A bird squawked, urging me to look skyward, and there was a flock of black crows circling, perhaps a dead animal on the ground. Crows and sparrows were also perched on stone fauns jutting out of the walls that looked down upon us as we walked into the grand entrance of the castle.
I was on edge and kept searching for White T-Shirt, who seemed threatening as if he was going to watch me closely because I was a Boleyn. So, who was he, then? What was his family? Who cares?
My mind immediately changed course when I stepped into the shadowy main entrance, which was like being inside the belly of an enormous beast with wooden ribs arched across the ceiling and the scent of polished wood, framed photographs of students and teachers, and along the stone walls, and more statues and carvings of mythical creatures.
Following behind everyone else, I was led into a hall where several administrators stepped up behind desks to give advice and assign halls and dorms. I took my sunglasses off, so I didn’t seem rude, and kept scanning the crowd for White T-Shirt. Until I discovered his name, I’d refer to him as Bulky White T.
Phones began beeping in the hall as students felt relieved to finally have phone reception. I checked my phone and saw thatthe dithering message had been sent to my father, and I hoped only he would read it. I had every reason to distrust my wicked stepmother, and it made me anxious thinking about what I would return home to.
She had access to everything from the business bank accounts to the human resources department to marketing. I scratched my head, wondering why my father would be so reckless, as it was so unlike him, because he wasn’t like that with my mother. Maybe the wicked stepmother was an extremely good actress.
It was finally my turn to step up to the desk, and I told the woman behind the desk my name. She tapped away on the computer, wrote down my dorm room name and number, and the name of the dorm president, who would give me my room key and a map to find my room.
I left, dragging my luggage behind me through the crowd, then looked at my map to find my dorm, called Morgana Hall, on the south side of campus overlooking a park. There was a bus every fifteen minutes, so I pushed my way back through the crowd and managed to find the bus stop by a road I hadn’t noticed earlier. But did this road also lead out of here?
I sat on the bench beside a girl with a black cello case leaning against the seat, nearly the same size as hers. I kept my head low, but my eyes constantly scanned everyone around me behind my sunglasses. A chill ran over me as clouds drifting off the mountain blocked out the sun, and the cello girl spoke.
I didn’t catch what she said, and because she was looking down, I assumed she was talking to herself. Cello then cleared her throat and spoke louder, “Morgana or Atwood?”
“Oh,” I startled and turned to her. “Morgana.”
A wispy chuckle exuded from her, “Same as me,” she seemed relieved. I’m unsure why, as I hadn’t indicated in any way that I was someone who would make a good friend, but she mightknow this cesspit and the students who wade knee deep in it better than I.
“Are you a sophomore?” I asked her, wondering if she was the same age as me, because she looked a lot younger.
“Yeah,” she shrugged stiffly, nervously fiddled with her cello case. “I went to a music academy last year and transferred here.”
“By choice?” Parroting Bulky White T’s question to me, after all, it was a relevant question.
She chuckled nervously again, “No one comes here by choice.”
“No?” I asked, hoping she’d expand on that.
“My sister is in her senior year. She’s popular,” she spoke softly with a hint of envy in her tone. “She wanted to go to a Californian college, but…” she chuckled nervously again, “but dad wouldn’t let her.”
On the other side of the road, partially hidden in the leaves of evergreen trees, I spotted a stone statue of a snarling werewolf, and then I glanced back at the castle with the overhanging fauns. “What is this place?” I asserted as the bus pulled up to a stop and we rose to our feet to board.
She didn’t answer my question and found seats at the front of the bus for both her and the cello, whereas I sat two seats behind her. As the bus drove through the campus, I was both awed and worried at how beautiful everything was, from the gothic architecture of the outbuildings to the rambling gardens. But it also left me with a sense of aloneness, being so far away from home and knowing not a single soul.
At least the cello girl was in Morgana Hall with me, as she seemed harmless, with her fingers combed through her shoulder-length, brown hair. I put my sunglasses on and shrank down into my seat as the bus weaved through the trees, then came out the other side to a residential village. The bus pulled up to a stop, and Cello stood and smiled at me as if to say this was our stop.
Blindly, I followed her, and once out onto the footpath, she held out her hand, “My name is Mila Wolsey.”
I shook her hand, suppressing a flinch from the iciness of her skin. “Adina…Boleyn.”
Her head snapped back at me in surprise, “Boleyn? The Boleyn? Direct line from Anne Boleyn, King Henry the Eighth’s third wife?”
“Um, yeah, she was King Henry’s second wife, and we’re distantly related. Like, very distantly related. And don’t forget what happened to her in the end,” is my usual response whenever anyone links my surname to the famous beheaded queen. “So, your surname is Wolsey?” I asked, eager to shift the focus back to her. “The Wolsey? The art collector.”
She sighed as we walked along the footpath, checking her map to ensure we were heading in the correct direction. “Yeah. We’re in the oil business, but an art collector sounds better. Not that I have much to do with that side of the family. But you, as a Boleyn, isn’t your father, Maxwell?”
“Gosh, you’re clued up?” I found myself slightly unnerved that two people, in just a few hours, knew who my father was.
“It’s kinda part of the reason why we’re here,” she sounded exhausted and paused at the steps of a four-story house with a peaked roof. Attached to the roof was a smaller version of the faun from the castle, looking down at us.
“Because we’re rich?” I replied bluntly.
“Yes, and in some cases, the families are not exactly…er, above board with how they make their wealth,” she was vague, but I knew what she meant. The kids of drug warlords and cartels still needed an education like everyone else.
