Page 9 of The Ordeals
I almost lose it, almost weep into his shoulder but manage to swallow the bile back down. Keep it all in, just like I’ve been taught,even as he collects himself and braces his hands on my shoulders, nodding once before turning away.
I watch the familiar motor car slip away down the street, a dreary mizzle soon obscuring my view before Banks is lost to the city.
The thing about desperation is that it cleaves so swiftly to hope. And as I hurry down the street, slipping that photograph in my pocket, cutting off the torrent of questions it elicits, I find it. Alabaster House is luminous in the flood of eerie moonlight. I glance to the townhouses on either side, the dark windows, curtains drawn against the night. The setting for the Crucible is sandwiched between two similar townhouses, all tall and white as swans. The street is quiet, paved and wide, with a few motor cars parked like sleek cats along the pavement, which winds in a crescent shape around a gated, leafy park. The scent of roses mingles with the crisp notes of autumn in the darkness and I imagine this part of the city is just as quiet in the day.
It whispers in soft, caressing tones of old money, so very different from the tired, unfashionable side of town where I live above the antiques shop. I’ve spent enough time in places like this to know how to navigate them, but I never let my guard down. The rich are the most ruthless of all. The entrance is up a set of stone steps, pillars either side of it andAlabaster Housepainted in smart black lettering above the door in an arc. There is no rosy glow of light though, no markings or signs of human inhabitants. And the front door sits slightly ajar.
Anxiety flutters through me, hollowing out my chest. But I ground myself now in this moment, anchoring my awareness to the cloying fog in the air, the scent of old stone, the sound of the rivertwo streets away. Dolly is dead, my arms still aching from the dirt I shifted to bury her. But I am alive, and she would want this for me; I know it. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have told me the truth about the Collector with her last dying breath. I flex my fingers, then close them into fists just as the nearby church bells ring the hour, certainty consuming me.
It’s midnight.
I am ready.
I smooth down my tight-fitting trousers, and check my navy silk blouse has no telltale stains of blood or dirt. There are flecks, but they are only dark smudges. I just hope that this place is badly lit. My boots are designed for moving in, knee-high and flat, but I’ll still blend in with the kind of people I believe will be attending this entrance exam. Tucked into my right boot is my switchblade, clean now after I rubbed my soiled jumper over it, before discarding it.
Finally, I pull out the final piece of my armour and paint my lips a screaming red, something I still have on me from the assignment earlier today. When I wear a certain shade, I become the person who would wear it: the vixen, the librarian, the diminutive shadow in a crowded room. Today, I am the well-dressed wielder, hoping to become a scholar at an elitist college. Snapping the lipstick shut, I thrust it into my pocket, considering the fact I haven’t a clue what to expect. At least I have my wits, and I have my training. My heartbeat recedes to a patter as I take the steps leading up to the townhouse door and lock the events of the last few hours away. Then I push the door open.
‘Lost, madam?’ a woman asks, blinking at me owlishly. She’s wearing a cream twinset and beige wool skirt, her patent oxblood leather shoes the most daring piece of her outfit. She looks only just older than me, but her outfit ages her. ‘This is a private residence.’
I smile at her, unrattled. ‘I’m here for the Killmarth entrance exam. Midnight exactly, isn’t it?’
‘The name of this exam?’
‘The Crucible.’
Like a secret code, it smooths out the frown lines on the woman’s forehead. She nods primly, eyes narrowing like a snake’s. ‘Of course. Please wait in the parlour before you’re called up. Name?’
‘Sophia DeWinter.’
Her mouth flickers, curving into an almost smile. ‘I don’t recall your name on the list of hopeful scholars we were expecting …’ I don’t offer up an excuse, knowing that sometimes, the best lie is a silent one. ‘Ability?’
‘Illusionist,’ I answer, keeping my features neutral.
‘Of course.’ She indicates the door on my right. ‘You can wait in there.’
A wash of warmth hits me as I step over the threshold, the door closing quietly in my wake. The room is cosy, with side lamps and tables, a sofa and armchairs arranged around a fireplace. The fireplace itself is alive with violent, jade green flames, radiating heat.
‘You?’ a voice says incredulously and I whip my gaze to the other side of the room. Standing by the window, hands in the pockets of a smart grey suit is the man from the bar.
I grin and shrug. ‘Me.’
He blinks several times, reaching up to rub his fingers over his chin, features drawn in lines of confusion before realisation dawns. ‘You tricked me. In that bar … did you seek me out? Who are you?’
‘Just someone here for the entrance exam, same as you,’ I say smoothly, pulling a hair band from my pocket to tie up my hair, dragging the damp tendrils from my cheeks. ‘Only with a few less details that you were so kind as to share.’
‘You crafty little minx,’ he says, shaking his head slowly. ‘Was it all a lie?’
I sigh before moving further into the room, my mind already filing away any details I can glean: one exit, one window, no obvious signs of a trap. Then I flick a glance at him, those mahogany eyes smouldering, the lines of his body taut as he crosses his arms. ‘Can’t it just be a coincidence? That we were both in that bar, both wanting to be scholars at Killmarth?’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ he says, gaze narrowing. ‘You hadn’t evenheardof the Crucible, you were just there for—’
‘A good time? A drink?’ I say, moving to sit on one of the armchairs and raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Can’t a girl like those thingsandbe a wielder?’
He stares me down. ‘There are only so many schools that feed into Killmarth around Kellend and for many of us from those schools, our parents went to Killmarth afterwards. It’s a small circle. Unless you’re from Theine? What’s your name? And why …’ he says, taking in my face, my clothes, the dirt caked on my boots, ‘do you look like you’ve been wading through a field?’
‘I … that is …’ I murmur, pushing the sudden flash of images – Dolly, that monster, the woods – firmly away. ‘I was working.’
‘Your job gathering information … in the city?’ he asks lightly and I say nothing. He doesn’t push it any further, merely exhaling as he lounges against the wall by the window.
