Chapter 7
Hope and Gantry
T he woman crooks her finger. Regarding me with a coldness that borders on hostility, she’s oblivious to what has happened, the seismic shift in my life that has just taken place.
‘Follow me.’
She leads me up a set of steps cut into the harsh rock face of the isle, then onwards to the castle as I try to contain the multitudes exploding and shifting inside of me. The knowledge that I am free, I am free, I am free.
We pass through a gatehouse into a small office inside, filled with pigeonholes along three walls, a few letters, rolled-up broadsheets and society papers poking out of them.
A man is sitting before them, behind a desk, listening to a wireless, the tinny sounds of a news broadcast whining in the small space.
‘Another hopeful, George,’ the woman tosses at him, and he scrambles to stand, hastily pushing the wireless to one side. ‘If I catch you with that again, it’ll be confiscated.’
‘Apologies, Mrs Parnell.’
I want to hold out my wrist, tell this George, tell anyone who’ll listen: I made it.
I’m no longer his creature. I’m Sophia DeWinter and it’s my choice to be here ; but then I remember where I am, the Crucible I barely survived to pass through those gates.
That this semester will be just as cut-throat, just as deadly, and I cannot trust anyone but myself.
‘Keep up, Miss DeWinter,’ Mrs Parnell says, voice cracking like a whip.
We enter a courtyard, all covered in the twisting limbs of overgrown ivy, the courtyard floor itself uneven cobblestones.
The sides of the courtyard are high-walled and dotted with diamond-paned windows.
There are towers at each corner, and perhaps once they were elegant.
But now they are salt-stained with patches of lichen creeping over them.
She walks straight through the courtyard, stepping through a walkway on the far side, two huge wooden doors covered in iron studs thrust back as though they are never closed, and I realise with the first trickle of foreboding where we are going.
The tower is set far away from the castle proper, down a set of steps cut into uneven granite that lead to the edge of the cliff. She pauses by the door, waiting for me to catch up, and a spray of sea crackles over my face.
As we reach the tower, Mrs Parnell throws the door open and clasps her hands. That same frosty smile she wore earlier graces her too tight skin, pulling at the colourless flesh of her lips. ‘Welcome to Hope Hall, Miss DeWinter, your home for the duration of your stay.’
Hope Hall.
I almost laugh at the irony of the name, this place perched on the cliff edge, a tower that in a gusty storm perhaps could topple over, where hope could be extinguished like snuffing a candle if the Ordeals are anything like the Crucible.
And yet for me, it is the very definition of hope.
It represents a life beyond the control of the Collector.
It represents freedom. My stomach swoops, and I almost giggle with glee, a grin spreading wide over my features, which I quickly hide before the spindle-boned woman beside me notices.
Mrs Parnell leads me inside, the hall within somehow colder than the damp, autumnal air outside.
Kerosene sconces line the bare granite walls, casting dim pools of light and far too many shadows.
Austere portraits in burnished gold frames peer down at us, most wearing the dark robes of scholars from the last century.
‘The early magic wielders, some you will find were the founders of Hope and the other halls of Killmarth,’ Mrs Parnell says approvingly, a strange softness entering her voice that somehow makes her seem more disturbing than before.
‘They’re all men,’ I comment. ‘Apparently women didn’t have magic when Killmarth was founded.’
Mrs Parnell snorts, hiding it with a cough. ‘Come along.’
I follow her skeletal form, her skirt and dark cardigan blending with the deepest shadows as we move from the sparse entrance space to a steep spiral staircase, curling away into gloom at the back.
Odd doorways appear, one for each level; I count four before she halts, pushing open the door on the fifth half-landing.
There are two doors, both closed with only one wall sconce flickering softly to illuminate the cramped space.
She points at one door and frowns. ‘This is not your room. No fraternising. No visitors.’ Then she turns sharply, stabbing an index finger at the other.
‘This is your room for the duration of your stay, be that a day, or a week, however fortunate you are. However long you last this semester. You will join Gantry for breakfast at eight, luncheon will be served at one precisely , and dinner at five. Supper is at half past eight, and usually only reserved for full scholars.’ She sniffs, eyeing me.
