Chapter Four
Alexandr Miroslav
I watched myself in the reflection of the only mirror that could be found in this dorm with an almost eerie tilt of my head.
The bathroom sink was littered with the hair I’d cut off after barely a second of the thought crossing my mind at dawn.
I didn’t bother cleaning it before turning my attention to my unfinished tie hanging over my shoulders.
I wasn’t in the mood to bother with it either–not caring enough to learn or even attempt to tie it.
I left it hanging and trudged back into the spacious dorm, more space than I needed, with a tired sigh.
I didn’t know why I accepted the offer; I should have kept running. Running and never looking back. If yesterday was anything to go by, this place would only prove to be an inconvenience.
But upon further thought, fresh with the morning light, I didn’t regret my decision.
All good things come with time.
Besides, I felt I would fit right in. Not in wealth or status, but in fiendish manners.
Sure, it did feel like a dark hole waiting to swallow me up, but the constant clouds and periodic showers were the slight upside of this place. Nothing to force me into a sunshine mood.
It didn’t take long to settle in, what with how little I had to begin with.
I could smell the perfectly manicured wet lawn from my open window, but I ignored it and slid my sneakers on before grabbing the bag I found sitting with my attires.
The strap sat across my chest comfortably, and the pouch felt almost attached to my back.
The uniform I’d found was pressed and hung in my closet before I arrived, and I found fresh toiletries and sheets in different cabinets.
The uniform fit, thankfully, and didn’t resemble that of August.
My eyes drifted to the clock hanging above the empty desk provided for my learning, and I waited until the long hand struck twelve before I made the short walk to my door.
I made sure to keep my head down on my way out, avoiding eye contact and any form of introductions.
It was the first week of September, and the dorm halls were littered with students reuniting and chatting about their elaborate vacations. In a silent competition of their own making, I realized.
It didn’t help that my window faced the campus, and I spent an embarrassing amount of time last night and this morning watching people come and go. Like an old and lonely woman perched to watch her neighbours.
Stepping out, two students walked past me, and I shifted away to give them space. I could hear their scoffs of arrogance as they continued in, mistaking my desire to remain unnoticeable for fear.
I ignored the desire to roll my eyes, and made my way down the vaguely familiar path, still reeling at the reality that I’d gotten a chance to study here.
According to the letter I’d gotten, the board deemed me fit for their personal projects and offered to sponsor my studies.
I was well aware of scholarship students, and although it didn’t matter to me how I’d gotten my admittance, I know what a hard time I’d be getting if I were labelled a scholarship student.
In either path, all I needed to do was keep my grades up and keep my head down.
At last, I reached Fenlon Hall, eyeing the chrysanthemums along the railing up to the door.
The memories of different buses along the highway washed over me at the white petals. From state to state, I’d see flowers along the road to commemorate a loved one who’d died in an accident at that very spot.
I continued up the steps and entered the building, which held my first class of the day. September in Scotland was warmer than I’d expected but still chilly enough to make me shiver.
The sounds of bustling students filled my ears as I walked down the crowded hallway, but I didn’t let it bother me, only a little.
They moved in sure steps in the directions of their morning classes, and if I knew where to go, I’d have done the same.
An itch grew under the skin of my wrist, letting the sleeve of my uniform scuff against it.
Fenlon Hall soared up into the ceiling in gothic grandeur.
I watched as the pale stone wall stacked heavenward.
The ceiling was high and carved intricately.
Columns flanked arched balconies above, and I looked to the students showcased on the second floor, walking in groups, conversing in a manner meant to showcase their wealth.
One girl slid her hair over her shoulder as she spoke, in a calculated attempt to draw attention to the frosted diamond necklace around her neck.
Another student, a boy, talked with his hands perfectly angled, the sleeve of his uniform jacket sliding back with purpose; to showcase the flashing watch around his wrist.
A burning thrill cut through the blood running into my fingers.
I shuffled into the open space in the middle, wanting to turn in a circle and admire it all, but forced myself to keep moving, ducking under an arched stone threshold and managing to make it to class with only a few minutes before the first bell, snagging a seat in the back.
