There are certain things that bother me.

Not like, 'you've-robbed-my-house-and-stolen-my-laptop' bother me. It's more like little things that are irritating. Like when people pour milk into a bowl before their cereal. Or the sound that fingernails make when they scratch ski pants. Or when people put an ice cube into their tea to cool it down.

Actually, scratch that.

I would rather have someone steal my laptop than cool their tea with an ice cube. That's just madness. Which is why, currently, I'm staring at my flatmate Emma like she's grown a second head.

"You could just wait, you know," I say. "Like a normal person."

Emma frowns, pushing down the ice cube with a teaspoon. "I could. But I'm not a very patient person."

This is an understatement. Emma has trouble waiting for the 30-minute quick dry laundry cycle. I once caught her trying to wriggle into a bodycon dress that was so wet it was literally dripping on to the floor. From the kitchen table, our other flatmate, Poppy, looks up from where she's cramming her art history textbooks into a black bag. A designer bag, I'm sure.

"Honestly, Em," she sighs. "This is why I can't be seen with you in public."

"Really?" Emma raises an eyebrow. "I thought it was because I don't own a Barbour jacket. Or Hunter wellies. Or a country estate in Devon."

Poppy throws a pen at Emma, and she ducks, grinning. She's already applied false eyelashes this morning, which means that she's planning to go out this evening. I make a mental note to stay late at the gym after dinner. There's no way that I'm being dragged out to a club in Edinburgh on a Friday night.

Why Emma enjoys hanging out at a sweaty underground nightclub that smells like the inside of a gym locker, I'll never know.

As if she can read my mind, Emma smiles.

"You're coming tonight, right, Livvy?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Coming where?"

"You know where." Emma trades her tea for her porridge, which is covered in chocolate and berries. "And don't say that you're too busy ironing Chris's socks or something." She shovels a spoonful into her mouth, speaking through the chocolatey oats. "You two disgust me."

I roll my eyes. Chris and I have been together since Fresher's week last year, and despite Emma's complaints, I know that she loves him. Mostly because Chris is handy with a wrench and can empty our drain when spaghetti gets clogged in it.

But still.

"He's at a rugby thing," I say. "In Perth."

"Excellent." Emma swallows her porridge. "You're free then."

"Yeah." I scrape the remainder of my eggs into the bin. "Free to write my essay on the Carolingian empire." It may be the beginning of term, but my professors are already piling on the workload. I could build a house out of all the books that I have to read this week. "I have a date with the library tonight."

Emma makes a noise like a kicked puppy. "But it's Friday."

I set down my plate. "Don't worry. I'll leave a pizza out for you before I go to bed."

This seems to pacify her. There's nothing Emma loves more than drunk food. I glance at the window as I rinse my dish in the sink. Raindrops cling to the glass, turning the stone spires of the church across the street into a grey blur. Poppy snatches her keys off the table, and I look at her wool coat skeptically.

"Do you want a lift?"

Poppy shakes her head. "Theo's coming to pick me up."

Theo is Poppy's boyfriend of two years, and Poppy has him more whipped than a lemon meringue. Still, I like Theo. He may have gone to Harrow and owns more shotguns than shoes, but he also likes a pint at Spoons. He's posh, but not an arsehole. A rare combination, in my opinion.

At least, Theo isn't an arsehole yet.

Poppy told us last week that he's joining the Rich Boys Club — a notorious club at the university made out of boys with very large trust funds. And, okay, it's probably not actually called that.

But that's the general idea.

Theo's initiation is tonight, which means that he'll probably have to down a bottle of whisky while reciting Robbie Burns. Or set fire to a 500-euro note with a lighter. I Googled when Poppy wasn't looking — apparently, Europe really does make notes that big.

"What about me?" Poppy asks. "Do I get a pizza tonight?"

She pulls her long, dark hair up into a neat ponytail. In her white silk blouse and leather jacket, Poppy looks like a model that's about to board a plane to Paris. But I've seen her in a kebab shop at three in the morning, covered in tomato sauce and processed cheese. Poppy can eat like a truck driver when she wants to.

"We'll see," I say, and Poppy sticks her tongue out.

She knows I'm only joking. I've spent the past year looking after Poppy and Emma on drunken nights out. As a competitive kickboxer, I rarely drink, so most of my nights out involve holding Emma's hair back as she wretches into a toilet at a club.

Or an alleyway.

Or a handbag.

Whatever location's closest, really.

"Right." I grab an umbrella. "I'm off to my lecture."

Emma rinses her bowl in the sink. "Have fun."

"I will."

