Foretold (St. Bastian Institute 1)

“Wow,” I breathed a moment before Peter swept me into his arms. Purple mist descended, and my vision went hazy as he whisked us away. Nausea crept up my throat. I hated teleporting. I allowed my mother to do it a handful of times before I’d decided it wasn’t for me. It made me dizzy, and I always ended up vomiting when I arrived at my destination.

Please, please, please, don’t let me vomit in front of Peter Girard.

An amused chuckle filled my head. You aren’t going to vomit. Just take deep breaths.

What the … had he heard my thoughts? No way. That couldn’t be happening. But then, he had felt my emotions earlier. What did it mean?

Moments later, the papery smell of books filled my nose. I was too dizzy to take in my surroundings fully, but when the ground finally stopped shifting under my feet, I looked around and saw we were in the library at St. Bastian’s in the reading nook where I’d met Peter the other day. I noticed a few books had been left open and spread around, alongside a number of Peter’s possessions.

Wasn’t this place supposed to be closed on the weekend?

Peter must’ve sensed what I was thinking when he said, “I come here sometimes to do homework. I know it’s technically breaking and entering, but I teleport, so really, it’s a grey area.”

“Why don’t you do your homework at home?”

He shrugged. “I prefer it here. It’s quiet. I can never concentrate at home.”

I recalled that Peter had three younger siblings, none yet old enough to attend St. Bastian’s. His house must’ve been hectic with three kids running around. I also remembered what he’d told me about his father, how he said he didn’t like him hanging about the house all the time.

I looked around again. There was a lot of Peter’s stuff here. A laptop. Shoes. A jumper hanging over one of the seats, as well as a large hiking backpack that looked like it was jammed with clothes. There also was a pillow and a blanket folded in the corner. Was Peter sleeping here? Had his parents thrown him out? But why? It didn’t make sense. A sudden feeling of sadness fell over me at the realisation.

Peter Girard might be homeless.

But how could that be? He still worked at Indigo, a shop his parents owned. I couldn’t imagine anyone being so callous as to throw their son out on the street yet still expect him to work for them.

Maybe he was telling the truth, and he just liked to come here for the quiet. But then, why bring so much stuff? And why had he so adamantly refused my offer to drive him home the other night? It hadn’t made sense to me at the time, but now it was starting to.

A pang of empathy filled my chest, and I resisted the sudden urge to hug him. We weren’t close enough for hugs. And even if he was secretly living there, I didn’t want him to feel embarrassment or shame about it, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. It wasn’t like he was hurting anyone by sleeping in the library. And besides, if he needed help, I’d figure out a better way to do it. Confronting him would be humiliating.

“You’re right; it is quiet here. And really cosy. If I could teleport, I might hang out here, too,” I said with a smile before I brought my gaze to his. “Thanks for coming to my rescue, by the way. You didn’t have to. I could handle that guy, but it was kind of amazing seeing you wield your magic. I’m still a bit in awe, especially since you can teleport. That’s just wild. You’re very talented.” Stop going overboard with the compliments, Darya.

“I have one friend and a lot of time to practice,” Peter replied as though that was explanation enough for his mad skills.

I presumed he was referring to Sophia. “Are we still not friends, then?”

His eyes raked over me. “I’m not sure Girards and Cristescus are allowed to be friends. You saw how my father reacted when I spoke to you on New Year’s Eve.”

Like I needed to be reminded of that unpleasant experience. “Isn’t Rita Doherty a distant relative of yours?” I said, and Peter nodded. “Well, her father was a Girard, and she and my mother have been best friends for almost twenty years, so it isn’t unheard of.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not the same. My father is a very resentful person.”

“He’s never going to let go of the hate, is he?”

“Not in this lifetime,” Peter answered dolefully. “When he was a young man, he was a member of a highly respected magical family. He had power and influence, then Marcel crossed your father, and the Girards became pariahs.”