Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Hey! Get up!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I jolt awake, my heart hammering in my chest. Gripping the front of my chemise with both hands, I turn towards a shaft of sunlight streaming through a gap in my curtains. A dark figure stalks back and forth by the window before pausing to knock on the glass for a third time. Have the bankers finally come to collect?
"Oh, come on! I know you're in there!"
A roaring headache rips through my temples and I groan, remembering where I am. "I'm coming," I call out hoarsely, throwing back the heavy quilts, and exposing my skin to the chill of the room. Shivering, I grab my dressing gown from where it hangs on the back of a chair and put it on, fingers struggling to tie the belt.
I stumble to the front door, undo the locks, and yank it open. A tall, well-built young man wearing those atrocious brown leathers stands on my doorstep, arms crossed. His head jerks around. I might consider him fairly handsome, if not for the scowl, close-cropped brown hair, and stubble. Does Frostwing Academy not supply their young men with razors?
"Took you long enough," he grumbles in that distinctive burr I've come to associate with the locals and gryphons.
I hover in the doorway, one hand pressed to my aching temple. A yawn stretches my mouth and I take a shaky step backward. Between the unfamiliarity of my lodgings and strung-out nerves, I had a difficult time falling asleep last night.
And I never remembered how to turn up the heat.
"What?" The word falls from my lips in a groggy whisper.
The man shakes his head and pushes past me, walking straight into my bedroom. The sheer audacity of his action jolts me awake. "Excuse me!" I call out, gritting my teeth against the heavy pulse in my temples. I reach him as he begins pulling items off the desk near the door and throwing them onto the bed. "Excuse me, sir! You can't go barging into a lady's quarters!"
He pauses, fixing me with a hard green stare. "There aren't no ladies here, least of all you," he retorts, unearthing those dreaded flying leathers from beneath a pile of clothes.
I grip the belt of my robe, color rising to my cheeks. "H-how dare you!" I splutter.
"Did you even set your alarm?" he continues, walking over to my bed and grabbing the tarnished clock off the dresser. My mouth opens, but he preempts me, saying, "Obviously not. I bet you're used to waking up whenever you please." He shakes the clock for emphasis before setting it down. The bell chimes pitifully.
I've had enough. "How dare you come in here and insult me? You do not know me and I certainly do not know you."
Those hard green eyes narrow and he thrusts the flying leathers at me. "Rob McAlliston. I drew the short straw."
My arms automatically come up to catch the bundle and I bump up against the doorframe. "Short straw?"
"Yeah. I'm your mentor." His mouth twists the word as if it's dirty. "Now, hurry up. We've only got thirty minutes before class starts."
I glance at the clock sitting askew on the dresser. Seven-thirty. Class starts at eight. "I haven't eaten breakfast yet."
"Poor you," Rob replies disdainfully. He pulls an oblong, apple-sized fruit from his jacket pocket and tosses it at me. "Eat on the go."
I swerve, catching the fruit on top of the pile of clothes. A mango. He's tossed me a bloody mango.
"Clock's ticking, duchess," Rob says, pointing at the bathroom door.
My body flushes with heat and I rush towards the bathroom. I hate this peasant boy, I hate the gryphon, I hate the circumstances that brought me here.
But I'll be damned if anyone sees me cry again.
I slam the door shut and dump the flying gear and mango on the floor and stare at it. I've never worn such ill-fitting garments in all my life—least of all, pants.
"Twenty-five minutes left, duchess!" that insufferable boy calls out.
Fuming, I quickly use the toilet, then haul my nightgown over my head and kick it into a corner. I find a bottle in a cabinet above the sink labeled analgesics and pop a tablet to ease my throbbing headache. There's a crude bar of soap resting on the bathtub and I sloppily wash up in the sink, the cold water making goosebumps spring up on my arms.
I reach for the white undershirt, then remember Professor Valeron telling me the brassiere comes first, then the shirt. I thought it ridiculous then and now to put a supportive undergarment on bare skin. As Rob continues to count down the time, I wiggle into the brassiere, toss on the loose-fitting shirt, then jam my feet into thick woolen socks. I attempt to keep my bloomers on, but I quickly find out that no amount of swearing prevents them from bunching up when I pull on the pants. So I'm resigned to use the small, thin underwear Frostwing Academy provided. The fur-lined jacket follows and I spit curse words that would make the saints blush as I struggle to properly belt and hook everything closed.
