Page 20 of The Ordeals
‘See that it doesn’t. And you are quite correct, female scholars did not sit for portraits in my day, or in the generations before when Killmarth was founded. You will find that the female history of Killmarth is subtly hidden. Butno lessillustrious.’
I watch her retreating back, attempting to regulate my breathing as a chuckle draws my attention to the doorway opposite.
‘Upsetting old Parnell already? Tut tut.’
I cross my arms to mirror his. Alden Locke. Of course, he had to witness a ticking-off from the head housekeeper. Of course it had to behim. He’s completely unruffled, still effortlessly gorgeous, save for dark smudges underneath his eyes, as though he hasn’t slept. If anything, it makes him more alluring. ‘You’re already here, how wonderful.’
‘Motored down the minute we passed the Crucible, thought I’d bag the best room …’ His nose wrinkles. ‘Parnell put you in thesmallest, by the way. But I guess you do have your own bathroom, so it looks like she’s possibly taken pity on the sorry state of you … maybe she won’t be making you scrub toilets just yet?’
I sigh, uncrossing my arms to rub the bridge of my nose. I’m tired, worn thin by the events of the past two days, and I really could not give a shit whether Alden Locke thinks I look presentable, or not. I’ve dropped all pretence by this point. At least as he’s my partner, I know he won’t take advantage of my weakened state. I don’t know what rules there are for these Ordeals, or when I need to watch my back. But for now, I just need to be alone. I need to process. ‘Thanks for the tip,’ I aim at him, not bothering to meet his eyes. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’ Then I shut the door firmly between us.
I cross to the bed and flop down onto it, staring at nothing for a moment. The sheer magnitude of it all doesn’t even start to sink in before I blink quickly, focusing on my surroundings. The bedroom is indeed rather small with a single bed to the right and a desk under the diamond-paned window next to it. Behind the door is an armoire where I tuck away my pile of stolen clothes on the shelves and hanging space.
It’s not exactly screaming of academic splendour, but I guess that’s something I have to earn. I wonder suddenly about those people in the photograph, if one of my parents had this room, if they were hopefuls here. If one of them stood right where I’m standing now with the same burning desire tomeansomething, to prove that they could wield magic, to move beyond obscurity, just as I feel now. I wonder if they also felt hollowed out and alone for the first time in their lives. It’s strange to know they were here before me. I’ve barely thought about them before Banks handed me that photograph. I have no memory of them, nothing before scratching my name onto the contract with the Collector, before the bracelet appeared on my wrist like a gift.
The possibilities in this place explode before my eyes as I imagine what it will mean to carve a space for myself at Killmarth. I run my fingers over my left wrist, marvelling at the bare skin, the lack of silver encasing it. I’ve put so much thought into this point, I’ve barely thought to what lies beyond it. What shape my life may take. What I do know is that I need to stay inside these gates, and on this island for as long as possible. Until I am strong enough to face him if he comes for me.
The window bangs in a sudden whipped-up breeze, and I cross the room to fasten it shut. I rummage through the desk drawers, but they are empty. Turning to regard the rest of the room, I find an aged silver mirror on the other side of the door, tarnished in the top right-hand corner. It warps my reflection and I appear ghoulish, a young woman with wild hair, smudged features and speckled dirt on my exposed skin. I grimace, opening the other door in the room and find the bathroom. Leaning over the bathtub, I turn on the taps and a gush of icy water pours over the off-white chipped enamel. There’s a bar of green soap that smells faintly of lavender and a woodsy fragrance that is all too familiar.
‘Dolly,’ I murmur, inhaling deeper. Blinking away the sudden hot tears, I take another deep breath and close my eyes, picturing her. The woman who looked after me, who nurtured me, who raised me.
The woman I buried last night.
Suddenly, exhaustion engulfs me, dragging me down and down. Even my bones feel heavy as I strip off the stolen outfit and step into the bath. It’s tepid at best, but I barely feel it. I scrub and scrub, removing every fleck of dirt and blood, washing away the past two days and burying them in the back of my mind. If I am to survive the Ordeals and become a full scholar, I cannot cry. I cannot break down. I must be strong and cunning. Above all, I must do everything to retain my freedom.