I think I genuinely mean it, too — medieval history classes are my favourite. Provided that a certain somebody isn't in my class, that is. I glance at the grey clouds overhead, the exact shade and texture of an itchy grey jumper.

Please, world, I think. Do me a solid.

My medieval history class is located by George Square Park, which means that finding parking is next to impossible.  I'd have a better chance of finding sugary candies at a dentist's office. Which is why, five minutes before class starts, I'm sprinting up the staircase with a run in my nylons. My heeled boots are soaked at the toes, and I can see the ends of my blonde hair frizzing in the humidity.

I glance at my watch. 9:07.

Brilliant.

It's my first lecture of second year, and I'm already late.

I push open the door. Four students are gathered around a scrubbed wooden table, their notebooks arranged neatly in front of them. I recognize Anna immediately from a spin class we took last year. Her red hair is longer now, pulled back in a high ponytail, and she's wearing delicate horn-rimmed glasses.

My gaze darts to the other students. Two of them are strangers, but I recognize the tattooed boy from the gym. And the last one—

I bite back a groan.

Perfect. This day just keeps getting better.

Harry Bates is leaning back in his chair, one hand thrown casually over the back of it. A gold signet ring glitters on one of his fingers. His dark hair is curling from the rain, soaking the back of his white collared shirt. I don't need to see the small whale on the breast pocket to know that it's designer.

I glower at him, and Harry smirks, waggling his fingers. His eyes dart to the run on my nylons, and his smile grows. My fingers twitch. I try to remind myself that Harry is Poppy's childhood friend. That even if he is president of the Rich Boys Club, it doesn't give me the right to beat him up. Poppy would kill me.

But God, do I ever want to wipe that smug smile off of his face.

"Ms. Campbell." Our tutor smiles. "How nice of you to join us."

I blink. He looks young; much too young to be a tutor. His blond hair is spiked up at the front, and he's wearing what looks like a navy fleece pullover. He also said Campbell like 'C-eh-mpbell' instead of 'C-ah-mpbell', which means that he's American. Although clearly, he's mastered the British sarcasm.

"Sorry, sir," I mutter.

I slide into a seat beside Anna. She gives me a pitying look, surreptitiously sliding me a tissue under the table. I use it to pat down my damp face, and I give her a look that I hope conveys my endless gratitude.

"Where was I?" The tutor frowns. "Oh, yes. My name is Noah Tilney, and I'm a PhD student at Edinburgh University. Dr. Hartfield has had to take a leave of absence this semester, so I'll be covering his courses." He stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. "Any questions?"

My hand is immediately in the air. "Professor Tilney—"

"Noah." He winces. "Please."

"Noah," I say, although the word tastes wrong in my mouth. I'm not used to being casual with my tutors. I like to think of them as household bleach: useful, but best kept at a distance. "About the essay due next week—"

"Forget about it." Noah waves me off. "In fact, you can all tear up your course syllabus. I'm starting from scratch."

Panic grips me.

The course syllabus is like my Bible. Or, more accurately since I'm not religious, the course syllabus is like Google Maps when I'm driving around, lost, in a new city. I need it. There's no way that I can function without it.

"We'll be focusing on Scottish myth and folklore," Noah continues, apparently oblivious to my silent mental breakdown. "Starting with kelpies." He flips open a green book, pointing to an illustration of what looks like a horse. "Who can tell me what they are?" The room is silent. Noah's eyes land on Harry. "Mr. Bates?"

"Shape-shifting water spirits," Harry says. "Often associated with demonic energy."

Anna is frantically scribbling notes, her pen flying across the page. Harry, on the other hand, looks bored. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course Harry would know what a kelpie is. He seems to have an endless encyclopedic knowledge of pointless facts about Scottish history. It really pisses me off, actually, since I'm supposed to be the Scottish one. Harry is from Bournemouth in England, which makes him a foreigner, in my opinion.

"Ms. Campbell?" a voice asks.

It takes me a moment to realize that everyone is staring at me. I sit up straighter in my seat, adjusting my skirt. "Yes?"

"The presentation next week," Noah says. "On kelpies. Can you do it?"

I resist the sudden childish urge to hide under the desk. I hate presentations. I can box in an arena filled with hundreds of people staring at me, but whenever I pull up a PowerPoint, I feel like I'm about to be sick. Noah raises an eyebrow.

"Unless you don't feel up to it?"

Across the table, Harry smirks, and I feel my panic twist into anger.

Smug bastard.

"Of course, I'm up to it," I say, clicking my pen. "I love presentations."

About as much as I love rolling around on broken glass or sticking my head inside of a heated oven. But Noah nods, scribbling something in his black notebook, and I can tell that I've managed to fool one person in the room.