Bright Flame, Deep Shadow (lesbian story)

Hestia

I know Ardyan went out last night. I saw that lamp in the forest from my window, and the purple circles under his eyes today proved it. It had to be him, but when I asked him about it he just changed the subject. He might be smarter than me, but he's shit at hiding when he's hiding something.

"Hestia?"

"Hm?" I jerk out of my thoughts, my cheeks burning.

"Are you all right?" Martel peers at me over his desk, brow furrowed in concern.

"I'm fine, sir." I turn my attention back to the history essay in front of me. "Just tired."

Martel glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. "Well, it is nearly seven. We can finish now, if you like."

I shake my head. "I want to get this essay finished. You said it's part of the final grade."

"It is, of course. But..." He looks apologetic, and I know exactly what he's going to say next.

"No," I say firmly. "I told you, I don't want people to make things easier for me. I can do this." I dip my quill in the ink pot and carry on with my sentence, before I remember the mess I've made on the paper. I've taken up half a line with four attempts at spelling "guaranteed", and none of them look right. "But it would be a really big help if you told me how to spell 'guaranteed'."

Martel chuckles and gets up from the stack of papers he's grading to write it up on the chalkboard, but it doesn't feel like he's laughing at me like everyone else does—or rather, like other students do. Most teachers have given up, I think. But not Martel.

"It must be strange going to school with Arabella," he says quietly, and since his back is to me, I don't know if I was supposed to hear or not, so I stay quiet and carry on writing. "I wish she'd come to these sessions, too. She has a lot of catching up to do." When he turns back to me, his grey eyes are sad, or maybe it's just because his glasses make them bulge because of the thick lenses. "You should ask her to come."

Like hell, but I don't say that. I like having this time to work in peace without anyone laughing at me for not knowing stuff or getting angry when I read slow. Arabella's everything I can never be—rich, smart, friends with someone like Flick. I try to remind myself that she's only rich because her daddy owns the workhouse I had to grow up in, the workhouse I had to be named after as there was no family name for me to take. I tell myself that Tobias Saethryth doesn't even want Arabella to be his daughter any more, not after what happened. I tell myself that we're the ones who did all the real work for them, but none of it helps. It never does. "Okay," I lie, "I'll ask. She did kind of take a bit of a dive last year."

Martel looks up sharply. "It wasn't her fault, Hestia. She can't help how she feels."

I flush. "I know. Sorry."

Martel fiddles with the end of his long braid. He always does that when he's thinking. "Though I suppose it's understandable if you find it hard to sympathise."

Is he waiting for my reaction? I keep my eyes fixed on my paper, on the spindly handwriting, on the splots of wet ink that still glitter in the lamplight. Martel's writing is messy too, but in a clever way, like his hands can't keep up with his brain. My writing just looks like a child's.

"I...I think I'm done for tonight, sir," I say, corking the pot of ink.

"Hm. It is quite late. No, don't take that; it'll be safer with me." I hand him my paper, and neither of us mentions the time one of my essays got left under the open window when it rained. By total accident, of course, though not by me.

I stand up to leave, and as I do I realise the pocket on my cloak is bulging. Shit. I try to cover it with my satchel, but it's too late.

"Have you been stealing from the kitchens again, Miss Ashgate?" Martel scolds, but the corner of his mouth twitches up.

"No. The cook gave it to me," I say, covering my pocket with my hand protectively.

"And for how long did you have to try to make her feel guilty before she gave in?"

"I don't have to try." I tilt my chin up. "Magic stuff doesn't come easy to me, but getting people to give me cake does."

Martel shakes his head, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "Maybe you're missing your calling, Hestia. You'd make a fine politician."

"But I can't spell, sir."

"No, but you're manipulative."

I have to laugh at that, but not because Martel's right, it's just the thought of a grubby workhouse girl as a councillor is so ridiculous. "Goodnight, Professor," I call over my shoulder as I leave.

"Goodnight, Hestia."