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We pass groups of younger boys, who dart back into the shadows when I glance at them. They scope me out and snigger behind their hands. I’m not sure what the big joke is but apparently I’m central to it.
I try to ignore them. At least I’m indoors, away from the cold and the rain. With my ankle, every step feels like effort, but Rory — sorry,Mr. Munro— doesn’t seem to care. His hand skims the wooden banister lightly as he takes the steps on his long legs without any shortness of breath.
Just how far away is my room?
I begin to notice that the younger, laughing boys are walking awkwardly alongside me, though they’re still sticking to the shadows like the cowards they are. The reason for their awkward walk? They’re copyingme. They’re copying my limp. I narrow my eyes at them.
Mocking the disabled.
Funny.
At last, Rory pulls into an empty area with a tight set of stairs. This place hasn’t been used at all. Dust is thick on the mantelpiece of the ancient fireplace in front of us and I have to stop myself from sneezing.
I flick my gaze up to the top of the narrow, winding stairs, and hold back my groan. “Do you guys not have elevators?”
It’s a joke. It’s supposed to be ajoke.
And yet Rory’s perfect aristocratic face is carved in disgust. “We’re notguys, we’re boys. And there are noelevatorsin this country.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something utterly snarky but there’s something cold in Rory’s gray eyes that makes me swallow any backchat. His eyes are the color of the frosty sky, of the castle stone. With one single dismissive look, he makes me feel chided in a way I never have been before.
He hands me a thick metal key.
“The girls’ rooms are at the top. Far away from the boys, you’ll be pleased to know.”
I stare at him, twisting the brass key around my fingers. There’s an oddly threatening edge to his tone. “Why’s that?”
He leans forward toward my face. “Because we run this school and you won’t last here much longer. Nor will Baxter.” For one hot, swooping second, butterflies scatter inside my stomach as I get the impossible thought that he’s about to kiss me. But he leans his cruel mouth against the edge of my cheek until the scent of paper and ink fills up my senses, and whispers, “You think you can just swan in here and break centuries of tradition to fill some kind of quota? We’ll be getting rid of all of you precious snowflake bitches one by one.”
My mouth swings open. I don’t know how the hell to respond to that, but Rory makes it easy for me by leaving without a backward glance. The scent of him — of something dark and papery andofficial— lingers in the air.
I lean back against the cold stone wall, my ankle straining against its confines.
What hellhole have I stumbled into?
