late.
Or… did I get the wrong lecture hall?
I was in the ‘Kingsling Building’—an irony that was not lost on me. Most of the lecture halls and classrooms had been bustling with activity, but this one was cast in shadows, and there wasn’t a person in sight. I spotted movement down by the podium and squinted, a strained laugh falling out of my mouth when I recognised Quillan.
“Now I understand why you ‘took the day off’ and asked me to drive Tariq to school.” I let the door fall closed behind me as I made my way down the steps between rows of seats, unwinding my scarf and folding it into my bag. “You resigned from the high school, didn’t you?”
“You really thought I wouldn’t find out that you enrolled in a visual arts subject?” He spoke carefully, his tone measured as he got up from the stool that he had been leaning against and moved to meet me at the base of the stairs.
I paused two steps from the bottom, because it almost put me on eye-level with him. “No… I suppose not. I didn’t expect you to switch jobs, though. Hasn’t Principle Webber reported this as inappropriate yet?”
“I persuaded him to keep quiet, for now.” Quillan’s eyes were heavy on my face, and there was a phone clutched in his hand, the screen still lit up.
“They texted you already?” I asked, a frown pulling insistently at my mouth.
“I don’t know who they are,” he slipped a finger into the strap of my bag, lifting it from my shoulder and laying it on an empty seat, “but Cabe did call me. Apparently you got into a fight. There’s already a few videos of it online.”
“A few?” Poison and Clarin were going to have a busy day.
As though reading my mind, Quillan shook his head. “It’s out there now; no taking it back. This isn’t good, Seph.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked, feeling defensive. “Her dad just died. I mean… I won’t be laying flowers on his grave anytime soon, but that sucks. I didn’t want to fight with her.”
“I know.” His fingers wound around my wrist, squeezing gently, and the crumpled map fell from my hand—drawing my attention to the fact that I had been slowly balling it up into my fist.
He picked up the map, tucked it into my bag and took me by the shoulders, steering me toward the back of the room. I didn’t ask where we were going because I didn’t really care. Quillan could do what he wanted—we all knew it to be true. Thankfully, he only ever used his power for good.
I was pretty sure, anyway.
There was a small studio attached to the back-end of the room and I jumped a little upon walking through the doorway, because paper had crinkled beneath my feet. Quillan flicked on a light and the brightness of it reflecting from the white all around me caused another flinch. I was jumpy—as I had been for months—but all of that melted away when I realised what I was standing inside of.
“Whoa,” I gasped, moving into the center and turning in a circle.
Paper had been stuck to everything, lining up so seamlessly that each of the four walls seemed to be four large, fresh sheets of white. The ceiling and floor were also covered in paper, and I assumed that the windows had been boarded up and similarly covered, as the only sources of light were from the bare lightbulbs that dangled down on the ends of wires. At my feet lay an offering of materials—anything that I might have wished to get my hands on; but my eyes were immediately drawn to the paints. I knelt, laying a hand on a can the size of my head, an oil-based in a dark turquoise colour. With my other hand I began to skim over the plethora of brushes, pausing at one in particular. It looked too small for the paper-room, but it called to something inside of me that wanted to bleed free.
“It’s time, don’t you think?” Quillan asked me, before backing out of the room.
He was leaving me alone. Alone to face my demons, and suddenly I couldn’t take it anymore. I jerked away
Or… did I get the wrong lecture hall?
I was in the ‘Kingsling Building’—an irony that was not lost on me. Most of the lecture halls and classrooms had been bustling with activity, but this one was cast in shadows, and there wasn’t a person in sight. I spotted movement down by the podium and squinted, a strained laugh falling out of my mouth when I recognised Quillan.
“Now I understand why you ‘took the day off’ and asked me to drive Tariq to school.” I let the door fall closed behind me as I made my way down the steps between rows of seats, unwinding my scarf and folding it into my bag. “You resigned from the high school, didn’t you?”
“You really thought I wouldn’t find out that you enrolled in a visual arts subject?” He spoke carefully, his tone measured as he got up from the stool that he had been leaning against and moved to meet me at the base of the stairs.
I paused two steps from the bottom, because it almost put me on eye-level with him. “No… I suppose not. I didn’t expect you to switch jobs, though. Hasn’t Principle Webber reported this as inappropriate yet?”
“I persuaded him to keep quiet, for now.” Quillan’s eyes were heavy on my face, and there was a phone clutched in his hand, the screen still lit up.
“They texted you already?” I asked, a frown pulling insistently at my mouth.
“I don’t know who they are,” he slipped a finger into the strap of my bag, lifting it from my shoulder and laying it on an empty seat, “but Cabe did call me. Apparently you got into a fight. There’s already a few videos of it online.”
“A few?” Poison and Clarin were going to have a busy day.
As though reading my mind, Quillan shook his head. “It’s out there now; no taking it back. This isn’t good, Seph.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked, feeling defensive. “Her dad just died. I mean… I won’t be laying flowers on his grave anytime soon, but that sucks. I didn’t want to fight with her.”
“I know.” His fingers wound around my wrist, squeezing gently, and the crumpled map fell from my hand—drawing my attention to the fact that I had been slowly balling it up into my fist.
He picked up the map, tucked it into my bag and took me by the shoulders, steering me toward the back of the room. I didn’t ask where we were going because I didn’t really care. Quillan could do what he wanted—we all knew it to be true. Thankfully, he only ever used his power for good.
I was pretty sure, anyway.
There was a small studio attached to the back-end of the room and I jumped a little upon walking through the doorway, because paper had crinkled beneath my feet. Quillan flicked on a light and the brightness of it reflecting from the white all around me caused another flinch. I was jumpy—as I had been for months—but all of that melted away when I realised what I was standing inside of.
“Whoa,” I gasped, moving into the center and turning in a circle.
Paper had been stuck to everything, lining up so seamlessly that each of the four walls seemed to be four large, fresh sheets of white. The ceiling and floor were also covered in paper, and I assumed that the windows had been boarded up and similarly covered, as the only sources of light were from the bare lightbulbs that dangled down on the ends of wires. At my feet lay an offering of materials—anything that I might have wished to get my hands on; but my eyes were immediately drawn to the paints. I knelt, laying a hand on a can the size of my head, an oil-based in a dark turquoise colour. With my other hand I began to skim over the plethora of brushes, pausing at one in particular. It looked too small for the paper-room, but it called to something inside of me that wanted to bleed free.
“It’s time, don’t you think?” Quillan asked me, before backing out of the room.
He was leaving me alone. Alone to face my demons, and suddenly I couldn’t take it anymore. I jerked away
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