Page 7 of A Fate Everlasting

She had a tight and rigid walk, the sort of walk that proclaimed proudly that she had never been relaxed in her entire life. Verrine explained that the students were all in thechapel, as it was Sunday, and they would soon finish. The sound of choral singing was distant and eerie.

A board loomed over in the hallway, its gold-etched names glittering in the dim light. Some were crossed out, others were simply gone, hollow spaces where letters had been scraped away. I slowed. A group of students lingered near it, their gazes flicking anxiously between the placements.

“Did you see Lilibeth’s score?” one whispered. “She’s not going to make it. Her father will be furious.”

“Shh, Rosaline. She still has time. The Rift isn’t until…” another started.

“Notenoughtime,” the first girl hissed.

Their conversation cut off as they noticed me staring. They turned their backs and dropped their voices. I turned my head back to the board, my pulse a dull, insistent tapping at my throat. A name near the bottom flickered. It hadn’t been there before.

My name.

“We have a few rules,” Verrine said, her voice clipped as her heels tapped across the stone. “First: no fraternizing socially with the year above, the Upper Sixth.”

No socializing with the year above?I kept my face blank. I didn’t dare to ask why such a ridiculous rule existed. There were already too many things I didn’t understand

“You’ll attend classes with the Upper Sixth, of course, but keep your distance,” Verrine continued. “Second: the Hall of Artifacts on the third floor is off-limits. It is locked, and it will remain that way. Finally, nothing that happens at this college is to be shared beyond its gates. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” I said, the word catching in my throat.No.I started to ask another question, about a million of them prodding into my mind. She didn’t acknowledge it, only quickening her pace.

We approached the turret staircase in silence, the whitestone steps spiraling higher, steep and suffocating. The air was thick with the scent of decay, or maybe potpourri. My fingers brushed the railing, slick with condensation.

“You should know that Evermore’s curriculum is a little different than you’re used to.” Verrine climbed easily, keeping her tone carefully neutral. “We don’t do tests. Assignments aren’t graded like you think. Here, every action, no matter how small, counts toward one final assessment, The Rift, that determines if you progress into the Upper Sixth.”

She turned, and for a breath, I was ten again. Onstage, blinking beneath harsh lights, frozen as I searched the crowd for my parents and found only empty chairs.

“Your words,” she went on. “Your allegiances. What you do when no one is watching. All of it is counted, starting the moment you stepped onto Evermore’s grounds.”

“Counted by what?” I asked, quieter now.

“By something we call the Crucible.”

“Is that how we’re graded?” I tried to keep my voice steady. “It’s a marking system?”

“In a sense, but the Crucible doesn’t mark intellect. It doesn’t measure how well you read or solve equations. It simply measures…you.” She kept her head forward, her heels clacking over stone as we climbed.

Me. It measures me.I had no idea what that meant, only that somewhere, somehow, something at this school was watching.

“What are we measured against?” I was short of breath now, from the stairs or the ridiculous prospect of this school I didn’t know.

“The other students, of course.”

Light fractured through a stained-glass window ahead, casting colored shards across the stairwell. Itook the last few steps slowly, my legs aching. My lungs were tight from breathing in the dust motes.

Verrine seemed undeterred, her knuckles rapping against the arched door frame. When no one answered, she entered. My sad, single suitcase was waiting for me.

“I’ll give you a moment to settle in, Arabella. Your uniform is on the bed. Welcome to House Seraphim, one of the five houses. It tends to choose those others unfairly overlook. Let’s hope it’s right about you.”

“It’s a generous room,” I said with obvious relief, admiring the massive stained-glass window and clerestory ceiling depicting a series of angelic frescoes. “Three beds seems excessive.” I gestured at the twin beds on either side of mine.

“You’re sharing.” Verrine’s lip curled in a way that told me she’d cast several assumptions about me already, chiefly that I was spoiled. She could not have been more wrong. My mother had been materially generous, but I never took it for granted.

Verrine rummaged in the pockets of her Victorian dress and brandished a timetable stamped on a card. I read through it, the space between my brows growing smaller.

“These lessons are nearly all religious,” I said, my throat thickening. “I’m not planning a traditional career, but there’s zero chance I’m majoring in Theology. I’m not even Christian.”

“Headmistress Cavendish,” she replied sternly. “And this school does not have majors, nor does it adhere to one particular religion. This college is for those who are gifted. One vision, one curriculum.”

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