Chapter 6 Nyx #2
In Lynden, nearly everyone was poor. Suffering and strife were how we trauma bonded.
Here though, not only am I the newest student on campus, ignorant about this world, and most certainly weaker, but likely also the poorest as well.
And that feeling—much like hearing that fucking demons are not only real but walking around wearing skin suits—leaves my stomach churning with dread.
Augustine’s parting words echo in my mind as I try to mask my discomfort.
“Maeve!” Tori greets the woman behind the counter.
The girl in front of us side eyes me with a barely disguised sneer, and gathers her bags, giving me a wide berth like my socioeconomic status is catching.
Maeve, who witnesses the girl’s reaction, rolls her eyes behind her back and returns Tori’s greeting with a polite smile.
“Ms. Hektreia, what can I do for you today?” she asks, glancing briefly at me. That’s all she needs, really—in mere seconds, she’s evaluated, drawn her conclusions, and discarded me into a tiny little box put in its proper place.
“We’re here to pick up some uniforms.”
“Last name?”
“Byrke.”
“Ah, yes. I saw an email come through earlier. I won’t have anything tailored until next week at least, but I’m sure there’s something that will fit.
Find an empty room in the back so I can get your measurements, then we’ll see what I have stock,” she orders in a tone that I don’t dare disobey.
With a look back at Tori—in case I need a witness or something—I find an empty fitting room and sit down on the plush velvet stool.
My heel bounces from anxiety and adrenaline, and I startle when the heavy velvet curtain parts moments later.
Maeve enters with a tape measure around her neck, a notebook in one hand, and a bundle of clothes hangers in her other.
“Strip, please. I’ll take your measurements first and then we’ll fit you for the uniform.” She looks at me expectantly and for the first time in a long time, I’m self-conscious about my body. I know what she sees as I begin to undress.
A stomach that’s seen too few meals.
Weak arms and legs, sapped of strength.
Scars from the only kind of love an abandoned orphan could find.
Piercings to take back ownership over the body that poverty stole.
Her gaze softens. Mine hardens, and I fix my eyes over her shoulder, ignoring her pity.
I don’t need to look in the full-length mirror behind me to know what my body looks like.
She clears her throat and gives me a tight smile before taking my measurements, careful not to touch my skin as she records whatever it is she needs.
“May I measure your bust as well? You might need a different sized bra.” I nod.
After putting her notebook away, she directs me to put on the plaid skirt while she searches for a bra so I can try on the shirt.
When she leaves, I rub the soft, supple fabric.
Whatever it’s made of is more luxurious than anything I’ve owned before.
Despite balking at the concept of uniforms—down with the patriarchy’s sexualization of young girls and all that—I indulge as I pull it around my waist. For the first time I can remember, I twirl.
Just enough for the fabric to swish and sway, back and forth.
Maeve knocks on the wall and thrusts her hand through the curtains, holding several lacy bras worth more than my entire wardrobe combined.
“Try these, then call out when you’ve found the one that fits best so we can continue.
” I take the bras without responding and listen to her footsteps fade.
The first two bras are a bust, but the third—a pink mesh and ribbon contraption—fits perfectly under the white button-down shirt.
When I finally face the mirror, the girl—no, woman—staring back at me is a stranger.
I’ve never met her before, but she looks like she has her shit together.
Like she knows how to walk into shops with thousand-dollar purses without reflexively making herself smaller.
She looks…not happy, exactly, but—assured?
That’s it. Like she’s not ashamed of taking up space.
“Maeve,” I call out softly, and hear her footsteps as she approaches. More gently this time, she opens the curtains and hums in approval as she takes in how everything fits.
“Excellent. I wasn’t sure how much tailoring you would need but this fits nicely already. It may not take the whole week to fill your order.” With that, her fingers fly over the clothes, pinching and tucking and pinning until I hesitate to breathe deeply.
“Finished,” she says, standing. “You can get dressed, but keep the bra for today and leave the fitted uniform on the hanger. I’ll send more when the rest of your wardrobe is complete.
In the meantime, I’ll pull together some things for you to take with you now and have enough standard uniforms delivered to your dorm this afternoon so you can last the week.
