Darkness pooled beyond the curve. Sylvie stepped in first.
Only a shadow of the tunnel running under the school’s belly was visible. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust from sun to darkness.
Flickering sugar lanterns were once again floating in the air, casting shadows as they flitted through the crepuscule like a school of crystal jellyfish. Sylvie followed Flora down a flight of pale stone steps. It was considerably cooler in the cellars, and smelled of grape must and vinegar.
Sylvie pulled her jacket tightly around her.
“Brindille has four storage cellars,” said Flora as they walked. “Rooms are kept at forty-five degrees with humidity below ten percent. It helps prevent ingredient spoilage and fungal growth.”
“F-f-fascinating,” said Georgia, through chattering teeth.
Sylvie got the feeling she was probably regretting her choice of wardrobe.Wooly hat. Gloves. That’s what we should be wearing.
“Students and staff will be divided evenly among the storage cellars,” continued Flora. “That way, there isn’t too much body heat building up and disturbing the natural flora.”
Damp earth and sour musk.It hardly seemed like a killer combination worth preserving. But Sylvie decided to keep her opinion to herself.
Several minutes and one enthusiastic lecture later, they were standing in front of four large wooden doors.
Sylvie eyed the golden plaque to her left.
STORAGECELLAR1
“My group is in cellar three,” said Flora. “But you’ll be parading with the first-year students. They’re assigned to cellar one.”
“P-perfect. Whatever gets me into a group with body h-heat fastest,” said a shivering Georgia.
Flora gave the brass handle a tug. Light poured out as the door swung open.
Sylvie ogled the room.
It reminded her of an apothecary or fancy library. A checkout desk was situated near the entrance. A ledger, brass scales, small sachets, and glass vials were stacked on top.
“Look at this place!” Georgia spun around.
The round room stretched up two stories, with sturdy shelves built into the walls. On each sat an assortment of glass jars filled with glowing flowers, bright powders, and wooly bits of dried herbs. Signs with names hung around the jars like pendant necklaces.
“I’ve seen this place in books,” said Sylvie. “But it’s even cooler in person.”
Flora smiled. “Brindille houses thousands of ingredients here: Sneezewort, gallus plumes, ground skunk cabbage.”
“My grandma has a storage cellar,” said Georgia. “But it’s mostly full of mouse traps and jars of overcooked peaches.”
Sylvie side-eyed her. “I can understand the mouse traps … but overcooked peaches? That’s inexcusable.”
“I know,” said Georgia. “Unfortunately, mutilating food is what most of my family does best.”
Sylvie’s gaze drifted casually across the shelves as she searched for the woad.
“First-year students this way,” said a voice behind her.
Sylvie turned.
Maggie was standing in the entrance, ushering in a large group of wide-eyed kids. She smiled and waved. “Hey guys! You’ll be parading with my group.Exciting!”
Sylvie nodded. “How did the SIFT sign-up go yesterday?”
“Great,” said Maggie. “We now have seventy-five members… . Godard said we could set up another booth tonight. So, we’ll hopefully pick up a few more.”
