Chapter 7 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
Alone in the hall outside my room, the convent looms around me. Long shadows stretch from dusty corners, and wisps of ocean air cling to the bare flesh of my shoulders.
I shiver in the darkness as I start down the hallway, wrapping my arms across my chest and hugging myself tight. Thin fabric bunches beneath my bare fingers, and I glance down to find I'm wearing a white sleeveless gown of lace and gossamer.
Confusion fogs my thoughts and sends a bolt of fear driving through my chest.
What am I wearing?
Where is my habit?
And how did I get here?
I shiver again, but it's not from the cold this time. Fear wriggles inside me, knotting my middle. I hurry faster down the hall, but my mind plays tricks on me.
Shadows seem to slither.
Darkness seems to deepen.
And walls whisper to me.
"It's not real, Avalynne," I mutter to myself, the words small and unconvincing even to my own ears.
I hurry to the stairs, entering the stairwell and taking the winding steps up to the main floor of the convent. My fingers trace the indents of the fieldstone as I climb. My breath comes in short bursts as I dart out onto the main floor and enter a maze of intersecting halls.
I don't know where I'm going.
I don't know why I'm going.
But fear corrodes what self-control I have left until I'm nearly jogging, my feet pitter-pattering against the pavestone.
At the end of the hall, I take a left, then a right, and another left, until I lose track of the turns.
Round and round I go until I'm out of breath, my lungs roasting beneath my ribs.
I come to a wheezing stop and stand there, my shoulders heaving.
A flank of exterior windows sends dappled moonlight across a long corridor and onto a large wooden cross hanging on the wall.
I look out the windows, staring up at the moon shining clear and bright above me. It's so beautiful. I can't seem to look away.
I still stand there, catching my breath, when someone screams, sending a blood-curdling wail punching through the quiet. My heart catapults into my ribcage, and I spin toward the sound, catching sight of a figure at the end of the hall.
A woman stands there, dressed in all black, from the veil that shrouds her shoulders to her black dress that touches the floor.
Her face is lost to shadows as I start toward her. Her form flickers in and out, becoming a mirage in the desert.
"Stop!" I call to her, but she disappears down the adjoining hall.
My feet carry me after her, but each corner I turn and every doorway I pass only leads me deeper into the convent's impenetrable darkness.
"Stop!" I shout again as she disappears down another hall.
She's gone before the word leaves my mouth.
Lightning strikes outside, and the lantern lights on the wall flicker on and off, casting monstrous shadows across the floor. I follow the woman, catching tenebrous glimpses of her as she disappears around corners.
My lungs burn again, and I'm cold and hot at the same time, sweating yet shivering. I turn a corner at the end of the hall and watch as she opens a door and disappears outside into a downpour.
I bolt after her, bursting outside into the storm.
Torrential rain falls from an angry sky, sending icy droplets lashing my cheeks.
Thunder rolls above me, and it's so loud that I nearly cover my ears.
I catch sight of the woman as the storm rumbles again.
Wind whips around me, and I yell for the woman to stop, but my words are stolen by the maelstrom.
Raising my arm to shield my face from the squall, I follow her shadowy figure from the convent to a cobblestone path I don't recognize. She starts up the climbing walkway, eerily fast, and I follow her.
We go up and up, the storm whistling around us. She runs even faster, and I run after her until, finally, we summit the stairs, arriving at a barren outlook built into the cliffside.
I feel sick. Fear and nausea claw up my throat and choke me.
My heart stutters in its rhythm as the ocean batters the rocks, splattering the air with foamy whitewater.
I scream at the woman to stop again, and for the first time, she listens, slowly turning toward me.
The wind wildly whips her dress around her as she looks at me.
She is breathtaking, with strands of copper hair falling to her shoulders and big brown eyes underlined by freckles.
I stare at her, and her at me. Wind and rain slice the air around us.
Then she opens her mouth, her lower jaw falling nearly to her collarbone in a beastly silent scream.
As suddenly as it began, it's over.
Covered in sweat and nearly hyperventilating, I wake in my bed with a scream. I thrash against hands that hold me down at the shoulders, and when my eyes open, I find the one they call Sister Cordelia above me.
"Ms. Immorier?" she asks, concern crossing her soft features. "Are you all right?"
