Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lena
Maybe I’m being dramatic, but I know exactly how those fourteen kids who King Minos sacrificed to the labyrinth every nine years felt. I’ve been wandering around Havard Hall for an eternity and am no closer to finding my room. I mean, at least I don’t have a minotaur chasing me…yet.
Havard Hall is a huge square Romanesque brick building with turrets at each of its four corners.
After Kian dropped me off at the doors, it took me twenty minutes wandering around the first floor to find the elevators that were hidden in an alcove in the South Wing and another ten minutes to realize that I needed to use my student ID to get the elevator to open for me.
After yet another ten minutes of struggling to get it to work, I gave up and searched for the stairs.
I had to haul my ass up three flights to find that the stairs stopped entirely when the stairwell opened up into a wood-paneled hallway. I couldn’t see a way to continue upwards. Maybe Aki was right.
Now, I’m exploring the fourth floor of the North Wing; the hallway is lined with doors on each side.
Some are ajar, showing students unpacking and socializing.
My nosiness gets the better of me, and I peek into every open door I pass.
Most of the rooms are assembled fairly similarly: a full-sized bed, a nightstand, a desk, and an emerald rug arranged over polished wooden floors.
In every room, there’s a large window on the back wall that either overlooks the central courtyard or out onto campus and the surrounding forest.
Above each door rests a polished brass room number.
This hall has rooms N-400 through N-424.
I make a right at the end of the hall and stare down an identical hallway with another twenty-five rooms with the letter E in front of the numbers.
That must be the East Wing, so I backtrack down the hall to room 400 and turn left to spot room W-499 in the West Wing.
I circle the floor twice, carefully reading the room number on each door, and I still can’t find N-501.
I notice an ornate unmarked door across the hall. This must be it; I push it open to find a sprawling communal bathroom. Where is room N-501? And why do I feel like figuring this out is going to take my last two brain cells? I should’ve had another cup of that cold brew.
I walk the hallway of the North Wing again. Nothing. I ask a group of guys hanging out with their door open if they know where room N-501 is, and they just snicker and shake their heads.
What the actual fuck? I’m praying to our Lord and Savior Cher to turn back time and send me back to Portland when I see it: Tucked into the corner of the hall between the North and East Wings is a small set of three stone stairs that lead to a wooden door graying with age.
I push it open to reveal a spiral stone staircase. Bingo, suckers! The fifth floor! I do a little celebratory shimmy.
I make my way up the stairs, around and around and around I go. It’s so much more than just one building story. Huffing labored breaths and sweating through my heavy tweed clothing, I finally come to a door with a sticky note slapped on it at eye level with N-501 scribbled in rushed script.
Unlike the doors I passed on the fourth floor, this room doesn’t have a place to swipe a student ID, just an old-fashioned iron keyhole.
No! No one gave me a key. If I have to walk down and then back up those fucking stairs, I might as well just throw myself out the window and be done with it.
But before I commit fully to my self-imposed permanent vacation, I should probably check to see if the door is unlocked.
The wrought iron handle turns with a click.
The antique door hinges groan in resistance as I shove into the room, confronting a thick cloud of dust. Coughing as it clears, I get my first look at my new home and whoa!
It’s large, and if I’m going to be cloistered away here every evening, at least there’s that.
It’s an odd shape, octagonal like a stop sign.
Which feels like a bad omen? Like the room is yelling “Stop! Turn around, don’t proceed! ”
The afternoon light streams in through three large windows, highlighting sparkling dust bunnies floating in the air.
The floorboards in this room is nothing like the polished wood ones downstairs.
It’s rough, raw, and graying. I crane my neck to look up—the ceiling is the same gray wood as the floors, high, and vaulted to a point.
Unlike the smooth plaster and wood veneered walls of the other rooms, mine are constructed of the same stone as the exterior.
