Page 4

The ferry continues to curve south along the Sanctum chain, and the Sanctum Cemetery rises to portside; a low green island packed with a forest of half-barren trees, moss-covered headstones, and mausoleums sagging against one another like drunkards. A curved bridge trails off the far end into fog.

And that fog is where the island of Mortua is, and the hallowed halls of Collegia Mortis.

It emerges from the white slowly, this vast behemoth of ancient stone. The sea wall shows first, black and slick as oil. Then the flying buttresses appear, roofs pitched at angles that shouldn’t hold, and hundreds of narrow windows—some with stained glass, some dark and lightless, each one tapering at the top like a coffin.

It isn’t just a school. No, it’s as if a whole city chose to become one building.

The most surprising thing about it isn’t the size (I had heard it was grandiose, but I’d never laid eyes on it myself, having never gone further south than Sogliano), it’s the silence. From somewhere deep inside I can hear the smothered tolling of a bell, while outside the waves lap at the shore, punctuated by the cry of circling gulls. But I don’t hear the supposedly hundreds of students that are said to live there. It’s as if the whole place has been vacant for centuries.

Then we pass beneath the wall, and I see the faces.

These aren’t ordinary faces. They are set and mortared in stone, seated flush, the way you’d lay any other block. I can see the pale white of a jawbone, the cap of a skull, the arch of an orbital bone. Once I spot it, it’s like they all become visible at once, hundreds of skulls running along the tideline and up the buttresses and adorning the arch that runs over the water gate, all worn smooth, some furred with algae where they meet the sea.

They’ve got our dead in those walls, my mother said. We’re all in the walls.

I give my head a shake and look up as the ferry heads into the water gate. Set into the stone above the arch, ringed by the skulls, is the school’s crest: a gilded circle around a pointed red door with a black keyhole at its heart, a skull on either side, a crescent moon above, two dark hellebores at its foot, and curving along the bottom, MORS JANUA VITAE.

Death is the gate of life.

The captain docks the boat rather hastily, glancing up at the school with a look of barely concealed disdain. Then, as if to get me gone in a hurry, he hauls my trunk out of the boat and onto the dock with a thunk.

“Please be careful with that,” I call out to him. He has no idea of the valuables inside. He just grunts in response and I’ve barely stepped onto the dock before the boat is pulling away in a hurry. I stand there and stare for a moment as it motors out of the water gate, heading elsewhere to drop off the sheep and the rest of the passengers. I know it’s not the only ferry, but it feels like a lifeline is slipping away.

Then I hear a cough from behind me.

I turn to see two people waiting, where I swear there was no one before.

One of whom I assume is the porter judging by his handcart. He’s squat, barrel-built, north of fifty, forearms like ham hocks, and a mustache that looks like bull horns. He stares at me like I’m just part of the scenery.

The second is a girl, and she is the most beautiful person I have ever seen.

She stands apart from him, hands clasped, her posture stiff and her presence still. Her hair is shiny and dark, reminding me of the glossy feathers of a crow, pulled off her face into a long, thick braid. Her dress is high-collared black silk with gleaming jet buttons to the throat and a small silver pin at her collar. Her skin is pale and luminous, and she has enormous blue eyes, lashes like moth wings, and a full, somewhat petulant mouth.

I’m pretty sure I’m the source of said petulance.

Those eyes travel down the length of me, to my dress, my satchel, my hair loosening at my nape, my shoddy boots soaked to the ankle, then back up again.

“Greythorn,” she says in a clipped voice.

“That’s me.” I give her a faint smile.

“Veronelle Caine. Second-year.” She doesn’t offer her hand. “They give us new-arrival duties and this term I drew you.”

“Lucky me,” I manage to say. My default is to make a joke when I’m in an awkward position and so far this whole interaction has been pretty damn awkward.

“Mmm,” she says. The noise is half a muse, half a grumble.

She turns and starts walking, not bothering to wait. The porter heaves my trunk onto the handcart with a grunt and mutters something unkind about the weight, the wheel squeaking.

“Careful, please,” I say as delicately as I can, but he only narrows his eyes at me. So I turn and hurry after Veronelle with my satchel banging against my hip and the wet hem of my dress slapping at my ankles.

The corridor beyond the water gate is black stone lit by flickering candles in iron brackets, the ceiling so far above that the light doesn’t reach it. The air grows colder as we go and Veronelle keeps at her pace, not looking back once.

“You missed orientation already,” she says without glancing over her shoulder. “Though I suppose it doesn’t really matter, since you won’t be a first-year student anyway.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, already feeling flustered. “I was told to take the ten o’clock ferry.”

“And I told them that the ferries from the Bracken Islands are always late, but did they listen? Of course not.” She lets out a deep, exasperated sigh. “Anyway, don’t be sorry to me. You’re the one who will have to deal with my rudimentary explanations. I’m not a tour guide, as you’ll find out, and the sooner I can get back to my studies, the better.”