Page 11 of Foresyth Conservatory
The boy wasn’t one for infatuation. He had always preferred books over people, but there was something different about this woman. It wasn’t just beauty that held him captive. No, it was the depth of knowledge in her eyes, as if she harbored secrets vast enough that even this library could not hold them.
She slid a stack of books to the edge of the desk, and he traced the movement, trying to catch their titles. One stood out before she cracked the spine:A Meditation on Khorvyn Occultism.
“I’m Hamra.” She extended her hand across the narrow space between them, as if closing a distance that had always been meant to shrink.
The boy took her hand, soft and supple in his. A faint prickle of static snapped at his fingertips.
The two spent the afternoon in companionable silence, reading book after book, each lost in their own respective world.
The boy did not yet realize it would be the first of many such afternoons.
“Lord Foresyth’s considerable fortune was not amassed from his exploratory endeavors but rather inherited through his father’s vast and distinguished art collection brought over from England, which the young Foresyth greatly enriched. As an ardent patron of the arts, he envisioned Foresyth to be rooted in these same values. His purpose was to culturally enrich the New World. While a subdued palette is not strictly prohibited, students are actively encouraged to attire themselves in vibrant and resplendent colors, a practice believed to invigorate the creative spirit. In his early writings, he proclaimed, ‘The human form is the vessel of the divine and should be adorned accordingly.’ A testament to his conviction that attire plays a vital role in honoring one’s creative potential.”
—Foresyth Conservatory: A Complete History, Unabridged,1891
Chapter 6: Meet the Suspects
I rose early the next morning to explore my surroundings before the other students awoke. We were a week into the Spring term, the Meister had informed me, and the students were alerted of my arrival. It wasn’t common for students to arrive in the middle of the academic year, but not unheard of.Everyone is on their own divine timeline,the Meister had said in the motorcar. Whatever that could have meant.
The sun was just beginning to crest over the hills that surrounded the Conservatory when I opened my chamber door and stepped into the hallway. The floorboards squeaked in protest at my intrusion, and I cursed under my breath. The House didn’t trust me—notyet.
Doors lined both sides of the hallway, encircling the mezzanine and leading to a grand staircase at its center. This House must have once been a noble estate, built with fine oak beams, tiled floors, and iron grates securing the windows. Yet signs of decay were evident. Rot bloomed from the base of the stairs, mildew speckled behind the torn wallpaper, and the scent of damp wood and rust lingered as I walked down the halls. It struck me as odd that the Meister could afford my generous stipend yet neglected to repair the House.
Concluding that only the student rooms were on the second floor, I descended the stairs and began my exploration on the first. The foyer, which I had entered the night before, appeared much more opulent in the soft morning light. A rich burgundy carpet stretched from the two entry doors to the back of the hall, leading to a diningroom with an open door. Near the grand entrance, a wooden sign hung with golden cursive letters readingOur Founding Valuesat the top.
INTEGRITY OF THE WORD
ACTIVATION OF THE MIND
TRANSCENDENCE OF THE SOUL
THE CARETAKERS OF ARCANA
UNDER THE VEIL OF THE ROSE
Moving further down the hall, I noticed a sitting room bathed in sunlight—and atree? A giant oak tree stood improbably tall in the center of the room, its ancient limbs stretching toward the vaulted ceiling, as though reclaiming the sky it once knew. The massive trunk rooted itself in the floorboards, defying logic, as if the House itself had grown around it, accommodating the tree’s silent dominion. The dark wood paneling of the room blended seamlessly with the rough bark, the patterns of age and grain in both almost indistinguishable, as if the tree had long ago fused into the very bones of the House.
How was that possible?
I pressed further down the hallway, passed the tree-harboring room and tried a black wooden door only to find it locked. I continued trying each door until I reached the end of the hall. Of course, a House with self-proclaimedcaretakers of secretswould have so many locked doors.
At the very end, the sage double doors opened easily when I pushed them, revealing the most exquisite library I’d ever seen. Dark oak beams housed a vast array of leather-bound books from floor to ceiling. The familiar scent of ancient parchment and cedar-wood floors flooded my senses, and I inhaled greedily. Eyeing the shelves, I noticedlarge, oversized books on the bottom and minuscule, palm-sized volumes near the top. Awed by the enormity of the collection, something like giddiness welled up inside me. The sight of row upon row of books was almost dizzying, and it reminded me, just slightly, of home.
“What are you doing in here?” a voice called.
Startled, I turned to find a small, lithe woman standing nearby. Barely reaching my collarbone, she had sleek black hair framing her pointed chin. She wore a bright red sweater that contrasted starkly with her dark demeanor, and her narrowed eyes held mine in a quizzical expression.
“I was just exploring the library. I’m a new student here, Dahlia. Dahlia Blackburne.” Remembering myself and my purpose here, I offered a small smile, signaling an attempt at acquaintanceship.
“I’m Nina Choi. You like books?” When I nodded, she added, “We all have that in common,” though her tone held a hint of mockery. Were the students friendly with each other, or were there rivalries?
“You sign out books on this sheet—it’s an honor system. I’m returning a few myself before breakfast. You’re welcome to check anything out. No, really. I’m mostly in the cryptozoology section, aisle C, rows five to twenty-four. I’m writing on gremlins and their representation of techno-anxiety in the modern era. What’s your concentration?”
“Hermetic Tarotology, with an arts concentration in theater. You’re researching gremlins?” I asked incredulously.
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, but as a metaphor. Mostly.”
“What do you mean by that?”
