Page 17 of The Ordeals
I choke out a disbelieving laugh. ‘Can’t get enough of me, Locke? Why exactly would I make the perfect partner?’
I cross my arms, even as more blood trails down my upper lip.
He shakes his head, bending his mouth to murmur in my ear. ‘First rule of Killmarth. You keep your rivals close. If you’re my partner, you can’t beat me in the first Ordeal.’ Then he saunters off, the two male professors clapping him on the back.
I gather myself, shaking my head. But despite him, a smilespreads involuntarily across my face, even as a throbbing ache claws at the base of my skull. I did it. I didn’t fail. I am one step closer to being free from the Collector, to learning how to strengthen my magic. Alden and whatever game he’s playing can wait. I turn to face the other professor. The woman who led us into the parlour wears a small, knowing smile.
‘Well, well,’ she says, shaking my hand. ‘You’ve made it through the parlour, and the courtyard. Congratulations on completing the Crucible, Sophia DeWinter. I’m Professor Lewellyn, illusion is my specialism and from what I’ve just witnessed, I believe I will be mentoring you.’ Then she hands me an envelope. ‘Your invitation to Killmarth College. Don’t lose it. Welcome to the Ordeals.’
Chapter 6
End of the Train Line
Istumble out of Alabaster House with the invitation to Killmarth in my pocket. In the small hours, I weave in and out of the streets of the city, wondering if the Collector is tracking my progress, jumping at every sound and shadow. As dawn approaches, I walk into the nearest public bathroom, trying to avoid the sight of my pale, wan features, the blood crusted under my nose, my frazzled hair in the row of chipped, cloudy mirrors above the basin. I scrub at my nails until the tips are pink, the mud of Dolly’s grave washing away down the plughole. Then I take off my navy blouse, scrubbing at the last of the blood until it just looks like I’ve been caught in the rain, and cross the street to step into the nearest department store as soon as it opens.
Stripping down to my knickers, I steal two full outfits in the changing rooms. The blouses with their pintuck detailing, a thick burgundy jumper to ward away the autumn chill, the slacks falling crisply to brush my boots, even undergarments I’ve pilfered from the salmon pink section of the store hidden behind a draped velvet modesty curtain. My own clothes I dump in a litter bin on the street and smooth down the fresh blouse and slacks I’ve just walked out in. The boots I can’t easily change. There were too many shop assistants in that part of the department store, too much light and space and beady eyes.
Then I buy a second-class ticket, with some of the floren notes Banks gave me, to the end of the line, specifying one way only, straight to Marazia, the closest stop to Killmarth College. Steam and the scent of burning coal fill the platform as luggage is loaded, people in smart travel clothes gracefully stepping inside the carriages. I tap my foot nervously as I wait to board, still imagining the Collector appearing at any moment, scouring the crowds for my face.
I distract myself by staring up. The ceiling over the entire train station is made of glass, a web of copper criss-crossing it to make it look like an intricate birdcage. And depicted in twisting, silver metal are the three greater gods: Argus, Gallant and Aline. I do not worship at their churches. In fact devotion has waned in the last decade apart from in Alloway, no longer so popular now our world is so busy, now magic is part of the everyday. We do not have time to ponder and gaze in rapture, to give thanks or praise the old gods.
I wonder briefly as I stare up at the sparkling panes, the slices of blue sky and the pale puffs of cloud, how many alchemists it took to create it – how much magic. If any honed their skills at Killmarth.
At last I’m allowed to board, stuffing myself into the corner of an empty compartment with my pathetically small bundle of stolen garments, and I gaze out of the window at the platform. The train bellows as coal is heaped on the engine, steam gushing from the sides as the train slowly grinds to life.
I close my eyes briefly, jolting awake to find my wrist throbbing incessantly. My mouth is dry, a dull headache thumping behind my eyes, the twin pulse drumming in my wrist. My fingers have turned numb on my left hand, as though the bracelet is constricting the flow of blood, wrenching me back towards the city. I cradle it inmy lap, wondering how far I can travel before it splinters my bones. There’s a cold teapot filled with stewed tea and a slice of bland cake wrapped in wax paper on a tray next to me, as though the attendant took pity and left them for me when I woke.
But mercifully, the compartment is still empty. I check my watch on the opposite wrist, then glance out of the window and find we are already halfway towards the end of the line. I feel like a ghost. Like none of this is real, like I could wake at any moment and Dolly will have made us tea whilst she chatters away about books and the best chocolates. The only thing anchoring me to this day is the bracelet and my rigid determination to finally be free of it.
Fortunately, Killmarth College is in my territory, Kellend. I do not have to cross into Theine or Alloway to reach it. The bracelet has become a nearly unbearable pain, and if I were to travel further … I wonder if it would indeed snap my bones. Even with the contract a throbbing reminder of what may happen if I am mistaken about Killmarth, the view of the sea takes my breath away. The train tracks run alongside it, ochre sand giving way to frothing waves, the occasional skeletal figure crossing the beach. I place my fingertips on the glass, the cold nipping at my fingertips as I stare out into the distance.
