Page 1 of The Black Table
ONE
GWENNA
It’s rainingthe day I arrive at Caliburn University.
No, not raining. Misting.
Slivers of moon-white fog hover above the ground and cling to the edges of the horizon like they’re trying to airbrush out reality. Just fragments of the stone halls and brick dormitories, the steeple of the chapel arising out of sheer blankness.
I love it. I’m rapturously in love with it, and especially like this: swathed in silver, glimmering at the edges, surreal.
Almost perfectly hidden.
Almost.
“Gwenna?”
The registrar’s voice snaps me back to attention. I straighten in my seat, my prime directive blazing in my mind’s eye: BE NORMAL. I even give her a little smile, rallying muscles I haven’t used in years.
Whether I’ve fooled her or not is hard to tell. Our conversation thus far has been cordial at best, and the environment’s not exactly warm and fuzzy: her office is dark, wood paneled, and packed with more books than feel necessary for the task of enrolling a few hundred students in classes every semester. ButI’m doing my best, andhavebeen doing my best, since the cab dropped me off and I toted my one suitcase up the steps of Fisher Hall.
Now, her gaze darts from my creaky fake grin to my cardigan, to the long, long sleeves that wrap my arms almost all the way to my fingertips.
My smile falters.
Because even though it’s raining—misting—it’s early fall. Warm. Too warm for sweaters, especially black ones.
BE NORMAL, GWENNA.
I’m trying, I tell myself.I’m trying so hard.
“Well,” the registrar says, with a rhetorical throat-clear. “We’ll do our best to get you up to speed. Although, judging from your coursework…”
She’s looking at a physical folder, a real manila one full of real printed papers. I’d have to imagine Caliburn is one of the last universities in America, if not on planet Earth, that still uses a paper filing system, but that stubbornness—or insanity—is part of the charm. I’d argue, anyway. Never mind that you’re one rogue spark away from everyone’s transcripts going the way of the Library of Alexandria and?—
No. Danger. That way lies madness. I will not think about that.
“…three weeks late shouldn’t be too difficult for you to catch up on.” Back in reality, she finishes her sentence, sucking her teeth. “You’ll need to take the placement exams regardless, I’m afraid. Since our subject requirements are so…singular, we can’t rely on standardization from school districts?—”
“That’s fine,” I interrupt, hopefully not too hastily. “I brought plenty of number-two pencils.”
A joke, madam?No, her stony expression says. Rather not.Fine, I think.Whatever.
“We’ll administer the academics this afternoon, assuming we can confirm a proctor.” She gives a fainthmmthat suggests this isan imposition, but I choose to ignore it. “Since the other incoming first-years have already taken theirs, there’s not much risk for…” She coughs. “Anyway.”
She hands me a typewritten schedule, which I accept with a nod—academic integrity has never been my issue—and scan it quickly. Latin, French, Calculus, a corresponding room number and building name.
Then, alone: physical fitness. Scheduled for next Monday.
My heart thuds.
“Um,” I say, not sure how to phrase my question. “Is that…what is that?”
Awkwardly, I gesture at the last item on the list as the registrar squints. Part of the allure—for me, anyway—of Caliburn is its, shall we say,limitedfocus on collegiate athletics. The only team sports evenofferedhere are riding, swimming, and fencing. The idea that this school, of all schools, would require gym class is as absurd as it offering to host an NCAA Game Day broadcast.
“Physical fitness,” she reads, and casts me a look as though she’s second-guessing my place at a school with a twelve-percent acceptance rate. “For physical education? Gym,” she adds, translating. How generous.
I wince. “No, I know. I just…I didn’t know that was a requirement here.”
