Page 8

The sound reaches me from two corridors away, hundreds of voices at once, cutlery clanging on crockery, benches scraping, the great collective murmur of a lot of people eating in one room. I turn the last corner and the doors are open, the warmth of it coming out to meet me, and the smell of hot bread with it.

Four long tables carved from sturdy oak run the length of the hall, benches full on both sides. The ceiling arches so far above that the painted beams up there fade into shadows. Candelabra hang from chains at intervals, each one a giant wheel of candles. A high table runs across the top, raised on a dais, but it’s empty tonight. I assume it’s where the teachers might eat but so far it seems this room belongs to the students, at least for now.

I find the serving line at the side and move through it, taking what I’m offered. A slice of nutty brown bread. A bowl of meaty stew that steams in the air. A wedge of firm white cheese that flakes when the cook cuts into it. An apple so dark red it looks purple. There are jugs of ale and jugs of water, and while I do fancy beer from time to time, I decide to play it safe with the water. I can’t afford to slip up during my first class here.

I find a seat at the end of one of the long tables where there’s a gap, and I settle in with my back to the wall and dig in. The bread is still delightfully warm and the crust cracks when I bite into it, the inside is soft and faintly sour. The stew is better than anything I’ve had in a year (no thanks to my terrible cooking), with heaps of barley, rosemary, and a cut of lamb so tender it falls apart on the spoon. Lamb at home is for weddings and funerals, and yet here it is on a Monday, in a stew, in a bowl handed to any student who asks.

The money in this place is unlike anything I’ve ever been near.

I eat all of it, though I force myself to savor it slowly. I had no idea how hungry I was, the nerves from earlier in the day burying my appetite until now.

When my bowl is empty I let myself look up.

And there she is. Three tables over, I see Veronelle. She’s in the middle of a group that has clearly been together a while, comprised of a chestnut-haired boy with a wide smile leaning forward across the table to say something to a girl with his same eyes, a cane propped against her bench. A black-haired boy watching the exchange with amusement.

I watch for a moment. Veronelle is cutting her apple into neat precise slices and laughing at something the smiling boy has said. Then her eyes come up and pass over mine without stopping, and go on past to elsewhere. Okay, obviously we are not acquainted here. She did her duty showing me around and that’s the extent of our relationship.

But while Veronelle won’t meet my eyes, I can feel someone else’s gaze boring into the back of my skull.

I slowly turn my head.

The next table over, a girl is watching me.

She’s sitting very still in the middle of a bench of chattering students, none of whom seem to be addressing her, and her hair is so pale it looks almost silver in the candlelight, long, and loose down her back with a few strands around her face, which is pretty and fine-boned with a straight nose. She isn’t eating, she’s just looking at me with unabashed curiosity.

Our eyes meet and she doesn’t look away.

Neither do I, for a beat, until it starts to feel like an awkward staring contest. When I let myself glance back a moment later she has gone back to her plate as though nothing happened.

I think I’ve had enough of people for now. With my meal finished, I gather my bowl and take it to the trestle at the end for washing, and I leave the refectory. I don’t want to be late for class, but I also don’t want to be too early, so I roam the halls for a bit, taking everything in before I finally locate the crypts.

The staircase at the end of the corridor goes down, and keeps going down. The stone changes after the second flight, smoother, darker, as if cut from the island itself rather than laid block by block. The candles are fewer here, and the air tastes of earth and cold minerals, like the inside of a cave that hasn’t seen daylight in centuries.

By the fourth flight down, I can feel the weight of the building above me. It’s as if the Mortis is more alive down here, more concentrated. I keep my hand on the wall and try not to think about what’s in it, try not to think about what my mother said.

The signs are exactly as Veronelle described, iron arrows bolted to the rock, pointing deeper until I come to a door at the bottom which is heavy, iron-banded, and already open. I step through.

The classroom is a low-vaulted chamber carved from the same black stone, lit by candles in wall brackets that throw more shadow than light. There are no desks, instead, a long slab of pale stone runs the length of the room like a table, or an altar I suppose, and students stand around it. There’s about ten of them talking quietly together, some in groups, some one-on-one. Veronelle, the silver blonde, and the girl with the cane among them. All of them familiar with each other, another reminder at how new and out of place I am. On the slab, a wooden case lies open. Inside, laid out on dark cloth, are bones—long ones, pale and clean, each one slightly different from the last.

I find a place at the slab near the end and try to look like I belong. It doesn’t work. A few glances come my way, wondering about the new girl. I try to keep my face as pleasant but neutral as possible and keep my focus on the bones, feeling terribly on the spot.

But as the minutes tick toward six o’clock, there’s a palpable shift in the room. The chatter thins. Someone clears their throat. A boy adjusts his collar and straightens up.

Then the light dims as a few candles go out, as if something moved through the air at the back of the room. I turn around to see a narrow passage cut into the far wall that I hadn’t noticed earlier. And from that passage, a man walks out.

He’s tall. Broad across the shoulders, well-built in a way that his dark coat can’t quite hide. His hair is chocolate brown with a slight wave to it, thick, the kind that looks like he’s raked his hands through it more than once today, and at his temples there’s the first threading of grey. His face is serious, the type that could easily be found in stone sculptures. He has a strong jaw, strong nose, and a mouth that’s both full and firm at the same time. His skin is slightly tanned, as if he’s spent more time outside than teaching classes underground in a school for necromancers. And his eyes, when the candlelight catches them, are amber, like the color of honey held up to a flame, with a sharpness behind them that makes me feel suddenly and entirely visible.

He doesn’t look at anyone nor does he say anything. He sets a leather roll down on the slab and unrolls it with a practiced hand, revealing a line of thin metal instruments—picks, probes, a small flat blade—all devices that look more surgical than magical. The room is silent. Not the polite silence of students waiting to be spoken to but a held silence, like a breath nobody wants to release first.

He finishes arranging his instruments and then he lifts his head and looks at the room with sharp eyes.

“Bone doesn’t lie,” he says. His voice is lower than I expected, unhurried, with a dry edge to it that could be warmth…or a warning. “Bone only tells the truth about its former master. We are the ones who need to make sure the truth is told, without any fuss or fanfare or elaborations. We report only what we see and know, nothing else.”

His gaze travels the table, stopping and seeing each individual face, one by one, as if he’s checking a register in his head.

Then his eyes reach me.

He doesn’t pause the way he did with the others. His gaze settles on me, just for a second, enough for warmth to creep up my neck. His gaze moves from my face to my hands, flat at my sides, and then back up. At least he has the decency to not stare at my chest.