“Rise, sir,” said Ceri. “Are you the dean of students?”
“Dean Whittaker, at your service,” he said.
Dean Whittaker was a half-elf of roughly middle age. His hair had gone grey, and his belly had gone round, but his nose and jaw were still fine and sharp. Winwold College had had just one other dean in its four-hundred-year history, Dean Whittaker’s mother, a full-blooded elf who had run the college for most of that time.
“May I show you to the royal suite? I’d be happy to take you on a tour of the grounds once you’re settled in.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Ceri.
“The tour?”
“No, the suite.” Although she’d agreed to arrive a day earlier than any of the other students, she had not agreed to the royal suite. “While at Winwold, I’d like to be treated just as any other student. You understand, don’t you?”
Godsdammit. There was that manipulation again. It wasn’t enough just to make her wishes known. Ceri had added that little innocent question at the end:you understand, don’t you?Those were the words she used, but she knew what the question conveyed:you know who I am, don’t you? Will you dare to defy me?
“Of course, of course. Ms. Asher, see to it that Ceri’s things are brought to a room. Yes, one of the ordinary rooms.”
“Right away, sir,” said a human who stood in the doorway. She hurried up the road to the main building as if she were being chased.
“If you wouldn’t mind, we can start with the tour to give Ms. Asher time to make the new arrangements,” said Dean Whittaker.
Ceri nodded, and the Dean gave instructions to the carriage driver, who dropped them off at a pair of grand double doors that marked the entrance into High House.
The Dean led Ceri through a series of rooms that were both familiar and peculiar to her. The great entry hall was lined with statues, busts, suits of armor, and so many paintings and tapestries that it gave the room a claustrophobic feel, as if the amount of space required far less than whoever had decorated it could allow. There was more variety here than in her father’s castle and various estates, but the contents were largely the same.
The scale of the accommodations was familiar as well, though the later construction meant there were more hallways than were present in the royal castle and palaces. The style had once been to connect rooms directly, but here at High House, there were long wood-paneled corridors, the weak ‘lectric lanterns too few to illuminate the entire lengths such that they appeared to fade into shadows, giving the illusion that they went on forever.
There was something eerie about this place, but Ceri couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“And around this corner is the library. If I recall from your letter, you’re considering a course of study in Comparative Literature?"
This was a surprise to Ceri, who hadn’t exactly written the letter requesting her admittance far outside of the ordinary admissions window. Truthfully, she didn’t know what she wanted to study.
“It’s one option I’ve considered,” she said. “I understand that Winwold doesn’t require choosing a concentration until the second year of study? I'm hoping to keep my options open.”
“Very wise, your highness,” said Dean Whittaker. “Of course, Professor Sandak runs an excellent program in the Literature department, but there are no bad courses of study here. Now, let’s see if Ms. Redclaw is here—”
From beyond the closed library doors, there came a terrible crash.
And then a scream.
All the color drained from Dean Whittaker’s face.
“Oh,” he squeaked. He coughed and cleared his throat. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but I better go see if Ms. Redclaw needs—”
Dean Whittaker reached for the door just as it swung open with such force that it clattered against the wall, shaking some of the hallway paintings.
“How many times have I told you?” yelled a woman’s voice from within.
“But Ms. Redclaw—” began a man. Ceri tried to look inside the door, but Dean Whittaker blocked her view.
“Excuse me, Ms. Redclaw, are you quite all—"
“There’s been an incident,” said the woman, who must have been Ms. Redclaw, to the Dean. “The library is closed.”
“Ms. Redclaw—”
“Closed.”