"Yes … I'm … I'm all right," I answer.
She releases me and steps away from the bed. I sit upright, tugging my blanket away from me.
"Reverend Mother sent me," Sister Cordelia says. "I'm supposed to escort you to your first class. Isn't that exciting?"
I nod because it's all I can manage.
"I'll wait outside," she tells me. "Please let me know if you need help getting dressed. The habit can be tricky."
She promptly leaves the room, and I climb out of bed.
I get ready quickly, though I struggle with the habit. When I leave my room, I find Sister Cordelia waiting for me.
"We missed you at prayer and breakfast this morning," she says with a small smile. "But it was probably for the best. The storm last night knocked out the power for hours. I saved you a muffin, though." She hands it to me in a napkin. "I thought you might be hungry."
"Thank you," I tell her, unwrapping it and taking a bite.
I force a swallow and finish off the muffin in four more bites as we take the stairs up to the main floor.
In the light of day, the convent isn't as scary as it is in the dark, but it's still just as confusing.
I follow her down one long corridor after another until we stop in front of a closed door.
Sister Cordelia knocks, the sound loud like the knoll of a gong against the heavy wood. I look up at the arched transom window above the threshold and the cross etched into the obscured glass.
"Come in," a male voice calls from the other side, and a breath later, Sister Cordelia gently nudges the door open. My fingers play with the heavy fabric of my habit skirt as she tells the voice's owner, "I have Ms. Immorier for her studies. I'll return and gather her for lunch and evening meal."
"Very well," the man says, not sparing her or me a glance.
I enter a large rotunda, and Sister Cordelia closes the door, leaving me alone with the man.
The space is as intimidating as the rest of the convent, with a high arched ceiling that stretches above me and tall walls that loom on all sides.
To my right is an empty black chalkboard, while to my left sit tiered rows of seats with built-in, curved desks in front of them that follow the path of the convex walls.
My fingers comb the coarse fabric of my skirt as my gaze scrolls from the seats to the front of the room to the man sitting behind an expansive wooden desk. He's got a towering stack of books and an attaché briefcase in front of him.
I recognize the man. It's the one Reverend Mother brought to my room, and even though he's not currently looking at me, I still feel the urge to duck behind something and hide.
It's unnatural how he exudes an air of authority, arrogance seeming to emanate from his every pore.
Straight black hair tucks behind his ears and feathers the top of his white dress shirt.
He's got his feet propped up on his desk, so that the bottom of his expensive leather loafers block the tablet he holds upright in his lap.
I stand there, waiting on his instructions before he says, "Did no one tell you staring was rude, Ms. Immorier? Take your seat."
His words sting, and a flush of embarrassment bridges my cheeks as I start forward to a chair in the front row. There's a sharpened pencil, two notebooks, and a teetering stack of books on the desk in front of it.
I take my seat, and he finally discards his tablet on his desk and drops his feet to the floor. His gaze pins me where I sit. In the light of day, he's even more beautiful than I remember, but his ambivalent scowl takes no hostages as his dark eyes regard me.
"You may call me Professor Thatcher. You'll spend four to six hours a day in my class," he tells me. "If you want to pass, I expect you to spend at least the same amount of time studying."
"But," I begin, "Reverend Mother expects me at prayer and …"
He raises two fingers to stop me. "I don't care how, Ms. Immorier. You're supposedly a smart girl. Be resourceful."
He stands abruptly, rising to his full, impressive height, before sliding a stack of papers from his briefcase. He walks them over to me and drops them on my desk.
"Fill these out," he says before swiftly returning to his seat at the front of the classroom.
I turn the documents around so that they're right side up and begin to read them. I recognize the insignia of the university, but it's not the one I was supposed to attend. I flip through the papers quickly, but every page adds another weight to my chest.
The first section talks about the requirements for freshman year, and I keep flipping until I reach the pages at the very back. My heart feels as though it cracks and spills out onto the desk in front of me as I scan them.
Transfer of credits.
Acknowledgment forms.
Instructions regarding attaching transcripts.
Grandpapa is never going to let me leave.
"What is this?" I ask, looking up at Professor Thatcher. He cocks a dark eyebrow in my direction.
"I'll be damned if I waste my time tutoring you for a year and you don't receive credit," he tells me.
"A year?" I repeat.