It was only the first day of the year, but I hoped there wasn’t already an assigned seating plan set up.
I wasn’t a stellar student, I’ll admit, but the academic scene Castle Hill provided its students with was a strong factor that would contribute to my consideration of the role.
It smelled of chalk and old books, but of the distinct sort. The ones you find in a French archives library that housed only the most influential titles.
Tall windows let in weak morning light that fell over dark wooden desks like a soft veil. And something about the scene before me made me want to ponder over simple poetry and write snippets of my thoughts with a quill.
Students trickled in, but none paid me any mind, something I was grateful for. A pair of girls came in giggling, a group of boys close behind them, roughhousing and having a laugh. From afar, this felt like your picturesque high school.
However, everyone seemed to settle in, falling silent, when the professor walked in.
“Alright, everyone!”
He was too jumpy for eight o’clock in the morning.
“We have finally made it to senior year. The last year before I’m finally free of you. So, let's give it our best.”
I listened as his deep voice fizzled out, and, with his back to us, he settled his briefcase atop his desk.
He turned to face the class, going to lean against this desk, when his eyes met mine.
Maybe on instinct.
Maybe out of habit.
The grin he’d been sporting only moments prior seemed to slide off his face like wet mud. A bad analogy, but the only one I could find with my mind running through a thousand different scenarios.
My heart spiked in a panic at the foggy memory of blue eyes, and I could have jumped up and run out of the class had my body not been so frozen in place.
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath, though I didn’t dare let it out once I did. I could hear my lungs fighting for oxygen, getting louder in my ears like drums during a battlefield.
It couldn’t be possible.
It was impossible.
The moment only lasted barely a few seconds, I’m assuming, but it felt like an eternity before he, almost as if in a trance, turned back to the board with a conflicted look, and wrote his name and date on the top corner.
Only then did I break my own eye contact, and only then did my mind catch up to me.
I was sure no one had noticed, but in the corner of my eye, a boy who’d chosen the back row as well, shifted his head slightly to the side in a slow movement. Probably to avoid gaining my attention, though he failed spectacularly.
It was the same boy from yesterday.
Wolf Kingsley.
He watched me for a few moments before turning his gaze back to the front, and I didn’t bother giving him any of my attention or any more reason to speculate on anything, even in the slightest.
I forced my muscles to release the tension coiling them together before focusing on what was written in chalk on the board.
Mr Browne
What a plain lie.
“This is Law 400.” He slipped back into character with ease. “We’ve lost a few soldiers throughout our time together, but I’m hoping to see you all graduate with ‘LAW 400’ on your transcript. A grade over ninety percent would be much appreciated.”
He said the last bit in a hushed tone that wasn’t meant to be quiet, more humorous, and the class let out a collective chuckle.
“So, let us begin with a quick attendance, and then we’ll get into the good stuff.”
He made the rounds, calling on each student until he reached the boy next to me. “Wolf Kingsley.”
“Here,” he said, sending a furtive glance my way.
His voice was deep and gruff, his accent clearly American, but even as his name was called, I didn’t give him the attention he seemed to be looking for. Someone else did, however. A girl at the front, who I’d learned her name through attendance, was Rain Atlas Jett.
She was good at hiding it, though. She threw her long black hair over her shoulder and turned to reach for something in her bag before flicking her eyes over him in a barely-there once-over.
And then, as gracefully as I’d ever seen, she turned to the front, crossed one leg over the other and folded her hands on her desk.
Her poised and balanced posture closely resembled a revered sculpture.
I hadn’t realized I’d been in a trance of my own making until I heard a louder than usual, “Alexandr Mirolsav.”
I jumped and turned my attention to Mr Browne, giving him a quick and firm “Here.”
He paused instead of continuing, and that was when my heart plummeted, knowing nothing good could come from his moment of silence. He always did have a flair for the dramatics. But I could feel my body heat rising from what was coming, and I would rather not be at the unfortunate end of it.
“Is that a Polish name?” He inquired with a curious look and a tilt of his head.
I shrugged, deciding to go with the only truthful answer I could find, “I don’t know.”