I snatch up the poker and jump to my feet, braced to fight if she runs at me. I never was in a street fight, but I watched them. I know how it's done—as long as she doesn't use the Shadows.

She doesn't go for me again, though, which is good because I've just noticed the fancy new knife at her hip. No harmless training dagger, that one.

"I have nothing to say to you," Flick spits. "Fuck off before I decide to kill you after all."

The words sting, though really, I deserve to be stung. I take a couple of steps back, just in case she means it. "I did what I did to protect Ardyan," I murmur, perhaps more to myself than her. "You would do the same for Arabella. Wouldn't you?"

Flick doesn't answer. I think I'm right, though.

"Davorin is the one you should be angry at, Flick, not me. This whole thing is his fault."

She starts towards me then, and I can't stumble back fast enough before she grabs me by the collar and brings her face up close to mine. Her hazel eyes are bright in the moonlight and her breath carries a whiff of ale.

"No." Her voice is a snarl, like nothing human. "You brought this on Bella. Davorin brought me back here, so I could do something about it, so unless you can bring her back, I want you to get far away from me before I decide to avenge her. Get it?"

I nod. I can't argue with her like this, but she might calm down later, so I call out to her as I back away. "Martel is missing. I'm going to look for him in the archive." Not that I could blame her for not wanting to help me when I'll almost definitely need it later, if everything goes according to the slapdash plan I've got in my head. It's worth a try anyway.

Flick doesn't reply, but her shaking sobs follow me all the way to Boys' Keep.