” I nod, but she leaves without waiting for a response.
When I walk out to the front of the store again, Tori’s looking at a shoe display that makes me physically ill when I see the prices.
“All set?” she asks, tearing her eyes off a particularly sparkly set of high heels that would lead to my premature death if I tried walking in them.
“Yep. She’s just grabbing a few things for me to take with. Thanks for sticking around.”
“Are you kidding me? I love coming here. Maeve just got these in this weekend and they’d be perfect for Samhain.
” My obliviousness must show but she waves her hand in dismissal.
“It’s not until Halloween so we have time to find you a gown if you don’t have one already.
If not, we can come back here or visit her sister’s shop in town.
” Her casual use of “we”—like she already considers me a friend or something—is ridiculous, right?
She’s just being nice because she’ll get extra credit or something.
The voice of reason, whispering caution in the back of my mind, warns me not to trust her casual kindness despite, surprisingly, how much I want to.
“Ms. Byrke,” Maeve calls out from the counter. “I took the liberty of selecting some accessories —"
“I can’t afford those,” I interrupt, grimacing when it comes out brusquer than intended. “I don’t—"
“Nonsense. Your grant includes an allowance for uniforms.”
“Okay, but—"
“Ms. Byrke, one thing you’ll soon discover here is that if I say something is a part of your wardrobe, it simply is.” Her tone softens as Tori joins us. “Ms. Hektreia, please bring Ms. Byrke by again when you need an ensemble for Samhain.”
“Sure thing, Maeve. You’re the best—as always,” she replies with a bright smile.
Before I can protest further, she takes the bag from Maeve and turns me toward the exit.
I’m still trying to process what just happened when the door closes behind us, and Tori hands me the bag.
I’m grateful she doesn’t try and fill the heavy silence between us while I collect myself.
“Is—was that normal?” I finally ask.
“Which part?”
“Oh I don’t know, the tailored uniforms, an entire new wardrobe delivered to my dorm, a freaking goodie bag—take your pick.” She giggles at my sarcasm.
“Depends on what you think is normal. Compared to human colleges? No. For the magical community? Dreadhurst is the best school for dark wielders in North America. It has a huge endowment, tons of wealthy and influential legacy donors, not to mention sponsorship from the various Councils. So yes, they can require tailored uniforms and you can expect them to be delivered to your door. One of the perks of being richer than God,” she explains with a casual shrug.
My mind reels, but everything else is forgotten when we crest a small hill and I finally lay eyes on the library.
When she opens one of the massive, groaning doors, it’s the closest I’ve come to a religious experience.
A kaleidoscope of rainbows from the stained-glass ceiling of the atrium above dances across the marble floors.
The creak of wooden chairs and desks, scraping against the floor as people settling in to work is music to my ears.
And the scent of musty books, containing centuries of knowledge fills the air, better than any flower I’ve ever smelt.
But the massive, double helix staircase is the centerpiece of the entire tableau.
“Holy shit, I’ve only read about these,” I say in awe. I’d never hoped to see anything like the Renaissance-era masterpiece of intertwining masonry in person.
“Few appreciate the genius behind one of Da Vinci’s last great contributions to engineering these days,” a deep, masculine voice says from behind me.
The middle-aged man crooks his eyebrow as I take in his dapper khakis, argyle sweater complete with elbow patches, and clear-rimmed glasses perched on his furrowed forehead.
His stern expression changes as soon as he spots Tori.
“Ms. Hektreia! Tell me—has your Meconopsis betonicifolia bloomed yet?” he asks eagerly.
“Not yet, Master Roux.”
“Ah, shame. Do let me know when it does, I’d like to document its variegation pattern for our records. Master Aurox was just telling me the other about his theory of how the variation in patterns may influence certain—”
“We’re actually here to pick up some devices for a new student,” she interrupts, and he scrutinizes me.
“Nyx Byrke, I presume?” I nod. “Come with me, please.” I shoot Tori a wary side glance and she nods for me to follow. He steps through the doors behind the circulation desk and sets two boxes on the counter.