She places a sign at the desk announcing that she’ll be back in five minutes, then she turns and heads off toward what I assume is the records room without saying another word. At the door, she hands me a candle before making her way back up the stairs. “Come find me when you need to lock up,” she says as she goes.
“Thanks,” I say absently, listening as her footsteps fade.
Shrugging off her cool indifference, I drape my coat on the back of a chair at a reading desk and set the mailing binder down before I light every candle I can find in the records room. Some are fitted in lanterns or sconces, and with all of them burning, there is enough light to comfortably read. The candlelight flickers, and the shadows dance across the floor, giving the room a sinister air that seems to press down on me from all sides. Dark shapes moveout of the corner of my eye, and the hairs on my arms rise up, even though I know it’s only a trick of the light.
Raven told me that the Rosette once served as a cathedral, and remnants of the old days still linger in this room. Here and there, instead of tiles, the floor is made of actual grave markers, large granite slabs with names and dates inscribed into the surface. Out of respect, I do my best not to tread on any headstone. Intellectuals, leaders, even some wardens have been laid to rest here, quiet and peaceful. Once, this was a tomb, I suppose. Now mahogany filing drawers stretch deep into the walls, filled up with old records. I set the candle down on a table and locate the files. It appears the old ones have been collected into leather-bound books with the dates pressed into the spines. Each book is heavy and thick. There are hundreds of pages in each of them and probably a thousand books in the section. Evander didn’t give me a list to work off of, and searching for the most exemplary names from Sibylline’s alums will take hours.
Without magic, that is…
There’s no one here to see me use my power, so I slip off my glove and flex my fingers. The cool air kisses my bare skin, and I ready myself for the rush of memories. I walk down the long rows of shelves, running my fingers lightly over the spines until I feel something intense, a kind of spike, a strong emotion that I hope will reveal something of importance lurking inside. I take the book to the table and sit down, tempering the heavy beating of my heart. I breathe deep and focus, then I place my hand on the cover.
Thousands of whispers echo in my head, overlaying each other, revealing doubts, fears, worries, hopes, dreams…
Among all of these things, there’s one particularly strong memory, and it catches ahold of me, taking control of my thoughts,dragging me down. I’m falling, and when I land, I’m not in the records room anymore. I’m in an oak-paneled rotunda. I recognize it almost immediately as the assessor’s area, the place where we applied to Sibylline. A large semicircular table occupies the center of the room, where twelve men are seated. Reflexively, I try to apologize for my sudden intrusion, but my mouth makes no sound. Everyone’s eyes are downturned, reviewing papers in front of them. No one looks up at me, as if they don’t notice me standing in front of them. I’m struck with a sudden wave of déjà vu. In some ways, this is just like the day I applied, but then I notice the details. Their suits are different, with high-collared shirts and cutaway coats, and their hairstyles are all wrong, parted in the middle and slicked down—old-fashioned even for Sibylline. Most of the men are smoking, but what really gives it away is the Model T trundling down the road. It passes beyond an open window, and that’s when I realize: I’m a ghost. A ghost in a memory from the past.
These men are in the middle of an assessment. This must be another test day, and they’re going through a list of names to be either approved or denied entry into Sibylline.
One of the men, a stout gentleman with bright red hair, speaks up. He holds a cigarette clamped between his index and middle finger, lazily waving his hand through the air as he talks. “Several confirmed reports indicate this applicant is a natural psychokinetic. He can levitate small objects across the room at will—”
“Denied,” interrupts a tall man with a monocle. He walks to the window with his hands clasped behind his back. His three-piece suit is jet-black. A red earring glimmers in his ear.
At first, I think it’s Warden Stone. But no. When he turns, it’s a different man. He’s thin and dour-looking, with slicked-back hair and dark eyes. This must be one of his predecessors.
“His arcane test was off the charts,” the man with the cigarette says. “He scored higher than any of the other applicants, Warden Kerrigan.”
The warden turns to the rest of the group and repeats, “Denied.”
The word is like a door slamming shut. The man with the cigarette makes a note on the page. Stamps it with the Sibylline seal, then signs it. With a flick of his wrist, he whisks the page away, and it evaporates into thin air, to be delivered to its recipient.
“Who else?” the warden asks.
The twelve men rattle off names, the warden shaking his head almost every single time. Until someone mentions a name I recognize.
“Alistair Dorsia. Poor grades, subpar entrance exam—”
A man with a pair of pince-nez glasses says, “But his family has provided several significant gifts to the foundation, as well as privately funding the renovation of the student dormitories.”
Another assessor, one with a mustache so large he looks like a walrus, speaks up. “He’s exhibited very little magical ability…but heisthe son of one of the founders.”
Babbling agreement circles the room.
Dorsia Hall must have been named after his family.
The warden nods. “Perhaps that’s safer,” he says. “After all that’s happened, we very well can’t have another incident, can we? Thechaosthat unfolded…We will not risk it. Never again. Approved.”
The man with the cigarette stamps and signs the parchment.
But someone speaks up, a man in a gray suit. “If we keep this up, we will run out of promising applicants. And the school will suffer.”
The warden cuts him off. “Sibylline will survive without those with unpredictable natures. Given what happened…” His gaze turns somber, then resolute. “The decision is final. I forbid you from speaking of it again.”
The man in the gray suit swallows any argument he might have, cowed into silence.
My stomach lurches when the scene fades.
The smell of cigarette smoke still lingers, but the vision is over. I’m back in the records room, and it takes me a moment to reorient myself. I remember to breathe and lift my hand from the book as the warden’s words echo in my head.
We can’t have another incident, can we?