When I emerge from the bathroom, my skin pink from scrubbing, I put on the other clothes I stole and brush my hair through my fingers. The young woman reflected back at me in the mirror is someone I no longer recognise. Someone with sharper edges, with a guarded, slightly haunted quality. But there’s also strength. Determination. A purpose beyond that of a huntress and shadow, bound to the Collector. And as I raise my chin, levelling my gaze at this newfound person reflected back at me, I imagine Dolly here with me. I imagine saying these words to her, our words:I will if you will.
And it suddenly doesn’t seem so strange here. Somehow with her words, I’m not so alone.
The night has drawn a cloak across Killmarth as I approach Gantry Hall. There are a few scholars milling about now, standing in groups holding stacks of thick books, wearing jumpers or wool coats with turned-up collars, or slacks and blouses like me. They all have the perfect, manicured ease that screams old money, that screams magic and confidence. In that moment, I picture myself as one of them. Watching the new hopefuls arrive, knowing not all of us will join them.
One woman with auburn hair and siren red lipstick eyes me quietly, before turning on a heel to saunter to another hall. She wears patent black heels with scarlet soles that match her lipstick, and stockings with a dark seam running up the back of each leg. But that’s not what draws my attention. It’s the way she is carrying a heavy stack of reference books. Rather than being carried in her arms, weighing her down, they hover at her side, her fingers spinning slowly, as though keeping them aloft. I watch her leave, mesmerised by this casual use of magic.
‘An alchemist,’ I murmur. The rarest of magic wielders, able tomanipulate non-living matter. As she leaves the courtyard, vanishing through a doorway, I reluctantly turn back to Gantry.
Light spills from the windows surrounding the courtyard and the orb of moon casts silver over everything, lending it an ethereal quality. The only thing all the gathered scholars have in common is the way they steadfastly ignore my presence, clearly marking me as a hopeful, a person below their notice as I move to the tower, then through the door to the main dining hall beyond.
Dark wood tables are scattered across most of the space, with a table positioned facing them on a raised platform. Behind the raised platform and a wooden divide stretching three-quarters of the way up with doors set into it is a huge organ, taking up most of the original granite wall with a series of pipes. It’s as though this used to be a chapel, a place to worship the old gods before the wooden divider wall was added, along with the raised platform to carve out a dining hall. I wonder if the organ still sits below the original pipes, and if it still gets played.
Huge paintings adorn the other walls, depictions of sea battles and family portraits of people sitting posed in opulent gowns. The tables themselves are set with cutlery and bowls, tureens in the centre of each table, lids open to reveal the supper awaiting. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, glinting with pearly brilliance. My stomach growls, dizziness catching at my head, reminding me I haven’t eaten since the cake on the train.
‘Name?’ a bored-looking young man with brown skin and a fiercely hooked nose asks, not even bothering to look at me as he flips the page of a textbook and sighs.
‘Sophia DeWinter.’
He glances up, then waves me towards the tables on the farthest left. ‘Hopefuls sit there, andonlythere for every meal. Supper is self-service.’
I nod, turning to find a few tables of people, some sitting alone, some sitting in small clumps, all mostly avoiding eye contact. I take a breath, identifying where I might sit to overhear a larger group without seeming conspicuous, and sit quietly, ensuring my back is to the wall. I can see across the rows of scholars too, most of them eating hurriedly, eyes fixed on huge tomes. I suppose now they are past this first semester, their focus is on learning rather than staying alive.
Reaching for the nearest tureen, I find a fragrant root vegetable soup with slivers of chicken, and ladle it into the bowl before me, then grab two dinner rolls to tear up and swirl in the soup. As I eat, I listen to the group of hopefuls, pretending to be fully absorbed in my supper.
‘Petroc made it, so did Felix. What about Betram?’ a young woman asks before sliding her gaze over the group. ‘Any more from our school?’
‘Betram’s in,’ a young man says, sitting across from her. ‘Lavender exited, she’s trying again next year. And Peter …’
They all bow their heads. Maybe Peter was one of the young men who got toasted in the courtyard.
‘Sophia DeWinter?’
