Chapter 6 Meet the Suspects
I rose early the next morning to explore my surroundings before the other students awoke.
We were a week into the Spring term, the Meister had informed me, and the students were alerted of my arrival.
It wasn’t common for students to arrive in the middle of the academic year, but not unheard of.
Everyone is on their own divine timeline, the Meister had said in the motorcar. Whatever that could have meant.
The sun was just beginning to crest over the hills that surrounded the Conservatory when I opened my chamber door and stepped into the hallway. The floorboards squeaked in protest at my intrusion, and I cursed under my breath. The House didn’t trust me—not yet.
Doors lined both sides of the hallway, encircling the mezzanine and leading to a grand staircase at its center.
This House must have once been a noble estate, built with fine oak beams, tiled floors, and iron grates securing the windows.
Yet signs of decay were evident. Rot bloomed from the base of the stairs, mildew speckled behind the torn wallpaper, and the scent of damp wood and rust lingered as I walked down the halls.
It struck me as odd that the Meister could afford my generous stipend yet neglected to repair the House.
Concluding that only the student rooms were on the second floor, I descended the stairs and began my exploration on the first. The foyer, which I had entered the night before, appeared much more opulent in the soft morning light.
A rich burgundy carpet stretched from the two entry doors to the back of the hall, leading to a dining room with an open door.
Near the grand entrance, a wooden sign hung with golden cursive letters reading Our Founding Values at the top.
INTEGRITY OF THE WORD
ACTIVATION OF THE MIND
TRANSCENDENCE OF THE SOUL
THE CARETAKERS OF ARCANA
UNDER THE VEIL OF THE ROSE
Moving further down the hall, I noticed a sitting room bathed in sunlight—and a tree?
A giant oak tree stood improbably tall in the center of the room, its ancient limbs stretching toward the vaulted ceiling, as though reclaiming the sky it once knew.
The massive trunk rooted itself in the floorboards, defying logic, as if the House itself had grown around it, accommodating the tree’s silent dominion.
The dark wood paneling of the room blended seamlessly with the rough bark, the patterns of age and grain in both almost indistinguishable, as if the tree had long ago fused into the very bones of the House.
How was that possible?
I pressed further down the hallway, passed the tree-harboring room and tried a black wooden door only to find it locked. I continued trying each door until I reached the end of the hall. Of course, a House with self-proclaimed caretakers of secrets would have so many locked doors.
At the very end, the sage double doors opened easily when I pushed them, revealing the most exquisite library I’d ever seen.
Dark oak beams housed a vast array of leather-bound books from floor to ceiling.
The familiar scent of ancient parchment and cedar-wood floors flooded my senses, and I inhaled greedily.
Eyeing the shelves, I noticed large, oversized books on the bottom and minuscule, palm-sized volumes near the top.
Awed by the enormity of the collection, something like giddiness welled up inside me.
The sight of row upon row of books was almost dizzying, and it reminded me, just slightly, of home.
“What are you doing in here?” a voice called.
Startled, I turned to find a small, lithe woman standing nearby. Barely reaching my collarbone, she had sleek black hair framing her pointed chin. She wore a bright red sweater that contrasted starkly with her dark demeanor, and her narrowed eyes held mine in a quizzical expression.
“I was just exploring the library. I’m a new student here, Dahlia. Dahlia Blackburne.” Remembering myself and my purpose here, I offered a small smile, signaling an attempt at acquaintanceship.
“I’m Nina Choi. You like books?” When I nodded, she added, “We all have that in common,” though her tone held a hint of mockery. Were the students friendly with each other, or were there rivalries?
“You sign out books on this sheet—it’s an honor system.
I’m returning a few myself before breakfast. You’re welcome to check anything out.
No, really. I’m mostly in the cryptozoology section, aisle C, rows five to twenty-four.
I’m writing on gremlins and their representation of techno-anxiety in the modern era. What’s your concentration?”
“Hermetic Tarotology, with an arts concentration in theater. You’re researching gremlins?” I asked incredulously.
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, but as a metaphor. Mostly.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She sighed as if the answer was obvious.
