Chapter 3 #2
But as she walks down the cobblestone path that cuts down the middle of the school, tall stone buildings on either side, I have a strong sense of having walked here before.
Snowdrop seems content to follow her, so I sit back in the saddle and marvel at the architecture.
From far away, the gargoyles on the stone buildings seemed faceless, but up close, they all have very distinct humanish facades.
The statues that line the path are the same, men and women who are frozen in white marble and mossy stone.
The gardens are more vibrant than they looked from outside the gates, not just dahlias but blue poppies and black-eyed Susans that dazzle in shades of yellow.
Even the windows that looked shuttered earlier are clearly open, and voices come and go as we pass them, classes already in session.
I can feel their energy and excitement seeping out, swirling in the air around me.
Only the perpetual fog remains the same, resting among the buildings like a white cape that won’t stir, even with the lake breeze.
Sister Margaret takes us over to the stables that line the back of the campus, giving me a closer look at all the buildings.
They all seem to form a circle, with the path and gardens cutting through and between like a wheel and spokes, with the newest buildings in the back by the stables.
There are more trees here, oak and elm and a few maples, the color of their leaves blazing despite the gloom, shrouding the two brick buildings as if they were built into the forest like an afterthought.
I dismount just as a stable boy appears. He can’t be more than ten, with dark blond hair, and he watches Sister Margaret with full attention, his body tense and fidgeting.
“Simon,” she says to him. “This is Leona and Ana’s niece, Kat. Do take excellent care of her horse, Snowdrop, while she’s here. Have her saddled and ready to go by three forty-five.”
“Yes, Sister,” Simon says, glancing at me ever so briefly with a fearful nod before he reaches for Snowdrop.
For a moment, I wonder how Sister Margaret knew my horse’s name, but then I realize she likely knows a lot of things.
Thankfully, Snowdrop lets out a soft nicker the moment Simon clasps his hands over the reins and dutifully follows him inside the stables.
“Now,” Sister Margaret says to me, “while your horse is in good hands, I think it’s best we get you to class.” Then she frowns as she looks at me. “Did you not bring any pencils or paper? Not even chalk or a slate?”
I shake my head, feeling foolish. “My mother told me all would be provided.” Actually, my mother barely told me anything at all. Every time I asked her about what my classes would be (since I never had a chance to pick any) or what to expect, she would give me a small smile and say, “You’ll see.”
This information seems to bother Sister Margaret though.
Her eyes narrow a little. “Is that so? All students were given their textbooks and supplies, but because you’re the only one who lives off campus, you must have been overlooked.
Luckily, your first class is energy manipulation, and I’ve heard it’s very hands-on.
Or should be. The teacher is new, you see. ”
Energy manipulation? She walks off toward the closest stone building, and I follow, careful not to let my dress drag on the path. They aren’t starting me out with philosophy or Shakespeare? Not even reading tea leaves?
“We don’t believe in starting slow,” Sister Margaret explains as she opens the large wooden door and ushers me inside.
“We prefer to dive headfirst into our studies. But don’t be alarmed.
You’ll take to it much like an eaglet does when the mother kicks it out of the nest, forcing it to fly for the first time. ”
I make a face. I don’t think I like that analogy much.
“Besides,” she says, giving me a sidelong glance, “all your classes were chosen based on your aptitude tests. I’m surprised your mother didn’t give you the schedule.”
“She didn’t give me anything,” I admit. “Just told me to show up before nine a.m.”
“Typical Sarah,” she says with a dry laugh, though there is a bitter undertone to her words, an animosity toward my mother that I don’t think I’m imagining.
She takes me down the hall, a long stretch of stone walls adorned with paintings of animals in gold frames, just a single animal in each one—a horse, a frog, a butterfly, a cat—all done in the same vivid brushstrokes. Their eyes seem to watch me as I pass, making me feel unsettled.
Then she stops in front of a door with the name Ichabod Crane typed on a nameplate and raps on it with her knuckles.
Ichabod, I think to myself. What an unusual woman’s name.
And then the door opens with a blast of warm air, and on the other side stands an especially tall man who is staring at us quizzically. An especially tall and handsome man with smooth pale skin, floppy black hair, and dark gray eyes that remind me of the deepest thunderclouds.
“You’re a man,” I blurt out in surprise. I had been expecting a woman. I knew the school was progressive in every way, but I’d never had a male teacher before.
The man frowns at me. “That I am,” he says. “And you are terribly late.”