Kieren and Evelyn come running into the dining room.
“Andrew’s dead,” they announce.
Upstairs in the third-floor seminar room, I’m the first in. The centerpiece is a glass-topped rectangular table with a metal base. A podium stands in front of a chalkboard secured to the wall. DR. URSULA ULMAN is handwritten on it. I assume that’s the name of the faculty member or administrator or hell beast who’ll be joining us.
A chalkboard. It’s a low-tech choice for such a modern setting. But evil is old. Sometimes it prefers the retro.
The framed Codex Gigas illustration is identical to the rest.
The clock above the door reads 8:58 A.M . A typeset place card marks each of our chairs. It’s five female students on one side, from back to front: Vesper, Willa, Lucy, Evelyn, and Bridget. Three male students on the other, from back to front: me, Nigel, Kieren . . . and the next student would’ve been Andrew. He hanged himself with his bedsheet from the pull-up bar.
The others trail in. They’re subdued. Bridget is teary. She and Andrew may not have bonded on their road trip, but she spent the most time with him.
“I didn’t think he was depressed,” she says. “I —”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Lucy assures her. Evelyn is quick to agree.
Nigel strolls in last. Blurry eyed. Hungover.
Kieren breaks the news about Andrew.
“Nine becomes eight.” Nigel puffs on a cigarette. “For us, it’s too late.”
I scoot my chair to the foot of the table. Whatever creature is about to appear in this room, I want to face it head-on.
At breakfast, I considered telling the students to lock themselves in their rooms, at least until Kieren and I could find a way out. But what Andrew did — or what happened to him — may be proof that we’re safer together.
“Didn’t you say Andrew was driving a hearse?” Vesper asks Bridget. “I’d call that a tip-off. Plus, his Goth look screamed —”
“Shut up,” Lucy snaps. “This isn’t about —”
“It’s nine o’clock,” Evelyn says in a soft voice.
Everyone checks the clock. Kieren knocked on my door last night to say he’d filled in the Otter on the school. So far as I know, the three of us and Lucy are the only ones in the know. No one expected a student to die within twenty-four hours.
Everyone else is clinging to whatever explanations they can muster.
“Good morning,” intones a raspy, disembodied voice. “Welcome to the Scholomance Preparatory Academy. I am Dr. Ursula Ulman.”
It’s coming from the front of the room, near the podium.
“Speakers,” Bridget whispers. “Hidden speakers.”
I have to give her credit for trying.
“You may call me Dr. Ulman. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, and I’m not inclined to stand on ceremony.” The voice is clearer now.
“I see that your tenth has yet to arrive. I myself was once a tenth scholar. Those who know what that means may make of it as you will. Those who don’t will likely find this orientation disconcerting. Please note that we do not provide health care, mental or otherwise.”
As she’s speaking, Mr. Bilovski strolls in, passes out schedules, and exits.
“No Language of Animals?” Vesper queries. “No Weapons and Technology?”
“Next semester,” the voice replies. “This one-year, year-round program is devoted to study in preparation for admission to the Scholomance in the Carpathian Mountains.”
A shadow catches my eye.
“For those of you familiar with that institution, please note that while areas of academic concentration largely overlap, this campus operates by its own set of rules.”
Willa gasps as the shadow solidifies. We can make out a buxom woman with short — no, pinned-up — hair. She’s wearing a long, dark gown.
“There is no option to withdraw. Minimum performance standards must be met, if a student is to advance in the program. My available discretion is limited.
“Anyone who compromises the sanctity of this academic community will be
“Andrew’s dead,” they announce.
Upstairs in the third-floor seminar room, I’m the first in. The centerpiece is a glass-topped rectangular table with a metal base. A podium stands in front of a chalkboard secured to the wall. DR. URSULA ULMAN is handwritten on it. I assume that’s the name of the faculty member or administrator or hell beast who’ll be joining us.
A chalkboard. It’s a low-tech choice for such a modern setting. But evil is old. Sometimes it prefers the retro.
The framed Codex Gigas illustration is identical to the rest.
The clock above the door reads 8:58 A.M . A typeset place card marks each of our chairs. It’s five female students on one side, from back to front: Vesper, Willa, Lucy, Evelyn, and Bridget. Three male students on the other, from back to front: me, Nigel, Kieren . . . and the next student would’ve been Andrew. He hanged himself with his bedsheet from the pull-up bar.
The others trail in. They’re subdued. Bridget is teary. She and Andrew may not have bonded on their road trip, but she spent the most time with him.
“I didn’t think he was depressed,” she says. “I —”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Lucy assures her. Evelyn is quick to agree.
Nigel strolls in last. Blurry eyed. Hungover.
Kieren breaks the news about Andrew.
“Nine becomes eight.” Nigel puffs on a cigarette. “For us, it’s too late.”
I scoot my chair to the foot of the table. Whatever creature is about to appear in this room, I want to face it head-on.
At breakfast, I considered telling the students to lock themselves in their rooms, at least until Kieren and I could find a way out. But what Andrew did — or what happened to him — may be proof that we’re safer together.
“Didn’t you say Andrew was driving a hearse?” Vesper asks Bridget. “I’d call that a tip-off. Plus, his Goth look screamed —”
“Shut up,” Lucy snaps. “This isn’t about —”
“It’s nine o’clock,” Evelyn says in a soft voice.
Everyone checks the clock. Kieren knocked on my door last night to say he’d filled in the Otter on the school. So far as I know, the three of us and Lucy are the only ones in the know. No one expected a student to die within twenty-four hours.
Everyone else is clinging to whatever explanations they can muster.
“Good morning,” intones a raspy, disembodied voice. “Welcome to the Scholomance Preparatory Academy. I am Dr. Ursula Ulman.”
It’s coming from the front of the room, near the podium.
“Speakers,” Bridget whispers. “Hidden speakers.”
I have to give her credit for trying.
“You may call me Dr. Ulman. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, and I’m not inclined to stand on ceremony.” The voice is clearer now.
“I see that your tenth has yet to arrive. I myself was once a tenth scholar. Those who know what that means may make of it as you will. Those who don’t will likely find this orientation disconcerting. Please note that we do not provide health care, mental or otherwise.”
As she’s speaking, Mr. Bilovski strolls in, passes out schedules, and exits.
“No Language of Animals?” Vesper queries. “No Weapons and Technology?”
“Next semester,” the voice replies. “This one-year, year-round program is devoted to study in preparation for admission to the Scholomance in the Carpathian Mountains.”
A shadow catches my eye.
“For those of you familiar with that institution, please note that while areas of academic concentration largely overlap, this campus operates by its own set of rules.”
Willa gasps as the shadow solidifies. We can make out a buxom woman with short — no, pinned-up — hair. She’s wearing a long, dark gown.
“There is no option to withdraw. Minimum performance standards must be met, if a student is to advance in the program. My available discretion is limited.
“Anyone who compromises the sanctity of this academic community will be
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