“Monster lore reflects society’s fears, anxieties, and, most importantly, offers explanations for the inexplicable.
Imagine you’re a pilot in the Great War, flying over the trenches in a biplane, when your engine suddenly sputters and dies.
Would you prefer to think that your mechanic overlooked a crucial repair, or that you missed something during pre-flight inspection? Likely not.”
I was amused by her reasoning but disagreed. “When I work on a machine and can’t figure out its malfunction, I ascribe the error to myself—not some fictional deity.”
She gave me a steady look. “Yes, but you’re not working on machines of war, unless you have something interesting to share?
These engineers faced the unsettling truth of human fragility—they couldn’t flawlessly command such complex machines.
It’s easier, more comforting, to believe the failure was beyond their control, surrendered to something supernatural. Psychologically, it feels far safer.”
“That’s giving too much power to random chance,” I replied. “You must have a strong external locus of control.”
“I wasn’t talking about myself. I control all things, living and inanimate,” she said with a shadow of a smirk.
A faint warmth rose to my cheeks. I’d spoken too freely.
She was, after all, a suspect—however brilliant her mind or disarming her curiosity.
And yet, I couldn’t deny the flicker of intrigue her research stirred in me, nor the unexpected pleasure of genuine academic exchange.
I would need to be more careful. This wasn’t the place to divulge too much of my own interests.
Still, a question budded inside of me, quiet but persistent: Could Foresyth be a true institution of learning after all? Not merely the shadowed sanctuary of occult ambition my mother and others had condemned, but something more—something real?
“Psychological threats can loom larger than physical ones,” I noted. “Do all the students share your sentiments on magick?”
Her smirk died and she returned her books to the shelves.
“It wouldn’t be an academic Conservatory if everyone thought the same, would it?
We all have our own notions of right and wrong here,” she said, a hint of irony lacing her words.
“Tarotology—you read Tarot or just study it? Don’t worry, I won’t ask for a reading.
It’s a bit low-brow, like asking a medical student to check your deviated septum. We’re not amateurs.”
I glanced away, fingering the books on the shelf in front of me. “Yes, I read Tarot. I believe the cards hold sacred iconography that taps into our collective consciousness.”
“Ah, Durkheim’s theory?”
“His, and Jung’s archetypes,” I replied, a thrill rising in my sternum.
It had been rare to meet anyone who could discuss the psychology of Tarot with me.
Even Gabriel shied away from the darker, mystical topics I found myself enthralled with since I was a child.
But before I revealed too much, I quickly shifted the topic.
“So, gremlins—that’s your thesis topic here at Foresyth? ”
“Mythological zoology, or cryptozoology, with an arts concentration in mixed media. I use natural fibers and elements in my taxidermy,” she added, noticing my raised eyebrow.
“It’s not as gross as it sounds, and we have a decent science lab here.
I mostly use the microscopes, but there’s a lot of equipment that’s just collecting dust. If you’re into machines, I can show you after breakfast.”
“I’d like that a lot. My dad was a sort of scientist before he changed careers.”
“Is that right?”
“Geology, mostly, but he made his own lenses to study minerals. Nothing that could walk, though. Not as interesting as taxidermy,” I added, hoping I hadn’t lost her. I needed an ally at Foresyth. Even if I couldn’t trust her, maybe she could trust me. That had to be worth something.
Nina smiled, placing her last book on the shelf. “I hope they don’t walk,” she joked, waving a hand. “Come on, breakfast is in the other room. I’ll show you the way.”
As we started down the aisle, she grabbed my arm, tugging me back into the stacks. She bit her lip, deciding whether to share a thought.
“I have to warn you,” she whispered. “Aspen—the tall one—he’ll try to play a trick on you. He always does on the new ones. Just play along, all right? It’s a stupid hazing ritual. His father hates him, so he must take it out on everyone else.”
I tried to mask my surprise at her bluntness. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll be careful.” Was Nina genuinely looking out for me, or was she part of the game too?
We made our way to the breakfast room, a bright, airy space with high ceilings and white curtains filtering the January sun. My gaze drifted to the table where three students were seated.