“Her eyesight is so poor,” Nicasia says, and I realize she’s standing over me. She has my notebook and waves it around so everyone can see my scrawls. “Poor, poor, Jude. It’s so hard to overcome so many disadvantages.”
There’s ink all over my fingers and on the golden cuffs of my dress.
Across the grove, Cardan is talking with Valerian. Only Locke is watching us, his expression troubled. Noggle is flipping through a stack of thick, dusty books, probably trying to come up with a lesson that Cardan will like.
“Sorry if you can’t read my handwriting,” I say, grabbing the notebook. The page tears, leaving most of my night’s work shredded. “But that’s not exactly my disadvantage.”
Nicasia slaps me in the face. I stumble, shocked, suddenly down on one knee, barely catching myself before I go sprawling. My cheek is hot, stinging. My head rings.
“You can’t do that,” I say to her nonsensically.
I thought I understood how this game worked. I thought wrong.
“I may do whatever I wish,” she informs me, still haughty.
Our classmates stare. Elga has one delicate hand over her mouth. Cardan looks over, and I can tell from his expression that she has failed to please him. Embarrassment starts to creep over Nicasia’s face.
For as long as I have been among them, there were lines they didn’t cross. When they shoved us into the river, no one witnessed it. For better or worse, I am part of the general’s household and under Madoc’s protection. Cardan might dare to cross him, but I thought the others would at least strike in secret.
I seem to have angered Nicasia past caring about any of that.
I brush myself off. “Are you calling me out? Because then it’s my right to choose the time and the weapon.” How I would love to knock her down.
She realizes that my question actually demands a response. I might be lower than the ground, but that doesn’t absolve her from obligations to her own honor.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cardan coming toward us. Jittery anticipation commingles with dread. On my other side, Valerian bumps my shoulder. I take a step away from him, but not fast enough to avoid being assailed with the smell of overripe fruit.
Above us, in the black dome of night, seven stars fall, streaking gloriously across the sky before guttering out. I look up automatically, too late to have seen their precise path.
“Did anyone note that down?” Noggle begins shouting, fumbling in his beard for a pen. “This is the celestial event we’ve been waiting for! Someone must have seen the exact origin point. Quickly! Set down everything you can remember.”
Just then, as I am looking at the stars, Valerian shoves something soft against my mouth. An apple, sweet and rotten at the same time, honeyed juice running over my tongue, tasting of sunlight and pure heady, stupid joy. Faerie fruit, which muddles the mind, which makes humans crave it enough to starve themselves for another taste, which makes us pliant and suggestible and ridiculous.
Dain’s geas protected me from enchantment, from anyone’s control, but faerie fruit puts you out of even your own control.
Oh no. Oh no no no no no.
I spit it out. The apple rolls in the dirt, but I can already feel it working on me.
Salt, I think, fumbling for my basket. Salt is what I need. Salt is the antidote. It will clear the fog in my head.
Nicasia sees what I am going for and snatches up my basket, dancing out of the way, while Valerian pushes me to the ground. I try to crawl away from him, but he pins me, shoving the filthy apple back into my face.
“Let me sweeten that sour tongue of yours,” he says, pressing it down. Pulp is in my mouth and up my nose.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.