I must be in one of the building’s turrets. Well shit, eat your heart out Halliwell sisters. While large, the room’s drafty and a bit musty. To my right, up against the wall, is a double brass bed over a threadbare rug. I toss my bag and hard-earned tote onto it.
Under the north-facing window, which overlooks a steep cliff and the abutting forest, sits a large old wooden desk and a mismatched chair.
By the door is a substantial oak wardrobe with chipping gold foil details.
Honestly, and maybe unsurprisingly, it looks like someone threw this room together at the last minute with extra furniture found in basement storage.
While my new phone is charging (thanks, Zaddy Warbucks, or is it King Zaddy Warbucks?), I organize all of my orientation documents and swag from my tote.
It’s stuffed with school supplies in shades of green and gold and branded swag—like a water bottle, a mug, and a soft-as-hell blanket with that Latin phrase on it that everyone keeps repeating.
There’s even a brand-new tablet displaying the school crest. That tote bag tyrant wasn’t messing around when he said he’d put extra stuff in here.
I quickly run out of things to do, and I slump down on my bed with a glance around the bare room. “Lena, what have you gotten yourself into?”
Kian and Teariki were offering me a choice, but it didn’t really feel like one.
They may have let me leave the hotel suite, but they were clearly following Luke’s car when we left the Huxley.
Although I’m thankful they did, because Luke could’ve handed me over to someone who wanted to do something much worse than send me to graduate school—like torture me by making me listen to hours of men’s dating advice podcasts. Ew.
And even though my every instinct keeps telling me to run, I’ve been hiding from something my whole life, and I finally have the opportunity to uncover exactly what it is.
There’s also this deep unnerving knowing flickering behind my ribs that magic exists and somewhere buried in the depths of this institution may be answers to questions I’ve long since given up hope of ever finding.
When Dmitri died, he only left two things behind: a barely functioning car and me, starving for answers and malnourished from surviving on vague explanations and equivocal rejoinders.
And now that I’m here, I’m going to gorge myself on knowledge until I’m satiated.
I need time to think, to process, to talk myself out of the dark mental spiral the last twenty-four hours is trying to take me down. Those are all problems for future Lena to deal with. This afternoon, I need to stave off the impending mental implosion by taking a much-deserved nap.
I fall asleep realizing I never did get one of those mini quiches.
I awake from my nap, disoriented by the sound of forceful banging on my door and the lack of light in my room.
The night sky is bright with stars, casting my room in a deep purple sheen of cool light, which means I’ve likely slept past my new annoying curfew and any chance I would’ve had to explore campus or eat dinner.
I stumble to flick on the light, and I open the door to see some poor delivery kid struggling with three shopping bags.
After depositing the bags on my bed, I find a note from my wing captain attached to the handle.
It states that she picked up these items for me as a favor to Kian and she hopes I like them.
The first bag contained more grandma chic in the form of frumpy dresses and wool trousers.
As well as a pair of baggy jeans, two men’s XXL white oxford shirts, and a way too large tweed blazer.
None of this clothing will give me any shape.
Kian said this girl was stylish, but I’m really doubting that.
If I had hoped the second bag would fare better, it was in vain.
It held mostly gym clothing in neon and citrus colors and a pair of highlighter orange sneakers.
What was this girl thinking? I’m a redhead—I’m not suited for neon.
It also includes simple cotton socks, underwear, and bras.
I do find a pack of plain black T-shirts and a brand-new pair of black Doc Marten combat boots.
I say a silent prayer to the fashion gods, Yves Saint Laurent and Tom Ford, thanking them for at least providing that.
If I thought the final bag couldn’t get any worse than bag two, I was severely mistaken.
I had asked Petra for only one thing: products for curly hair.
She assured me she would pass on the message.
This bag indicates otherwise. The only hair product is an economy-sized bottle of three-in-one.
Not two-in-one. Three-in-one: shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.
Also included inside was a pack of bar soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a set of towels, and a neon-green backpack that rivals the highlighter shoes.
This living nightmare has layers, and apparently, they’re neon.