Chapter 5
My conversation with my mother about my decision to attend Arcadia Academy went about as well as I expected it to.
She has spent the last three weeks vacillating between giving me thinly veiled, teary-eyed guilt trips, arguing in hushed tones with Dave about finances and work schedules, and occasionally telling me how proud she is of me for following my dreams. Talk about emotional whiplash.
It’s been a long three weeks, and a small part of me is still partly convinced that this isn’t real. But even so, my heart races as I step off the plane in Seattle, collect my suitcases, and manage to find the car that’s waiting for me in the pickup lane.
This is it. This is really happening.
After a two-hour ride in relative silence with a driver who seems like he’s done this hundreds of times before, we turn down a road with a sign indicating it’s private property, and a few minutes later I’m dropped at a small marina on a bay somewhere on the coast of Washington.
Clouds hang heavy in the sky, and the choppy water smacks against the concrete revetment.
A group of fifteen or so people stands casually near the dock beside a bright red-and-white sign that reads “Private Charter.”
I’m still not entirely convinced that I’m not going to some sketchy island to get hunted for sport.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder, heave my suitcases behind me, and hurry over to the group of people who look to be around my age, excluding one man who seems to be in his forties.
Some glance in my direction as I near them, but none seem to care much in one way or another about my presence.
While I wait, I pull out my phone and text my mom.
“Getting on the boat to the island. I’ll call you from one of the landlines in the next couple weeks once I’ve settled in. Love you.”
One of the things that surprised me most about Arcadia Academy—aside from it being a school for magic and all—was that cell phones and computers are not only not allowed, but they’re completely non-functional due to the privacy ward around the island.
Only a select few staff members have the privilege to use these items, and they’re for official school business only.
The ferry is already secured to the dock, and a few moments later, a man with a long, gray beard approaches the group. His voice is gruff when he asks, “Everyone here going to the academy, yeah?” Heads nod, and he brushes past us. “Let’s get going, then. Watch your step.”
The boat is smaller than I expected, and it makes me wonder if other students arrive via different routes.
The pamphlet with the school’s information had said that the school has an enrollment number of over five thousand students, and there’s no way this ferry would be able to transport more than fifty at a time.
I’d be willing to bet there are multiple ferries from different locations that run constantly during the weekend before classes begin.
I find a seat in the back near a salt-streaked window and watch as the marina recedes.
The boat sways back and forth on the restless waves, the water dark and churning, but the novelty of the gloomy atmosphere thrills me.
This place is so different from the relentless sunshine of Nevada.
I never knew the air could feel so different from one place to another, not just in humidity and temperature but in raw energy, until now.
Where Vegas felt dry and overwhelming yet soulless, the air here carries a peaceful heaviness that’s full of life.
As we cross the water, I take the opportunity to survey the rest of the people on the boat.
All of them seem relaxed, many of them chatting easily with one another, and the ones who aren’t speaking are still splayed out as if this were a casual school bus ride instead of a boat to a magical school on a secret, mysterious island.
In fact, the only person who looks even vaguely uncomfortable is a man a few rows ahead of me who’s white-knuckle clutching the seat in front of him and resting his head against the back of it with his eyes closed.
He seems to be alone and struggling significantly with the swell of the waves rocking the boat. Poor guy.
A group of women sits huddled together, talking animatedly and laughing often, and it stirs something strange inside me.
I’ve spent so much of my life dedicating my time to helping my family and working that I haven’t established many friendships, and those that I’d had throughout high school and college have faded away as everyone else has moved on with their lives.
It’s like I’ve been standing still while the rest of the world moves past me. And now, for the first time, I’m actually doing something about it. I’ve never been much of a risk-taker, but something has shifted inside me this week. I’ve simply been existing for so long. Now, it’s time to truly live.
The crossing takes about an hour, and when the island comes into view through the misty air, my breath catches in my throat.
Despite the dozens of pictures I’ve practically memorized from the welcome packet, seeing the view in person is even more extraordinary than I could have ever imagined.
The silhouette of the castle emerges from the fog before anything else, dark and beautiful and foreboding against the gray sky.
As we come closer to the shore, more structures come into view, all dark stone buildings scattered around the massive island with the castle as the central landmark.
The size of the island is almost unfathomable.
I’d had images in my mind of what it would be like, but this vastly exceeds any of my expectations.
It’s a massive landmass, stretching out so far in the distance that it’s impossible to know just how far it goes.
A forest takes up a significant portion of the northern part of the island.
The ferry docks at a pier along a coastline of glistening, razor-sharp black rocks jutting out on either side, the waves crashing against them in massive sprays of sea foam before receding back.
I’m the last off the ferry, and my legs wobble as I make the transition from the rocky boat to solid ground.
Someone has already unloaded our luggage, which I’m thankful for considering how slippery the dock is.
With no clue where I’m going and only a vague recollection of the fact that I’m supposed to sign in at the dormitory office, I decide to follow the other students and hope for the best.
My suitcase rumbles on the pavement beneath me as I take the path directly toward the campus. A perpendicular path intersects it, and in the distance on either side, there are small clusters of buildings, though I can’t make out what they are from this far away.
The official boundary of the campus is indicated by a massive wrought iron gate, which is wide open for the arrival of students. While Clara had said that most wouldn’t arrive until later this weekend, I had taken the option of arriving early to get myself adjusted to my new life.
After passing through the gates and following the main path onto campus, the group I’ve been following splits off in different directions, and I’m at a loss for who to follow.
Instead of picking someone to follow and hoping for the best, I make my way toward the castle.
Surely there must be someone there who can tell me where to go.
I also can’t say I wouldn’t love to see it up close.
The dark stone structure looms before me, the spires of the towers disappearing into the fog above.
Closer now, I can see that the massive pointed arch windows at the forefront of the building’s facade are stained glass.
There are seven of them, each depicting something different, and I realize after a moment that each one depicts one of the seven magical Affinities that Clara had told me about over our call.
She hadn’t explained to me what all of them are, but I had received the information about my own in my welcome packet.
I’m a Naturalist—someone who has the ability to manipulate elements of the earth.
The glass window depicting my Affinity is easy to find.
It’s a dark blue background with thorny vines snaking around the borders, and the centerpiece is comprised of a plant with thick leaves sprouting from the stem, pale purple flowers, and berries so dark purple they’re almost black.
I recognize the plant immediately: belladonna, also known as deadly nightshade.
Interesting choice to pick a plant with such a dark connotation, but I suppose it makes sense considering the atmosphere here.
The other windows are just as captivating. I scan them from left to right, comparing the elaborate designs.
The first is a rainbow of colors, the centerpiece a spiral eye.
The second depicts an elaborate dagger on a black and red background.
Third is the Naturalist window with the belladonna plant.
Beside that, an image of the brain that’s color-coded into different sections.
Next, a hand with the palm turned up and materials floating over top of it.
A stack of books with a quill follows.
The final window shows a crescent moon and a lit candlestick.
I’m so caught up in the beauty of the windows that I’m startled when one of the massive wooden doors opens before me.
I jump, then laugh nervously at my own awkwardness.
“Excuse me,” I call out in a friendly voice to the woman leaving the building.
She looks to be about my age, maybe slightly younger, with straight black hair that barely brushes the tops of her shoulders.
Framing one side of her face is a stark white streak in her otherwise dark hair.
She’s wearing burgundy lipstick, and her eye makeup is just as distinctive, with dark eyeliner that swoops out in perfectly pointed wings in a stark contrast against her pale skin.
She’s dressed entirely in black, with dark jeans, combat boots, and a leather jacket.