That one time.
The back of my neck gets hot.
“You both look nice,” Callahan says. His cheeks are slightly pink—from the cold, or something else, I can’t tell.
“We know,” Morgan says.
Lanz and Callahan exchange another look.
“Um. Shall we, then?” Lanz offers Morgan his arm. She rolls her eyes, but takes it, and when Callahan does the same to me, I accept it.
To no one’s surprise more than my own.
Outside, campus is lit up and alive for a cold February night, with clusters of people drifting out of various bright-windowed dorms—or Porter’s—and towards the dining hall.
“You look nice,” Callahan says as we walk. Between the lingering ice, the uneven bricks of the Caliburn walkways, and my heels, I’m actually grateful for his arm—chivalry that’s useful, for once.
“You said that already,” I say mildly.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but the flush in his cheeks deepens.
Beside us, Morgan is scanning the horizon, peering at everyone we pass as she leans away from Lanz. “And where are my illustrious step-slash-foster brothers this evening?” She darts a glance at Lanz. “Not skipping, I assume?”
“No, no,” Lanz says. “They’re with your stepfather. With the…”
He almost stops in his tracks. And then I see why.
“…the Brothers,” Lanz finishes.
They look like ghosts,is my first thought. Halloween costumes, or something out ofA Christmas Carol, figures in long white robes that hang heavily around them, covering their hands and feet and…
And faces.
The effect is downright eerie.
“Oh, shit.” Morgan whispers. “That’s them?”
Lanz nods. “That’s them.”
We slow almost instinctively as they proceed, a dozen or so figures gliding along the footpath that leads from Camlann House. I’ve seen the odd nun in habit now and again, and priests in vestments, of course, but never a monk, I realize. And never a monk like this.
As they pass, a few at the front turn their blank-screened faces to us. Callahan’s arm goes tense under my fingers, and suddenly he tugs it away, gentle but firm.
“Sorry,” he half-whispers, glancing sideways at me. “Just…”
“No, it’s fine.” I take a precautionary step to my right, adding another six inches or so of space between us. Vow or no vow, I don’t like the sight of them. And for some reason, I’d have to think the feeling is mutual.
Kingston’s voice echoes in my head.
The Grail is what they say it is. And I suggest we proceed accordingly.
If the dininghall looks regal on a good day, the Candlemas Ball has it looking positively palatial.
Gone are the long tables and chairs, the tray returns and silverware stations, replaced by white-covered high-tops, tiered buffets, and even bar counters in the corner. In the center of the room, a gleaming dance floor has been laid down, with a string quartet playing softly at the far end of the room, on the dais where the faculty table would usually be.
But most striking are the candles—everywhere, on everything, white and smooth and arranged in clusters so elegantly precise they’re almost architectural: small and round flanking taller and thinner in varying heights, like a a tiny perfect castle with all its towers alit in gold.
And that’s when I realize: there’s no electric light on. At all. This is purely candlelight.
