Kaspar Weiss was the first to strike. Tall, big-eared, pale, and thin — Professor Weil’s favourite and the Academy’s chief sycophant. Their surnames were even suspiciously similar, as if destiny itself had a sense of humour.

  His gaze flicked down to my graceful walk.

  “Oh, Malinka,” he drawled. “How’s life on wheels?”

  “Care to try it yourself?” I snapped, shooting him a look that would’ve sent most ghosts fleeing.

  Kaspar smirked.

  “Face it, succubus. No one’s going to want to try you now. Have you seen yourself? Actually — scratch that. Legs like those wouldn’t even fit in a mirror.”

  The crowd eagerly joined in. Someone stuck out a foot, trying to trip me. Another student giggled, contorting his arms and announcing, “Look, I’m cursed too — my limbs are bending on their own!”

  They looked ready to turn it into a full performance, but I decided I had better things to do than serve as their entertainment.

  Teeth clenched, chin high, I carried on with all the dignity of a queen — or at least a determined pensioner — while they laughed behind me. If the Curse of Consumption was horror, then the Curse of Wheel-Legs was pure humiliation.

  Deciding this was my best chance to fix the situation, I made my slow, miserable way to the fourth floor — to Elvira’s room. If anyone knew everything, it was her. If she could lecture about liminal resonance and limbotic existence, she could surely deal with a first-year curse. Maybe she’d figure out how to undo it before I completely lost my mind.

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  Getting there was a challenge in itself. I cursed every step like an ancient grandmother and every life choice that had landed me in this profession.

  When I reached the door, I knocked — no answer — then cautiously tried the handle. Locked.

  Of course.

  Elvira was clearly off doing something mysterious and important, and I, naturally, needed her urgently.

  With no other option, I turned around and began my slow, creaking descent. If she was in class, I’d have to catch her between lectures — which meant more stairs.

  Oh, the irony. Curse of Crooked Legs — thank you, Professor Weil. A whole new level of suffering.

  Halfway down, I paused to catch my breath. And that was when fate decided to be generous.

  Professor Grey stood at the bottom of the staircase, watching. Carefully. Intently. With that infuriatingly precise focus.

  His gaze was… expressive. Far too expressive. Cold grey eyes studied me as if he were trying to determine how exactly this bow-legged phenomenon had come to exist in his Academy. And in the slight lift of one eyebrow, there was something exquisitely cruel — as though he were simply waiting for me to realise how ridiculous I looked.

  I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Heat rushed to my cheeks.

  Anyone else would have been preferable. Finn. Mannik. Even that Mr Audacity who’d offered to “expand my reserves” — what was his name — Drake Schafer. Anyone but Professor Grey.

  I was a parody of myself, and he stood there, the embodiment of cold restraint, calmly observing the circus. Even the hem of his robe seemed to fall back with such impeccable grace that I felt even more absurd by comparison.

  When I finally reached the last step, I tried — subtly, hopelessly — to hide my legs behind the folds of my robe.

  “That won’t help, Marina Orlova,” he drawled with open sarcasm, not even bothering to hide his smirk. “I can see everything.”