‘We will make an exception on this one occasion.’
‘Thank you—’
‘ Also to be served in Gantry. Walk back to the castle, door below the first tower on your left. Their main dining hall is the door immediately to your right. You may explore the castle and grounds, but Darley Hall is forbidden. Do not even entertain the thought of going inside, or you will lose your place as a hopeful with immediate effect. Tomorrow night will be the main reception where all the hopefuls gather for the announcement of the first Ordeal. Wear something fit for the occasion. It’ll be held in Keeper’s Hall, beside the gatehouse, and the professors do not appreciate an unkempt appearance. And, Miss DeWinter …’
‘Yes?’
Her nose wrinkles. ‘You have your own bathroom on this floor. A privilege not enjoyed by all hopefuls in Hope. Do make use of it.’
I nod, flushing slightly, wondering if she can smell the lingering scent of blood and dirt from yesterday.
‘And if you use any kind of illusion on me again, Miss DeWinter, you will find I can make your life here rather intolerable .’
The train ticket stub. She can’t have worked it out, unless—
‘I was a scholar of illusion long before I became head housekeeper here. And yes, I can sense illusions as well.’
My entire body turns to ice under her gaze. ‘Apologies. Won’t happen again.’
‘See that it doesn’t. And you are quite correct, female scholars did not sit for portraits in my day, or in the generations before when Killmarth was founded. You will find that the female history of Killmarth is subtly hidden. But no less illustrious.’
I watch her retreating back, attempting to regulate my breathing as a chuckle draws my attention to the doorway opposite.
‘Upsetting old Parnell already? Tut tut.’
I cross my arms to mirror his. Alden Locke.
Of course, he had to witness a ticking-off from the head housekeeper.
Of course it had to be him . He’s completely unruffled, still effortlessly gorgeous, save for dark smudges underneath his eyes, as though he hasn’t slept.
If anything, it makes him more alluring. ‘You’re already here, how wonderful.’
‘Motored down the minute we passed the Crucible, thought I’d bag the best room …
’ His nose wrinkles. ‘Parnell put you in the smallest, by the way. But I guess you do have your own bathroom, so it looks like she’s possibly taken pity on the sorry state of you …
maybe she won’t be making you scrub toilets just yet? ’
I sigh, uncrossing my arms to rub the bridge of my nose.
I’m tired, worn thin by the events of the past two days, and I really could not give a shit whether Alden Locke thinks I look presentable, or not.
I’ve dropped all pretence by this point.
At least as he’s my partner, I know he won’t take advantage of my weakened state.
I don’t know what rules there are for these Ordeals, or when I need to watch my back.
But for now, I just need to be alone. I need to process.
‘Thanks for the tip,’ I aim at him, not bothering to meet his eyes.
‘Don’t let me keep you.’ Then I shut the door firmly between us.
I cross to the bed and flop down onto it, staring at nothing for a moment.
The sheer magnitude of it all doesn’t even start to sink in before I blink quickly, focusing on my surroundings.
The bedroom is indeed rather small with a single bed to the right and a desk under the diamond-paned window next to it.
Behind the door is an armoire where I tuck away my pile of stolen clothes on the shelves and hanging space.
It’s not exactly screaming of academic splendour, but I guess that’s something I have to earn.
I wonder suddenly about those people in the photograph, if one of my parents had this room, if they were hopefuls here.
If one of them stood right where I’m standing now with the same burning desire to mean something, to prove that they could wield magic, to move beyond obscurity, just as I feel now.
I wonder if they also felt hollowed out and alone for the first time in their lives.
It’s strange to know they were here before me.
I’ve barely thought about them before Banks handed me that photograph.
I have no memory of them, nothing before scratching my name onto the contract with the Collector, before the bracelet appeared on my wrist like a gift.
The possibilities in this place explode before my eyes as I imagine what it will mean to carve a space for myself at Killmarth.
I run my fingers over my left wrist, marvelling at the bare skin, the lack of silver encasing it.
I’ve put so much thought into this point, I’ve barely thought to what lies beyond it.
What shape my life may take. What I do know is that I need to stay inside these gates, and on this island for as long as possible.
Until I am strong enough to face him if he comes for me.