“That sounds confusing.”
She shakes her head. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s just easier not to believe. If it can’t be explained, people just write it off entirely. Like maybe…they’re not looking for the right stuff. Or in the right places.”
“Are you trying to tell me Avernia is actually haunted?”
I’ve heard the rumors about supernatural sightings over the years, but I didn’t think my sister would subscribe to them. She’s always been so methodical and poised that it’s hard to imagine her believing in things she can’t see or explain.
“I’m saying it doesn’t take belief to be true.” She stares at the wood of the desk between us. “And what haunts doesn’t go away just because you do.”
Her phone buzzes, and she draws it from her bag, looking at the screen for a long moment. I wonder whose name flashes there.
When she lifts her gaze to mine as if expecting privacy, I push to my feet, then leave her alone in the office. The dimly lit halls in the admin building seem unnaturally narrow as I make my way to the stairs.
Pipes groan behind the alabaster walls, sending an eerie wave vibrating along the rafters. The steps feel endless beneath my descent, like they could go on forever just to keep me here.
I don’tthinkI believe in ghosts, but if there was ever a home to them? This would be it.
A shiver ripples across my skin, and I grip my biceps, glancing over my shoulder as a door slams shut. The sound echoes through the stairwell, blanketing me in stillness.
Coming here was probably a mistake. Even if I didn’t have the knowledge that we’re being monitored, it’s as if the walls themselves have eyes that follow me everywhere I go.
By the time I reach the exit, I feel like they’re pressing in and strangling my lungs. Bracing my hands on the metal push bar, I shove out the front door, gasping for breath.
I double over, clutching my knees as something akin to panic pulses in my body, lighting me on fire. Hand to my chest, I struggle to regulate my breathing, and a shadow moves across the quad.
A tall figure makes its way out of the Lyceum, the massive castle-like building near the school’s gated entrance. He walks with his shoulders squared and a briefcase held tight in one hand. His steps are purposeful, the courtyard statues bordering his path like a parade of marble.
Curiosity keeps me afloat; there’s somethingfamiliarabout the man, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. His dark hair blows gently in the breeze, and his eyes are completely indiscernible from my vantage point.
Distantly, a clock chimes, reverberating off the trees and bushes flanking the stone paths. I swallow, standing still, waiting to see if the figure turns my way.
When I blink again, he vanishes.
Like he wasn’t ever there in the first place.
8
SUTTON
“Salvete! Welcome to Acting for Beginners.”
I walk onstage during my greeting as the auditorium murmurs its reply. Better than expected for an early-morning course on the first day back.
My fingers curl around the apricot I swiped from my apartment—a daily staple of mine for eight years now. Ever since the migraines first began.
The beginning of the semester is always my favorite, because everyone is still full of hope. No matter what’s going on elsewhere, within these four acoustic-friendly walls, they have a clean slate.
Sometimes, that’s all you need to really turn things around.
A student in the back of the large auditorium groans. “Professor Dupont, did wereallyhave to learn all those Latin phrases you sent over winter break?”
“Vere. The title of the organization I runistechnically Latin, you know, although a terribly imperfect translation. Does anyone know what the correct phrasing should be?”
“Visio Aeterna,” my former TA, Sabrina Taylor, answers, swinging her blond ponytail from left to right. She sits deadcenter of the front row, leaning forward as if to physically capture my attention. “Vision of the Eternal. Because the students who join work at bettering the community for the future.”
“Correct. And though our founders inaccurately named the organization, I think it’s important we learn about the words that are etched into our school’s existence. We want to respect the cultures that influence us, not exploit them, right?”
“But it’s a dead language,” someone else calls out.
