Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Lena
Inow know two things about New Hampshire.
One, it’s where the world’s first alleged alien abduction took place.
And two, tucked deep into the dense forest of the White Mountains is the Institute of Higher Magic.
If I’d had to guess the hidden location of the magically warded and concealed campus, it would have never occurred to me to suspect that it would be ensconced in New Hampshire.
I’m sitting in a limo between these four “magicians” or whatever, who inadvertently look like figurative models for a fine art lesson on the exquisiteness of the human form, and one beautiful but stolid assistant somewhere in the middle of the woods.
We’re winding our way to campus for student orientation and a welcome luncheon.
I’m looking forward to only one of those things.
And only because I hear the mini quiches are not to be missed.
Before the flight landed, I found out what was in the garment bag the ever-apathetic Petra was holding: an outfit consisting of the ugliest matching set in existence.
When she handed it to me, Petra explained that since it had been after ten at night when Kian requested she find me something suitable to wear, she had no choice but to co-opt an octogenarian’s clothing order from the Huxley’s personal shopper.
So while this gray tweed jacket, matching skirt, and white blouse are designer, the cut and fit make me look like a frumpy grandmother.
At least I have my work heels to bring one redeeming quality to the outfit.
I’m going to be overdressed. Not to mention, I’m covered in bruises from my attempted abduction.
There’s little worse than sticking out for not correctly meeting societal expectations.
Outside of my window, the dense forest zooms by. The foliage is so thick and lush it must be composed of every shade of green in existence. I don’t even think Pantone has a name for some of these variations. Soon a wrought iron fence begins to thread through the woods.
We take a left turn and are suddenly at the back of a long line of traffic comprised entirely of luxury cars, each one nicer than the last—like a parade of the magical one percent.
As we inch forward, every driver is directed to pull into a parking lot off the street while we turn right onto a road bookended by manicured trees and flowering shrubs and drive through the campus’s decorative gates adorned with the words “Sapientia, Virtus, Diversitas, Concordia.”
“Wisdom, Valor, Diversity, Harmony,” Boden announces without looking up from his phone. “I assume you don’t read Latin.”
It takes me a moment to realize the pretentious dickbag in loafers is talking to me. Does anybody but the Pope read Latin?
In the driest tone I can manage, I respond, “I’m no necromancer.
I prefer my dead languages to stay deceased.
” Everyone in the car ignores me, even though I’m a comedy genius.
Is that a hint of amusement flickering in Teariki’s eyes?
As the limo continues through campus, my jaw drops.
I’ve been on college campuses, but never one quite like this.
It’s small, nothing like the sprawling state schools of the south, with their overabundance of concrete and parking lots, that I used to party at.
Collegiate Romanesque and Gothic buildings rise among the trees, exuding an air of tradition and intellectual rigor.
Which I imagine is exactly the point. We’re surrounded by greenery and lush landscaping with a smattering of limestone sculptures set among topiaries.
Every building is constructed of stone and brick, complete with pointed arches, elaborate masonry, and large stained-glass windows.
The interplay of light streaming through the trees, shadow cast by the buildings, and the imposing breathtaking height of the spires makes me want to find a little reading nook and tuck into a good book.
Something inspired by the environment, like a spicy Carmilla retelling.
If it weren’t for all the jubilant students and families, this place would seem peaceful, almost sacred.
We park outside of a building with a sign denoting it as Astor Auditorium, although it looks more like a grand opera house. We’re the only ones allowed to drive onto campus; everyone else is on foot. What’s so special about these hunks of muscle?
To my pleasant surprise, I’m not at all overdressed.
Every way I turn, there are chinos, A-line skirts, fitted trousers, button-downs, tailored blazers, and light knitwear.
It’s as if the audience of the Ralph Lauren fall fashion show walked right out of the venue and onto campus.
We exit the car and follow a group of young women dressed in plaid into the auditorium.
They keep glancing over their shoulders in our direction, their bouncy ponytails swishing with the movement of their excited giggles.
“You’re going to check in over there.” Kian points to a table near the entrance manned by students handing out packets and gift totes to the orientees. “Then find a seat on the lower level. I will see you at the luncheon.”
Before I can thank him, he’s already walking away.
So too is the rest of our group, joining into conversations with important-looking people.
I’m feeling a bit abandoned, so I overcompensate with humor by imagining their conversations as they shake hands with other seemingly serious men in suits.
“Hello, I’m Mr. Important.” “How funny, I’m Mr. Important, too.
” “Ah yes, what a good day to be important.”
“Hi, I need to check in.” I smile at a polished man whose elf-like nose is buried in a tablet at the check-in table.
He offers a bright grin and asks for my name.
“Sunny Miller.”
He searches on his tablet, brow furrowing.
“Oh crap, I mean Vladlena. My name’s probably listed as Vladlena Solis,” I self-correct, not used to saying my real name.
His expression turns steely. Probably because I seem like a dumbass who doesn’t know her own name. “Here.” He hands me a large unwieldy pile of documents, folders, and booklets.
“Ah, thanks.” Needing a way to corral all of these papers and having watched bags being handed out to other students, I ask, “Can I have one of those totes?”
“We’re all out,” he says in dismissal.
I give a blatantly pointed look to the table behind him covered in the gift bags.
“Those are already spoken for. We only made a hundred, as every new class has exactly one hundred students. But for some reason, this year there are one hundred and one, and you were the last to register.”
Okay cool, well, drag me then. I’ll just have to make do.
I find a seat in the back of the packed auditorium and busy myself organizing my obscene pile of papers.
There’s a packet on resident life outlining information about my room placement—Callum was right.
I’m in the North Wing, room 501. There’s my student ID, complete with the surveillance picture of me at the Huxley (at least my hair looked good that day), an invitation to a welcome mixer, a map that I’ll most definitely need, a list of extracurricular clubs, a student handbook I’ll never read, and my class schedule.
I’ll have twenty-five hours of classes a week. That seems…excessive.
“Welcome, new and returning students, faculty, and esteemed guests,” a tall woman standing behind a podium on the stage says into a microphone.
“I’m Chancellor Odina Strom. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to the Sidera Institutione Altiorem Magicae.
” She looks young, not much older than thirty.
A broad smile stretches across her angular face.
Between her commanding height and white-blonde hair pulled into a tight twist, she casts a striking presence.
She pauses for applause and gestures to the people sitting behind her on the stage, all clad in matching emerald velvet robes.
“On behalf of the faculty, I’d like to congratulate the first years on their admission to this great institution.
It’s our hope you will prosper and grow into the incredible magicae you were born to be.
Sapientia, Virtus, Diversitas, Concordia!
” She tosses her arms over her head, and confetti downpours from the ceiling in a cascade of pastel rainbows.
Seems a bit flashy for a school orientation.
The prismatic confetti that lands on my skin is cold, and melting.
It’s…snow? It’s snowing inside, the flakes falling in rainbow swirls and collecting on the ground.
What in the name of Frosty’s snowballs is happening right now?
The audience engages in polite applause.
Some students appear eager, others bored.
No one but me seems even half interested in the technicolor snow.
Well, except for a toddler in the aisle, who’s catching some in his mouth.
He’s pretty stoked about it. You and me both, buddy.
“I’d like to invite Professor Fraser Eld to the podium to give a brief presentation on our fascinating history.” The chancellor leads the audience in applause as a short man with wire-rimmed glasses approaches the podium, and the colorful snow ceases.
“As you are all well aware, our institute was founded by the Realm of Sidera’s royal houses eight hundred and twenty-four years ago.”
Wait, eight hundred?