Finally, I plait my hair, stuff gloves into a pocket, grab the mango, and exit the bathroom.
Rob looks up from the doorway. "Fifteen minutes. Get your boots and let's go."
I take a step forward and instantly miss the freedom my skirts afford. Pants are too restrictive, too ... masculine. I fear I shall be chaffed in several uncomfortable, intimate places before the day is out.
"Why is it so cold in here?" Rob asks as I fight with the boots.
"I couldn't find the gas knob," I tell him, jaw aching as I wrestle with the bootlaces.
The boy snorts. "We don't have gas here, duchess. Too expensive to pipe up. Didn't Professor Valeron show you how to use the crystals?"
They're under the staircase, but that's all I remember. But I'm not going to admit it to Rob.
"Stop calling me 'duchess'," I hiss, tying off the laces.
Rob shrugs. "Whatever. Let's go."
I grip the mango. "But—" Isn't he going to let me eat? I can't bite into this thing like an apple, for saints' sake.
"No 'buts'. We're going to be late." He then dares to grab me by the wrist and drag me out of the apartment. My boots drag ineffectually on the stoop and I stumble as Rob tosses me ahead before turning to close the door.
Two gryphons wait outside. One is Pol, the other is a smaller, slim female with pale lavender feathers, shaggy grey hindquarters, and dark blue eyes. The female gryphon's ear tufts perk up when she spies me.
"Hi! I'm Mora!" she exclaims brightly, thrusting out a foreleg.
Unprepared to have five sharp claws thrown in my face, I take a step backward. Instantly, the female gryphon's ears fold down and she drops her leg. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."
Startle me? She nearly took off my nose! I press a hand to my throat and take a deep breath. My first day has not gotten off on the right foot.
Rob makes a disgruntled sound. "Forget the introductions, Mora. We don't have time." He begins walking without so much as a look back.
Mora snorts, then turns toward me. "I apologize for my partner's rude behavior."
"No, you don't," Rob calls out.
Mora rolls her eyes but makes a motion with one foreleg. "We better get going."
I glance at Pol, but the red gryphon seems intent on avoiding eye contact. I've no idea where to go, so I have to follow her.
We leave the courtyard and make our way down to the training grounds. The whole way there, Mora keeps up a steady stream of chatter. I barely can get a word in edge-wise, which is a good thing, since I have no intention of divulging any personal information. But I do find Mora to be too personable, too upbeat, to be Rob's partner. There were a few girls in my social circle like that back home. I wonder what made Mora choose to be this rude boy's partner in the first place.
A group of children and their gryphons are sitting in a loose pack in front of a low wooden platform when we reach the training grounds. A few heads turn as we approach, and then the pointing and nudging begin.
Yes, here I am—the geriatric new student.
"Head on over," Rob states flatly, jerking a thumb at the group. "We'll be back to grab you for lunch."
Lunch.
My stomach takes the opportunity to growl. My eyes widen and I press my free hand to my middle, hoping to quell the improper sounds.
"Here, give me that," Mora says. I look over at the lavender gryphon, who extends a deadly paw, pad-size up. "The mango," she prompts, taking my hesitation for confusion.
I drop the fruit into her paw—wait. That's not a paw.
It's a hand.
Almost.
How did I not notice this before? Mora's foreclaws, although avian in appearance, are arranged like a human's—four "fingers" and a "thumb" that delicately maneuver the mango and slice it into quarters. She pops the pit out and flicks it onto the ground.
"Here you go."
I hold out my hands automatically, and Mora dumps the quarters into my waiting palms. I stare at the fruit, then up at her.
"Good luck," the gryphon says with a smile before getting up to join her partner.
All of the children and gryphons are staring now. It's now or never. With juice dripping from my palms, I inhale a piece of fruit, barely chewing before swallowing. By the time I reach the group, the mango is safely in my belly.
Just in time for a large shadow to pass overhead.