Page 19 of Every Shade of Shadow

We climb a winding staircase to the Headmistress’s study. Floor-to-ceiling shelves are crammed with ancient tomes and artifacts. A massive oaken desk commands the space, stacks of parchment strewn across its surface, but there’s a laptop there, modern speakers…it’s an odd mix of new and old much like the Headmistress herself.

Headmistress Lumina seats herself behind the desk, steepling her fingers. “Mmm,” she mumbles, rolling it around in her mouth, “you are raw, but I see it now.”

I’m so lost here. “See…what?”

Her eyes sharpen, a hawk sighting its prey. “But power alone is not enough. It will consume you whole if you don’t master it. You don’t practice, do you?”

Practice—such a complicated concept.

I shake my head, struck silent by her pronouncement. She has laid bare my deepest fears in a matter of seconds, clawing her way right inside my head.

“A clean slate then,” she smiles, but it’s as dead as the poor creature splayed across her wall.

She slides open a drawer, retrieving what I imagine to be a class schedule—laminated, funnily enough. “Here is your timetable. Classes begin at once, so I suggest you familiarize yourself with the layout of the castle. You may have noticed we are in a spire of sorts, the lower floors mostly related to elemental magic and moving up from there to the,” she pauses, “more complex. Shadowcraft, for example.”

And shit. There is it. She’s just blurted in on out like calling for more coffee.

I swallow hard. “Shadowcraft? I thought it was illegal.”

Another feigned smile. “We tend not to dwell in such concrete laws here at the Academy. Illegal to practice yes, but not to teach.” She shakes her head. “After all, one must know all facets of magic, wouldn’t you say? Dark, light, every shade between?”

I flash her a puzzled look, wondering how to phrase my next sentence.

A piercing scream rings out, the headmistress rising in a flurry of robes, timetable drifting to the floor. I stoop to pick it up.

Her lips tighten into a grim line. “To class, please, Ms. Fairchild.” She opens her hand in front of me where a worn key has materialized. “For your quarters. Your luggage, singular, has already been brought up, and I apologize again for the—” she reaches up to her neck in a stabbing motion “—you know, but it’s imperative we have our privacy here.”

Here—I swallow down the obvious question and take the key, pocketing it into my jeans and having not a single clue how to find where the fuck I’m supposed to be.

“How do I know where to go?” I ask the Headmistress.

She pauses beside me, nose lifted. “I’m sure you’re quite capable, Ms. Fairchild.” She extends her hand to the door, which I assume means we’re done.

I almost curtsy (again, why?), but manage to correct and kind of half-stagger-slash-waddle my way out.

The doors to the Headmistress’s office close of their own accord, and just like that, bing, bong, I’m alone.

Get it together, I tell myself. You’re here, aren’t you?

I study the timetable, run my finger down until a line glows.

‘History, The Black Arts — Professor Damien Darkwood’

Of course it would be him.

I head into a corridor, a few students milling about. Apart from the fashion sense, which seems to be some kind of vintage-cum-gothic Candyman crossover, everyone looks like a regular college student.

“Excuse me,” I ask the closest person I can find, a mousy girl with seafoam green highlights. “Do you know where this class is?”

She squints at the timetable. “Darkwood, hey? Sucks to be you. Third floor, that way, up the staircase, second door on the right. Has a wolf on the door, can’t miss it, but you better hurry up, you’re like, seriously late.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, stumbling my way down the hall sweaty and groggy from the flight (drugging), still unsure if this is a dream or what. I’m struggling to keep up.

But up the stairs, to the right I come to the second door and there it is, a pressed insignia of a wolf not unlike the mask he was wearing at the ball.

I take a deep breath and fold the timetable, pocketing it in the back of my jeans before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The scarred man at the front of the class turns, and my breath catches—raven hair, a slash of scarlet across his lips.

---