Page 5 of Hallowed Bones

“There are three courtyards, a greenhouse, several classroom buildings, and two dormitories—one for the boys and one for the girls,” she states. “Normally, we require all students to live on campus to foster a sense of community with their fellow classmates. However, there are some exceptions for local students.”

“Oh?”

She casts a look over her shoulder as if reassuring herself that I’m maintaining her speed. It’s difficult considering how fast she’s walking, but I’m managing.

“There will be a packet in your room at the end of the tour with a map and a class schedule. I believe you were sent an email with the sign-up form.”

I bob my head in acknowledgment. “I filled it out,” I tell her. “With my requested classes, but I don’t yet know what major—”

“Freshmen don’t need to declare a major in their first semester,” Amelie says, cutting me off as she turns a corner and we enter yet another long corridor. The smell of wet dirt and leaves perfumes the air. We must be near the greenhouse she mentioned.

“There’s a cafeteria for students and a separate, smaller lounge and food court near the infirmary.” Amelie pauses before we reach the double glass doors of the greenhouse and points through one of the stone openings to a second courtyard and beyond. “Those will all be in that building. All admin offices will be in the first building you entered. Francis and I reside within the third floor of the administrative building,” she continues, facing forward once more. “No students are allowed there.”

“Do all the instructors and admin staff live on campus?” I ask, wheezing a bit as I break into a jog to keep up. For a woman as delicate-looking as she is, she’s got the speed of a running champion.

“No, not all of them. Many of the long-term and tenured professors prefer to live in the nearby towns, but a few have opted to take residence in their own apartments for emergencies and such,” Amelie states.

My side begins to ache as she sets off again. Damn. How can she be this fast when she looks as slender and fragile as a hospital patient? I don’t comment or say anything, though, too ashamed by how out of shape I am by comparison. A few months of traveling these confusing mazelike hallways and maybe I’ll be in the same shape as she is. One can only hope.

She moves through the doors, and the scent of soil and earth grows sharper in the greenhouse. Humid air slams me in the face, and finally, Amelie slows her stride. Rich green leaves bloom overhead; trees and garden beds line the cobbled walkways. I inhale, and when I release the breath, tension seeps from my limbs.

“It’s beautiful here,” I comment as I take in the various flora eclipsing almost all the ground that isn’t lined in stones.

“Yes.” Amelie pauses at another path and smiles back at me. “This greenhouse was created by past students and is maintained by the present ones as well. We’re quite proud of it.”

“I can see why,” I admit, letting one hand trail out and move over the surface of a rather large fern leaf.

“This way,” Amelie says a moment later, and we’re off once more, leaving behind the greenhouse and entering another courtyard with a few students sitting on nearby stone benches and talking quietly among themselves. A few glance at me, making me feel like a butterfly caught under glass.

“I didn’t realize the semester had started so early,” I murmur. I probably should have thought of that when the first bell had rung.

“It hasn’t,” Amelie states. “We offer a less strict summer schedule for those who like to get ahead. Many students wish to graduate early to attend a master’s or PhD program of their choice. Summer classes will end shortly, and the next semester begins the following week.”

Relief fills me, and I keep my other questions to myself as she launches into her spiel about the classes, schedules, and expectations of students. A short while later, we enter the third and final courtyard, where a large stone fountain takes up residence in the center.

I pause and tip my head back, gazing at the statue of a woman kneeling with her hands outstretched in front of her. Water pours from her eyes, flowing down into her cupped palms and then over and through her fingers to spill into the rest of the fountain. There are cracks lining her face, beneath one eye that almost looks like it was caused by the tears that leak from her.

The statue itself holds the same feeble darkness as the structures that surround it. Cracks and grime and all, it appears almost human—the artist had the forethought to include details of folds of flesh and a birthmark over the woman’s hip. Shifting closer, I’m so absorbed in the statue’s appearance that I don’t notice the man sitting on the lip of the fountain’s base until I nearly fall into him.

Water splashes up and soaks the edge of my shirt and the side of his pants as I jerk and bump the edge. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

The man doesn’t even look up from his book and instead flips another page. Dressed in a pair of dark brown slacks and the green sweater that marks him as a student of Ipswich College, he sits rather comfortably on the slim ledge of the fountain with both legs out and crossed in front of him. I glance to the front cover of his book and blink in surprise.

“Is that The Picture of Dorian Gray?”

The man stiffens at my question, but still doesn’t answer.

“Haven?” Amelie’s voice echoes after me, and a moment later, she’s striding around the side of the fountain, frowning my way. Her head turns, and she takes in the man still sitting there, book in hand. “Mr. Goode, shouldn’t you be in class?”

The man closes his book slowly and looks up at me. My gaze locks with his before anything else. Dead on. Precise. Like a spotlight snapping to center stage. My stomach flips, tightens, twists. I forget how to breathe for a second, forget where I am. His eyes hold me still, and I feel … undone. As if he’s already touched me and I just haven’t caught up yet.

A quiet intensity hovers in the space between and all around us. His eyes are a smoldering mix of hazel and gold—like sunlight filtered through autumn leaves, or whiskey poured over honey. A pair of round spectacles sit on his aquiline nose, framing his eyes and unintentionally making them stand out even more.

For some reason, when I look at him, I can’t understand what he’s doing here. He looks like he belongs in a different time, as if he’s a sinful relic from the 1920s. I can picture him in a three-piece suit, dark and tailored to his long frame, with a crisp, white collar peeking over the lapels. No phone in hand, no rush in his step. Just quiet power and old-world grace.

And god, his face. Sharp cheekbones. A jaw cut from marble. Hair slicked back with the kind of precision that makes my fingers ache to mess it up.

With elegant movements, he pushes his glasses up his nose with a single finger as his chin tilts slightly as he answers Amelie. Still, his eyes remain fixed on me and mine on him. Even his fingers look fine-boned. An artist’s hands.