Chapter 6
Eager to be out of the small room with my antagonistic roommate, I make my way down the hallway where I investigate the communal bathrooms, then come across another staircase that goes directly downward rather than spiraling, and it leads in the opposite direction of the spiral staircase.
I take those stairs instead and emerge in the large room I had briefly glimpsed on my way in. It’s a common area for students by the looks of it.
A massive stone fireplace dominates the wall directly across from the entrance I’d come in earlier, with two six-foot-tall cathedral windows on either side of it, their black, silky drapes pulled to the sides to let in the natural light and display the courtyard beyond.
Around the hearth is a semi-circle of various armchairs, couches, and loveseats atop a plush black rug with a coffee table in the center.
All of the items are in good condition, but they look to be from decades ago.
It’s a mismatch of patterned upholstery, velvet, tufted buttons, and dark wood.
To the left is a large oak table with a dozen matching chairs tucked neatly around it, and the wall behind it is comprised entirely of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that hold various textbooks and smaller paperbacks as well as stacks of board games, sets of cards, and various crystals similar to the ones Max had.
The right wall of the room boasts a large, mostly empty cork board surrounded by dozens of framed photos of students and faculty, some black-and-white and others in color.
Instead of typical chairs or a table, this side of the room is comprised entirely of cushions, bean bags, and papasan chairs scattered about at random.
On each side of the room, there’s a door.
I try the handle to one, and it’s unlocked, so I take the opportunity to peek inside.
It’s a small kitchen with a microwave, cabinets, a fridge, and two coffee pots.
That’ll be helpful to remember later when I’m desperate for caffeine during late-night studying sessions.
The door on the opposite side of the common room is just a bathroom.
Heading out the front door, I realize the sun is already setting, the sky darkening as night descends.
A part of me questions if I should be out walking alone on an unfamiliar campus at nighttime, but how much danger could I really be in on an island where everyone is invited and no one can easily escape?
The grass glistens with today’s rain, moisture clinging to every surface and catching the light from windows and lampposts.
Deciding I need food before I do anything else, I head toward the castle in the center of campus, using it as a landmark to find the dining hall.
It’s not too difficult to find, as the few students who are already on campus seem to be heading in the same direction.
I follow a pair of women inside, and beyond the doorway lies a grandiose dining hall fit for royalty. Long rows of tables run parallel to the wider walls, and along one of the walls is a buffet line that connects to the kitchen behind it.
Apparently, everyone on campus gets food privileges, because there’s no one to check student or staff IDs. I simply walk up to the counter, grab a plate, and make my way down the line.
Since campus is relatively empty, only a quarter of the line is actually open, but the options for food are plenty, with at least three entrees to choose from and ten different sides of various vegetables, breads, pasta, and snacks.
I settle on a plate of herb roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a dinner roll, not realizing how hungry I am until this very moment.
My stomach growls as I sit at one of the empty tables and scarf down my food.
A part of me expected normal cafeteria-style food, edible but bland, but this is nothing of the sort.
The flavors explode on my tongue, herbs and spices and butter mingling into something almost orgasmic.
I can only imagine what the buffet will be like when campus is full.
I eat until I’m satiated, consider getting more before I think better of it considering I’ll still be walking around campus tonight, then put my plate and utensils in their respective bins for dirty dishes.
It’s entirely dark outside when I finish eating, but the pathways around campus are illuminated by lamp posts that cast auras of warm, orange light, making the darkness of the night feel comforting rather than eerie.
Cool, clean air fills my lungs, and I can’t help but revel in the feeling.
The crisp air here is so at odds with what I left in Las Vegas, which was a relentless, smoggy furnace in the summertime, even at night.
I pull out my schedule, squinting at it in the dim light.
My classes will be spread across three different buildings, but all of my plant-related classes—Plant Physiology & Biochemistry, Advanced Ecology, Mycology, and Introduction to Naturalism—will take place in the Natural Sciences building, so I decide to head there first as that’s where I’ll be spending most of my time.
According to the map, they’re also the furthest from my current location, at the edge of campus near the forest that takes up the northern quarter of the massive island.
There are a couple of ways I could take to get there, but the path I choose winds directly through the middle of campus.
I pass a tall, wide building that’s illuminated from the inside with towers at each corner similar to the castle’s, and when I get closer, I’m able to see the rows upon rows of bookshelves within.
A few students are visible inside, hunched over texts and scribbling in notebooks.
The scene is picturesque, reminiscent of an old romantic painting.
But the beauty of the image before me is laced with an undercurrent of anxiety.
Classes haven’t even started yet and students are already studying.
I was told that this school is academically demanding, but how am I possibly going to manage the rigor of an already difficult program while taking such a high number of credit hours?
I’m nothing special to begin with, having passed my bachelor’s program with a comfortable string of Bs and Cs, so how the hell do I plan on learning literal magic alongside a master’s program?
I start walking again before I can panic more about my overwhelming mediocrity. I’ll figure it out one step at a time like I always do.
Following the winding path further west, I commit as much of campus to memory as I can. I’m sure it’ll be easier to navigate during the daytime, but I want to be as prepared as possible. Brass plaques beneath soft white lights identify the buildings.
Finally, I arrive at the Natural Sciences building. It resembles the rest of the buildings on campus aside from the fact that there are various flowers growing along the facade and trees scattered about the manicured lawn before it.
On my map, there’s a structure behind the building indicated by a large rectangle—almost as large as the building itself—but it’s not labeled. Curious about what it might be, I follow the pathway circling around the building and stop in my tracks when the structure comes into view.
Before me stands the largest greenhouse I’ve ever seen. It’s enormous, easily the size of a cathedral, constructed entirely of glass panels set in an intricate iron framework. The center of the structure is domed, and the glass glints with the hints of moonlight piercing through the clouds.
It’s breathtakingly beautiful, and I find myself searching for the entrance before I can think better of it, desperate to see the inside of the structure.
As I approach the arched doorway of the greenhouse, I realize that it’s cracked open, and inside, there’s the faint orange glow of a lantern bobbing as someone walks.
Guided only by my burning curiosity, I pull the ornate handle, the iron shaped to resemble a leafy vine encircling a tree branch.
The door opens silently, and the humidity of the greenhouse envelops me as I pull the door back to its position of being open by only a few inches.
I inhale deeply, calmed by the scent of earth and greenery and overwhelmed at the incredible sight before me. The greenhouse, dark but visible beneath the soft, radiant moonlight, feels like something from a dream, a magical forest beneath glass.
Pathways of crushed stone wind between raised garden beds and large planters overflowing with a combination of healthy leaves and floral blooms. Ferns cascade from hanging baskets, and flowering vines climb the iron framework.
The air practically vibrates with the collective presence of hundreds of thriving plants.
I almost forget that someone else is here until I hear a man’s deep voice resonate from somewhere deeper within the greenhouse.
“If you’re going to come in, you may as well come in all the way.”
Part of me considers leaving, hesitant to be alone with a stranger in the dark, but the other part of me argues that a man spending his nights in a greenhouse likely isn’t too dangerous. Probably. I can’t even bring myself to feel nervous because of how soothing the environment is.
My feet move before my mind can make itself up, and stones crunch beneath my feet as I follow the winding path deeper into the greenhouse, following the subtle glow of the lantern reflecting off the glass ahead.
I pass an area that I recognize as tropical species, many of them exceedingly difficult to maintain.
Orchids with elaborate blooms almost seem to glow in the dim light, and the bird of paradise plants are easy to identify with their distinctive orange and blue flowers.
Everything is meticulously maintained from what I can see, though it doesn’t surprise me in the least.