Chapter 6

Something pelted her cheek and there was a white-hot flash of pain. She was in the city? The reek of fish made her choke, and the streets were rain-slick underfoot. When she spared it a thought, she could hear the roar and crash of the sea somewhere beyond the storm.

The rain drummed a furious, wild tempo on Tris's skull and ran rivulets drown her scalp. Squalls of wind drifted across the street, drawing up debris and detritus, then hurling it free again. Loose cobbles torn up from the storm tripped the witch as she pelted down the wide main street.

There were hands clasped in hers; two cloaked persons kept pace with her stumbling progress. They were leading her onward, though somehow entirely dependent on her powers—everything, it seemed, was dependent on her. Their hands, warm and strange, were shackles that kept her to her course.

Just a little more, Nahada. Mila bless us, I think we might make it. A voice was in her mind,faint with exhaustion.

And far off, so far that their words were the barest feather-touch on her mind, Tris could hear her foster-siblings' screams, their voices stripped bare with pain.

The weather witch woke screaming herself, holding her cheek. Her heart throbbed in her throat, sounding in her ears like a faint drumming against the stiff silence of the little room. A woman, long graying wisps framing her face, stood over the bed with her hand poised to deliver another slap.

Tris's mouth closed with a snap. The two women stared at each other for a moment; the pain was fading from her cheek now, though the emotions which prompted her outburst left Tris hiding her trembling hands beneath the covers.

"You were screaming, Miss" said the woman, her eyes direct and business-like in a broad, well-lined face. When no more hysterics were forthcoming, she backed up a step and sank into the room's only chair. "Night-terror?"

"Yes," The red-head's voice was a harsh rasp, and she raised a hand to her throat. Her blood was still a hot roar in her ears, subsiding only slowly.

"I do hope these are not an often occurrence." There was a moment's pause in which the woman looked Tris over coolly. "I'm Wardess Glosser, in charge of the women's student commons. You may address me as Wardess."

"I'm—" Tris paused and drew a breath. Propping herself on her arms, she sat up and folded her hands, now still, over the coverlet. "I apologize for causing a disruption. I'm Nahada Tamine, from—"

"You're the new transfer from Winding Circle. Yes, I've been well-appraised of your situation, Miss Tamine. I'm pleased to welcome you to Lightsbridge." The Wardess was conducting a bald assessment, and Tris felt obscurely naked under the woman's gaze. "Should you have any questions, feel free to address them to me or any of the other prefects."

"Thank you," Tris muttered, and the wardess gave a stiff nod of acknowledgement. Silence stretched on, the terror of the dream rapidly being replaced with growing mortification. When she could stand it no more, she snapped, "I'm sorry, when did you say I would begin my classes?"

The tartness in her voice drew a small, tight smile from the other woman. There was no genuine amusement there, and the expression left Tris with the distinct impression that Wardess Merriweather had already formed a cheerfully dire opinion of her newest charge.

"I didn't, Miss Tamine, and I won't. I generally leave that sort of thing to the prefects—it'll be arranged that one will take you in hand, lead you around for the first few weeks, and act as a mentor during the first year. We can sort that out later, perhaps after breakfast." Wardess shook out her skirts as she stood, then smoothed the folds. "I expect to see you within the hour. I'm sure that should give you sufficient time to dress and settle?"

Tris nodded, and other woman swept out. The door—a sturdy, well-hung, hickory affair—shut with a jarring thunk and the silence rushed to fill the void of the other woman's presence. The weather witch stared at her hands, brought now to clasp before her, for a long moment before she raised her face to look around.

The room, now that she had a chance to examine it, was no larger than the Discipline linen closet. A solitary window overlooked the courtyard, small and painted over—a fact the red-head noted with some dismay. A desk, rickety and scuffed, took up the whole of the wall underneath the window. The room was whitewashed which was at least familiar and the light that came through the curtains did so patchily, laying on the floor in tidy, friendly squares.

Tris pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, rubbing wearily. Frankly, it was an inauspicious start, if not a complete failure of a new beginning. The dream was coming back, too, the silence of the room an eerie counterpoint to the cacophony of the docks she'd heard. When she spared it a thought, there was a distant, ghostly throb in her hands—similar, Tris imagined, to that which would follow having a death hold on the hands of two companions as they ran through gale-scoured streets.

"Cat dirt," said the redhead, muttering savagely under her breath as she thrust her feet out of the covers. "Cat dirt, cat dirt, cat dirt."

Author's Note: So. It's been a long time, hasn't it? (To which, make that a looooooong time. I've missed you all!) Anyway, I'm holding true with this one probably-or almost definitely-out of sheer stubbornness. I've been doing this fanfiction thing since I was 11, guys, and I still have only ever finish 6 stories of which 4 were one-shots. Sad, yeah?

But! In my corner of the world, it is summer which means vaguely industrious mornings, lazy afternoons, and uncomfortably warm evenings. I have great plans, you know? So there's hope. In any case, I'm just crazy about Tiffany's! And reviews! Probably more about reviews, if we were all dead honest. You all know what to do. Thanks for reading!