I’ve never been to the seaside. Never walked along the promenade or chased away seagulls from eating my picnic. I know it’s what families do, outings with parents and nannies, all dressed in white with floppy-brimmed sun hats, laughing and stripping down to swimming costumes for a dip in the freezing water. And now, looking at this wide expanse of blue and grey, clouded with sea mist, I’ve never felt it more, like a knife in my chest. The acute longing to have had some normalcy in my life, growing up. To have people to share those memories with. Dolly would love it, Ithink, before the horrible reality slams into me once more and I remember she is gone. A lump forms in my throat as I realise she’ll never … we’ll never …
The compartment door flies open to a woman beaming down at me with her trolley. The attendant who left me the cake and tea. ‘A fresh cuppa before the last stop? Didn’t want to wake you.’
I force a smile through the pain, accepting the tea, and the woman moves on to the next compartment. I blow on it, then chug it down, wincing as it burns the back of my throat, then eat the cake in four greedy gulps, washing it away with the last of the tea. My head is pounding now, and I will it to dissipate, for the bone-deep ache to ease in my wrist, hoping it’s not much further, wondering if I’ll be nursing a broken wrist as I walk through the gates of Killmarth.
Then after another torturous hour, the sea mist parts to reveal a hulking land mass.
‘Killmarth College,’ I hear the woman say to the person in the next compartment. ‘Quite a sight, isn’t it?’
As we approach the station in the small seaside town of Marazia, I get a clearer view of the school. It’s not joined to the town at all as I had first thought, but set out on a tidal island. Right now, the tide must be low because there’s a paved walkway snaking out to it, waves lapping either side. I realise it must only be accessible twice a day when the tide is at its lowest, but at any other time it’s turned into an island set around sheer cliffs and jutting rocks.
Killmarth College itself is spectacular. A grand sprawl of castle and smaller houses circling it, with slender towers clawing at the clouds and a battlement straddling the centre, all dark grey granite, which almost blends into the sea mists, like a ghostly apparition that is at once here and also not. It doesn’t seem like a structure that was completed all at once, but rather added to and improved over time,with balconies jutting out like pouting mouths, glittering windows right next to arrow slits and a tumble of granite rock on one side, as if propping it all up from toppling over into the waves.
Behind it, I can just make out a tower perched at the edge of the cliff, closest to the uninterrupted expanse of ocean, like a gaunt figure standing watch, forever on the outside looking in. I study the college carefully as the train slows, picking out the dark windows like heavy lidded eyes, the wall with a huge metal gate surrounding the castle proper and the huddle of small houses, dividing Killmarth from the paved walkway and anyone wishing to enter those gates.
I fidget around, draping my few possessions over an arm in an attempt to look tidy and purposeful. It’s only then that I consider the fact that I left my invitation for the Ordeals in my trouser pocket … the trousers coated in blood and dirt, that I swiftly changed out of in the department store. My heart jumps to my throat as I picture it, discarded in a litter bin near the train station in Dinas Tar.
Shit. Will they allow me in? Will they even believe me? Or will I be forced to seek rooms for the night in this seaside town, the bracelet like a vice around my wrist, chipping at the bone until either it breaks, or I do? I’ve only got a handful of floren notes left and the thought of returning to the city is not an option. I know the Collector will be searching for me. He’ll know I am past the edges of his map, outside of the city, and I will have to face all I left behind if I return.
For now and maybe forever, returning is impossible. He’s not my uncle; he’s not family. At least within the solid walls of Killmarth, he can’t get to me and, once I step through those gates, if it’s as Alden Locke said … I could be free of his influence for good. I need to wrangle the knot of my thoughts, and maybe even find some answers for myself inside the walls of this college. Perhaps even thehistory of my own parents, those people in the photograph taken at Killmarth … the photograph that was all the evidence I had of their possible existence there, now also lost in a damn litter bin. I never even got a proper look at it, never fixed it in my memory. The loss hollows me out for a moment, snatching my breath away. Another precious thing I have lost.
The train groans theatrically, drawing to a stop at the station. It’s a lonely place, with only two platforms and a collection of shambling travellers clutching suitcases and huddled beside trunks. I watch as a girl hands out newspapers, compacts containing society pages and only the most sensationalised news with punchy headlines, pocketing cheap flor coins whilst another darts between the travellers, hawking a jar of peppermints in single paper twists for a quarter flor a piece. I don’t recognise any of the other passengers as I disembark, searching their faces for anyone I might have seen at Alabaster House. On the invitation, it stated that all hopefuls must arrive by sunset on 30th September. Today is the 29th, so perhaps I am one of the first.
I walk along the seafront, eyeing the watchful town, cradling my wrist which is now so painful, it’s fracturing my very thoughts. The whole town looks a little battered, a little windswept and unkempt with fraying edges, but there are a smattering of shops and a café, the Copper Spoon, with lace net curtains concealing the customers within. It’s already creeping towards the evening, people turning ‘open’ signs to ‘closed’ on the shops as I pass.
The air rushing over the sea tastes of brine and stone, with a hint of decay. I come level with the beginning of the paved walkway, the breeze growing more insistent as it tugs at my clothes, the sharp chill burrowing under the stolen burgundy jumper and my thin blouse beneath. And with a last look at the sleepy seaside town, I take my first step out into the sea.
