Page 23 of SIN Bone Deep

“Aww,” I giggled. “Thanks Aunt Callista.”

She had deliberately lightened the conversation I thought, to take the edge off my nerves as we drew closer to our destination. It was obvious where Pinegrove’s ownership of the land began for there was a stacked stone wall that shadowed the passage of the road on that side, preventing us from seeing within. Overhead, ravens circled, unable to perch upon the wall as someone cruel had capped the stone and set glittering spikes of metal to prevent both the birds from roosting and anyone from climbing in… or out.

The heavy and elaborate wrought iron gates stood open, and Callista slowed the Corniche to join the queue of cars working their way down the driveway toward the car park. The gardens that we passed through were impressive, laid out in formal hedges and garden beds, walkways, and glades of grass shaded by tall trees. Scattered amongst the greenery and flowers were garden ornaments, chubby cupids, and bare-breasted ladies pouring water from urns that did nothing to nourish the plants below.

Where the gardens around Vossen House had been cultivated both for use in and to hide our craft, these gardens had been crafted to intimidate and impress, and they did a good job of doing so.

The driveway curved and suddenly the roofline and part of Bishop House became visible. The original building had been impressive. In Charity’s time, it would have been a rectangular frontage with the house spreading out behind, and I could see the original house within the additions that had been built to either side breaking the original symmetry of the design. The floorplan now would be a maze of corridors and staircases and probably echoed with the restless spirits of centuries of occupants.

The dead did not scare me. It was the living that did that, I thought wryly.

The extension to the left of the main house had been crafted of local grey sandstone in sympathy with the original structure, and its frontage was as ornately detailed, each window elaborately framed. From the regularity of the windows, I was certain that it contained the dormitory that was spoken of in the brochure. Most of the students of Pinegrove Academy roomed at the school, with only the local students, like me, coming and going.

“Have you ever been here before?” I asked Callista quietly for there was something about her silence that told me that a dark mood had overcome her.

“Several times,” she adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, and then turned her head and smiled with false brightness. “Never for such a happy occasion as this.”

Callista turned off towards the left, avoiding the main courtyard where most of the traffic seemed to be converging, offloading students and their cases near the door to the dormitory. As she seemed to always do, Callista found the ideal parking place and pulled the Corniche in easily, turning off the engine.

“Well,” she adjusted the rearview mirror and touched up her lipstick. “Here we are then.”

“Yes,” I blew out my breath before claiming the mirror and performing my own last-minute checks on my hair and makeup.

Callista waited, her hand on the door handle until I was done, and then elegantly slid her legs out of the car, rising with the poise of a queen. She posed by the car, apparently unaware that she had somehow drawn every eye in the area to her. I felt like a drab shadow as I rounded the car to her side.

I was not surprised that as we approached the front doors of the Academy Dean Harvey Ashbourne excused him from greeting another couple and their daughter and crossed to greet us. He was dressed in a dark navy suit that turned his storm-cloud grey eyes blue, and his hair was immaculately styled, his cheeks so clean-shaven that barely a shadow was hinted beneath the skin.

“Callista,” he said warmly extending his hand to my aunt who offered her fingertips in return, a gesture that was just polite. He clasped it between his hands as he had done mine, his eyes lighting with enjoyment. “Or do you prefer Ms Vossen?”

“Miss,” Callista correct extricating her hand. “I have never married.”

“Ah. Such a misfortune for mankind,” he said and then turned to me. “Elenyx, you look lovely. Let me welcome you to Pinegrove Academy,” he reached out for my hand. The breeze carried a body-warm aftershave scent that was rich with spice and intoxicating and his palm was warm against my own, his grip firm. He held my gaze as he held my hand, an intense and intimate connection, before releasing me abruptly. “Let me show you Pinegrove Academy,” he said gesturing towards the front entrance.

There were many students in the Pinegrove Academy uniform gathering around the arrivals and their parents, and amongst them, my eyes caught on the bright hair of the red-haired man from the cemetery. He grinned at me, bright with charm and cheek, his eyes lighting, and I blushed and tried to keep from glancing back over my shoulder as Dean Ashbourne guided us past them, and into the cool of the grand foyer.

“Most of our students take their tour of the Academy during the application interview,” Dean Ashbourne paused allowing us to take in the entrance foyer. It had been designed to impress upon those who entered the importance of the owner and his closeness to God, with the woodwork carved into judgemental angels and the friezes depicting scenes from the Bible, as if offering windows into Heaven.

A small room with an arched entry was lined with leatherbound books and set with chairs – what had been a library or study was repurposed into a waiting room. The room to the other side had been refurnished into a reception and the woman behind the desk looked up attentively upon hearing Dean Ashbourne’s voice.

“This is the reception area,” he gestured to the woman. “Susan or Anne look after the reception desk from nine am until six. They are here to assist with any inquiries. Most of the rooms on this ground floor are for the administration of the school, as well as offices for the teachers. Up the stairs are the teacher’s accommodations.” He walked between the double staircase where another arch led to a dimly lit hallway, and my aunt’s heels clipped crisply across the marble tiles as we followed.

The doors to either side held name plaques of the teachers and their positions at the school. At the end of the hallway, he paused. “To the left is the entry to the dormitories,” he gestured to a doorway. “To the right the classroom wing.”

He turned right, holding the door open for us. “Each extension has been made in sympathy with the original structure,” he continued as he closed the door behind me, falling in step, his hand resting on my lower back in a gesture of old-fashioned courtesy as we started down the hall. “And with a great deal of loving care, furnished with antique artwork and furniture to create a truly unique learning environment that blends and values both the past and the modern technology of the time.”

“For example,” he stepped away from me to open a classroom door. Within the room, the wainscoted walls had been painted black. One wall supported a truly massive screen, and the antique-style desks had been fitted with power points and USB ports. With large Georgian-style windows along one wall, complete with the original shutters showing in the deep window frames behind the caught back curtains, spilling light over the desks, it was a beautiful classroom.

“It’s lovely,” I was a little intimidated by the room.

“The Academy prides itself on providing its students with a world-class education preparing them to take on leadership roles in their chosen fields,” Dean Ashbourne replied with a warm smile. “Your submission paper on the voice of women in literature was very well argued and thought out. I think that you will find that Pinegrove Academy will offer you the opportunity to explore interdisciplinary study into anthropology, sociology, and psychology which will help you to develop your interests.”

He closed the door and gestured for Aunt Callista to proceed us down the hallway. As I turned to follow, a movement behind me caught my eye, and I glanced back to see the red-haired man scrutinizing a painting on the wall with a frown.

The Dean and Aunt Callista had continued down the hall, talking between them.

I stepped over to the man. “Are you following me?”

He slid me a look out of the corner of his eye and smiled as he looked away again and back up at the painting. “Rather a grim-faced man, don’t you think?” He lifted his chin at the painting. “Bishop Hargreaves?”

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