Page 110 of Bound By Fury

“That sure is one way to process your grief.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “And there’s no right way to do it.”

Maybe I should feel relieved by his reaction, but I don’t. There’s an ever-increasing thrum in my chest.

“You know what, I actually might be able to help you with that,” he says, more seriously this time. “I can appreciate your interest in the history of the school. I’m somewhat of an amateur historian myself.”

He scoots back, opening a drawer and pulling out something that makes the breath catch in my throat.

It’s the peculiar leather-bound portfolio from the heist.

“I was cleaning out my cabinet the other day, and I found this. I’d forgotten all about it, but after the tragic news of Fiona’s passing, it felt right to start my research back up again. In her honor.”

His voice shakes a little as he speaks, and guilt locks my jaw.

I’d spent all this time assuming the worst about him. About this school. When maybe there hasn’t been some bigger plot all along, maybe this really is just my cross to bear.

Me and the traitorous witches.

He unfolds the portfolio and angles it up so we can both see.

“I don’t know if your grandmother ever told you this, but your family is connected to the Beaumont Clark School as well. Look—” He turns it to face me, and I raise my eyebrows like this is the first time I’m seeing it. “Prior to the tragic fire that destroyed the schoolhouse, there were four local families that had been living here long before anyone else.

“As I’m sure you know, some Southern states didn’t tell their slaves they were freed until years after the Emancipation Proclamation was issued. This meant that the Underground Railroad was still operational, at least through these parts, for a long while after. It’s my understanding that our little town was once a connection of stops on the Railroad, hidden deep in the woods far from the white man. At least, of course, until the Biltmores came to town.”

It’s uncomfortably validating to hear it all laid out like this, exactly as I’d pieced together on my own.

“My grandfather was one in a long line of patrolmen that established an early policing system here in Earnest. He often recounted fond memories of these families. But toward the time of the fire, there was racial unrest. It’s unfortunate how people back then just couldn’t seem to get along. Either way, when the school burned down, I’m happy to say that the Biltmores—and by that time, the Matsoukases—paid the families quite handsomely for the land left behind.”

This information is new. An uneasiness unfurls in my gut. I look more closely at the names as he speaks.

“However, due to the unrest, most of them picked up and left, though they seemed to have a way of coming back. And of course, when we established Black Mountain Academy, we made, and continue to make”—he gestures at me—“an effort to bring in the descendants of those who attended the Beaumont Clark School. Our own form of doling out reparations, I suppose.”

I chew on the inside of my lip, trying to reconcile what he’s telling me with what I read in the old articles. The women accused of witchcraft. He said there was racial unrest…

“So then what actually happened to the old school?” I ask, curious if he’s admitting that the white people were at fault.

“It burned down,” he repeats like he’s not sure why I’m asking.

“Yeah, I know. But how?”

His eyebrows pinch together, and he sighs. “It’s funny because I’ve asked myself that same question. I was taught that it was a lightning storm, but personally, I’ve wondered if it was my ancestors. I can acknowledge that white people in the South have a horrible reputation of violent racism. I’m afraid that I do think it’s possible someone set the school on fire.”

His eyes don’t waver from mine as he speaks. It’s refreshing, someone finally being honest with me. Not holding back the ugly truth of the world.

“Maybe that’s why I feel such an obligation to the descendants of these families. Why I want to find them. Why I’ve wanted to offer their kids a spot in this school, even when I was just a board member and not the headmaster. I want to make amends however I can, though I know it’ll never be enough.

“Actually, I meant to ask you—every year on the anniversary of the fire, people from town gather at the chapel to pay our respects to the lives that were lost that night. Typically students and faculty head down into the Village for the evening so they don’t disturb the Night of Remembrance. But this year is the centennial. I’ve been planning something special, and I would love for you to join us considering your personal connection to it.”

When he smiles, the corner of his mouth twitches, and he snakes his tongue out to catch it.

I nod my head slowly. “I can check my schedule.”

“Great,” he says, shuffling some papers on his desk and aligning their edges before plucking one from the top and handing it to me. I glance down at the event flyer before folding it, my nail catching the corner again and again as I think.

“Is that why my Gigi didn’t like your family?” I ask bluntly, feeling safe enough to be candid for the first time in months. “Because of the fire?”

The headmaster snorts. “You know, it could be. Harper was an interesting woman. Very strong. A beautiful soul. But she was old enough to remember some of the lingering tensions from the aftermath of the fire. I never blamed her for how she felt about us. I only worried about you kids. Y’all didn’t know any different. I only wished you could have played together without sneaking. Though is it really sneaking if everyone knows you’re doing it?”

I laugh quietly. “No, I guess not.”