Chapter 16 Dorian
Dorian
There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions. Everything tends directly to the catastrophe.
—Horace Walpole, preface to the first edition, The Castle of Otranto
I rush through the doors of the museum, straightening my hair and readjusting my tie to look somewhat presentable.
It’s been a week since the Halloween party, and I haven’t slept well since.
I think of how Atticus’s day-old scruff brushed against my skin, his face so different from a girl’s, and the way the memories flowed out of him, letting me see his life through his eyes.
I became him. I saw his childhood, and his mom, and the drawings he taped on his bedroom walls.
I felt eraser dust under his fingers as he sketched a new building’s facade, smelled the cinnamon rolls he always ate at the Acroteria, heard the sound of Raven’s laughter after he told her a joke.
And I saw myself, and how he looks at me, sees me.
How much he’s wanted me for years. Kissing him unlocked something inside me I never knew was really there.
I’ve cared for Raven for so long, probably before I really even knew what love was, and Atticus was just a friend.
But now all I can think about is him. I think about him when I wake up, when I brush my teeth, and on my way to work.
Raven and Atticus.
I’m being pulled in two different directions.
What the hell?
I find Professor Evander in his office, a room full to bursting with souvenirs and knickknacks he’s picked up over his travels across the world.
He’s sitting with one of the other curators, an old man with Coke-bottle glasses and a frizzy white beard.
Reams of paper, parchment that’s so old it’s yellow and cracked, sit in tall stacks.
The office, usually pristine, is crowded with boxes haphazardly stacked in every corner of the room.
“There’s tardiness and then there’s truancy,” the professor says gruffly.
“It won’t happen again,” I say.
“That’s what you said yesterday and the day before. Come with a peace offering?”
I’m holding a paper tray from the Acroteria. A to-go latte and four pastries of differing varieties. I set it down on his desk.
“Hm,” he says. His mouth is pressed into a thin, flat line. He looks me up and down, as if he’s trying to see through me. “At least you knew enough not to arrive empty-handed.”
I suppress a smile. I learned that from Atticus, who always takes care of us. “If I’d known you had company, I would have brought more.”
The other archivist, whose name escapes me, picks one of the papers up and sniffles as he reads the elegant penmanship. He doesn’t even seem to notice the coffee. He’s muttering to himself and peering through his glasses as if he’s looking into a telescope, lost in the beyond.
“No bother,” Professor Evander says. Without getting up from his desk, he points to a large binder situated on one of the guest chairs in the office.
“The gala is almost upon us, so it’s all hands on deck.
There’s a list of all of the donors and their addresses.
I need you to write and mail thank-you letters to each and every one. ”
The binder is heavy when I pick it up. There are a ton of names in here. It’ll take me ages. I keep the groan to myself. “Can I work on this at home?”
“Of course. I hope your penmanship is as good as these look.” He takes a croissant and a sip of his coffee before saying, “Oh, and I need you to gather a collection of admissions essays from famous alums, so you are to go to the Rosette to fetch them.”
The Rosette. Raven will be there. I haven’t seen her since the party. I’ve avoided both of them while I try to sort myself out. It’s been too long. I miss them. I miss her.
“Be sure that you deliver the essays to me on time, by the end of the day,” the professor says. “No more distractions.”
—
With Professor Evander’s heavy binder tucked beneath my arm, I stride through the doors of the Rosette.
Passing beneath the restored stained-glass windows, I make my way past the long rows of oaken tables and carved wooden chairs.
Everything is back in its place, every piece of vintage furniture restored.
Students and staff move about the library carrying stacks of books or studying at long rows of tables, hunched over candlelit texts.
It’s as if the disaster never happened. There isn’t a single scratch on the floor or a bit of broken glass hiding in some corner.
The library is pristine, immaculate in every way, and I find myself feeling envious once again of the students and teachers.
Truly, there are marvelous things that can be learned at a place like this, and I still want to know all of them.
I need an archivist to let me into the records room, so I search for Raven, scanning the stacks, walking up and down the long rows. When I come up short, I make my way to the circulation desk, where I find a blond girl twirling a lock of her hair as she stares off into the distance.
“Hi,” I say, smiling as the girl’s eyes slide to me. “I’m looking for Raven.”
“She’s not here,” she says, inspecting me. She must be wondering how I know Raven’s name. “Can I help you? She’s with Aspen.”
At the mention of his name, a stab of jealousy shoots through me.
After I left Atticus in that study, I went looking for Raven—to confess?
I don’t know. I found her, even though I wished I hadn’t.
She was making out with Aspen in a corner.
Seeing the two of them together like that, I wasn’t even shocked, just numb. So I guess they’re together now.
I brush it off as best I can. This must be Pippa, the girl that Raven has talked about. “I need to get into the archive,” I say. “I have to see some records.”
Pippa’s nose actually crinkles, as if I’m bothering her by asking. “That’s restricted.”
I flash her my badge. “It’s for Old Bones.”
Pippa’s eyes linger on it. “Oh,” she says. “Sure.”
She places a sign at the desk announcing that she’ll be back in five minutes, then she turns and heads off toward what I assume is the records room without saying another word.
At the door, she hands me a candle before making her way back up the stairs.
“Come find me when you need to lock up,” she says as she goes.
“Thanks,” I say absently, listening as her footsteps fade.
