Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Sister Margaret takes us over to the stables that line the back of the campus, giving me a closer look at all the buildings. They all seem to form a circle, with the path and gardens cutting through and between like a wheel and spokes, with the newest buildings in the back by the stables. There are more trees here, oak and elm and a few maples, the color of their leaves blazing despite the gloom, shrouding the two brick buildings as if they were built into the forest like an afterthought.
I dismount just as a stableboy appears. He can’t be more than ten, with dark blond hair, and he watches Sister Margaret with full attention, his body tense and fidgeting.
“Simon,” she says to him. “This is Leona and Ana’s niece, Kat. Do take excellent care of her horse, Snowdrop, while she’s here. Have her saddled and ready to go by three forty-five.”
“Yes, Sister,” Simon says, glancing at me ever so briefly with a fearful nod before he reaches for Snowdrop. For a moment, I wonder how Sister Margaret knew my horse’s name, but then I realize she knows a lot of things.
Thankfully, Snowdrop lets out a soft nicker the moment Simon clasps his hands over the reins and dutifully follows him inside the stables.
“Now,” Sister Margaret says to me, “while your horse is in good hands, I think it’s best we get you to class.” Then she frowns as she looks at me. “Did you not bring any pencils or paper? Not even chalk or a slate?”
I shake my head, feeling foolish. “My mother told me all would be provided.” Actually, my mother barely told me anything at all. Every time I asked her about what my classes were (since I never had a chance to pick any) or what to expect, she would give me a small smile and say, “You’ll see.”
This information seems to bother Sister Margaret though. Her eyes narrow a little. “Is that so? All students were given their textbooks and supplies, but because you’re the only one who lives off campus, you must have been overlooked. Luckily, your first class is energy manipulation, and I’ve heard it’s very hands-on. Or should be. The teacher is new, you see.”
Energy manipulation? She walks off toward the closest stone building, and I follow, careful not to let my dress drag on the path. They aren’t starting me out with philosophy or Shakespeare?
“We don’t believe in starting slow,” Sister Margaret explains as she opens the large wooden door and ushers me inside. “We prefer to dive headfirst into our studies. But don’t be alarmed. You’ll take to it much like an eaglet does when the mother kicks it out of the nest, forcing it to fly for the first time.”
I make a face. I don’t think I like that analogy much.
“Besides,” she says, giving me a sidelong glance, “all your classes were chosen based on your aptitude tests. I’m surprised your mother didn’t give you the schedule.”
“She didn’t give me anything,” I admit. “Just said for me to show up before nine a.m.”
“Typical Sarah,” she says with a dry laugh, though there is a bitter undertone to her words, an animosity toward my mother that I don’t think I’m imagining.
She takes me down the hall, a long stretch of stone walls adorned with paintings of animals in gold frames, just a single animal in each one—a horse, a frog, a butterfly, a cat—all done in the same vivid brushstrokes. Their eyes seem to watch me as I pass, making me feel unsettled.
Then she stops in front of a door with the name Ichabod Crane typed on a nameplate and raps on it with her knuckles.
Ichabod, I think to myself. What an unusual woman’s name.
And then the door opens with a blast of warm air, and on the other side stands an especially tall man who is staring at us quizzically. An especially tall and handsome man with smooth pale skin, floppy black hair, and dark grey eyes that remind me of the deepest thunderclouds.
“You’re a man,” I blurt out in surprise. I had been expecting a woman. I knew the school was progressive in every way, but I’d never had a male teacher before.
The man frowns at me. “That I am,” he says. “And you are terribly late.”
Chapter 4
Crane
Three Weeks Ago
I’m being followed. I’m sure of it.
The moment I stepped out of the building, a shadow moved off of the brick wall on Mott Street, lurching toward me out of the corner of my eye. I turned around to face my attacker, thinking it was a thief preying on those coming out of the opium joints, seeing an easy target to rob.
But there was no one there except a lone carriage going down the street and the sound of garbage bins rattling in a nearby alleyway. The rest of the city was sleeping.