Shrugging off her cool indifference, I drape my coat on the back of a chair at a reading desk and set the mailing binder down before I light every candle I can find in the records room.
Some are fitted in lanterns or sconces, and with all of them burning, there is enough light to comfortably read.
The candlelight flickers, and the shadows dance across the floor, giving the room a sinister air that seems to press down on me from all sides.
Dark shapes move out of the corner of my eye, and the hairs on my arms rise up, even though I know it’s only a trick of the light.
Raven told me that the Rosette once served as a cathedral, and remnants of the old days still linger in this room.
Here and there, instead of tiles, the floor is made of actual grave markers, large granite slabs with names and dates inscribed into the surface.
Out of respect, I do my best not to tread on any headstone.
Intellectuals, leaders, even some wardens have been laid to rest here, quiet and peaceful.
Once, this was a tomb, I suppose. Now mahogany filing drawers stretch deep into the walls, filled up with old records.
I set the candle down on a table and locate the files.
It appears the old ones have been collected into leather-bound books with the dates pressed into the spines.
Each book is heavy and thick. There are hundreds of pages in each of them and probably a thousand books in the section.
Evander didn’t give me a list to work off of, and searching for the most exemplary names from Sibylline’s alums will take hours.
Without magic, that is…
There’s no one here to see me use my power, so I slip off my glove and flex my fingers.
The cool air kisses my bare skin, and I ready myself for the rush of memories.
I walk down the long rows of shelves, running my fingers lightly over the spines until I feel something intense, a kind of spike, a strong emotion that I hope will reveal something of importance lurking inside.
I take the book to the table and sit down, tempering the heavy beating of my heart.
I breathe deep and focus, then I place my hand on the cover.
Thousands of whispers echo in my head, overlaying each other, revealing doubts, fears, worries, hopes, dreams…
Among all of these things, there’s one particularly strong memory, and it catches ahold of me, taking control of my thoughts, dragging me down.
I’m falling, and when I land, I’m not in the records room anymore.
I’m in an oak-paneled rotunda. I recognize it almost immediately as the assessor’s area, the place where we applied to Sibylline.
A large semicircular table occupies the center of the room, where twelve men are seated.
Reflexively, I try to apologize for my sudden intrusion, but my mouth makes no sound.
Everyone’s eyes are downturned, reviewing papers in front of them.
No one looks up at me, as if they don’t notice me standing in front of them.
I’m struck with a sudden wave of déjà vu.
In some ways, this is just like the day I applied, but then I notice the details.
Their suits are different, with high-collared shirts and cutaway coats, and their hairstyles are all wrong, parted in the middle and slicked down—old-fashioned even for Sibylline.
Most of the men are smoking, but what really gives it away is the Model T trundling down the road.
It passes beyond an open window, and that’s when I realize: I’m a ghost. A ghost in a memory from the past.
These men are in the middle of an assessment. This must be another test day, and they’re going through a list of names to be either approved or denied entry into Sibylline.
One of the men, a stout gentleman with bright red hair, speaks up.
He holds a cigarette clamped between his index and middle finger, lazily waving his hand through the air as he talks.
“Several confirmed reports indicate this applicant is a natural psychokinetic. He can levitate small objects across the room at will—”
“Denied,” interrupts a tall man with a monocle. He walks to the window with his hands clasped behind his back. His three-piece suit is jet-black. A red earring glimmers in his ear.
At first, I think it’s Warden Stone. But no. When he turns, it’s a different man. He’s thin and dour-looking, with slicked-back hair and dark eyes. This must be one of his predecessors.
“His arcane test was off the charts,” the man with the cigarette says. “He scored higher than any of the other applicants, Warden Kerrigan.”
The warden turns to the rest of the group and repeats, “Denied.”
The word is like a door slamming shut. The man with the cigarette makes a note on the page. Stamps it with the Sibylline seal, then signs it. With a flick of his wrist, he whisks the page away, and it evaporates into thin air, to be delivered to its recipient.
“Who else?” the warden asks.
The twelve men rattle off names, the warden shaking his head almost every single time. Until someone mentions a name I recognize.
“Alistair Dorsia. Poor grades, subpar entrance exam—”
A man with a pair of pince-nez glasses says, “But his family has provided several significant gifts to the foundation, as well as privately funding the renovation of the student dormitories.”
Another assessor, one with a mustache so large he looks like a walrus, speaks up. “He’s exhibited very little magical ability…but he is the son of one of the founders.”
Babbling agreement circles the room.
Dorsia Hall must have been named after his family.
The warden nods. “Perhaps that’s safer,” he says. “After all that’s happened, we very well can’t have another incident, can we? The chaos that unfolded…We will not risk it. Never again. Approved.”
The man with the cigarette stamps and signs the parchment.
But someone speaks up, a man in a gray suit. “If we keep this up, we will run out of promising applicants. And the school will suffer.”
The warden cuts him off. “Sibylline will survive without those with unpredictable natures. Given what happened…” His gaze turns somber, then resolute. “The decision is final. I forbid you from speaking of it again.”
The man in the gray suit swallows any argument he might have, cowed into silence.
My stomach lurches when the scene fades.
The smell of cigarette smoke still lingers, but the vision is over. I’m back in the records room, and it takes me a moment to reorient myself. I remember to breathe and lift my hand from the book as the warden’s words echo in my head.
We can’t have another incident, can we?
What incident? What happened?