The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1)

by Leanne Pearson

  I nod slowly as Tia's words sink in. If this is indeed real, then I've been given another shot at life. One that's not tainted by drugs and past mistakes. One in which I'm not Eve Ryder: disappointment, failure and ex-addict. One where no-one knows me and my sordid past, where I can be more than just a statistic.

  Tia and I tackle the stairwell, taking two steps at a time. Her movements are deft and smooth, like a ballet dancer; light on her feet, with nimble fingers and toes.

  'Sir Alec seems to like you.' I note, my voice echoing on the stone walls.

  'He pretends to be as cold as stone, but on the inside, he's a puppy.' She grins, and although I've immediately taken a liking to Tia, I can't help but think her perception of Sir Alec is wrong.

  We exit the stairwell on the fifth floor, entering a brightly lit, peach-coloured corridor. There are rows of doors along both walls, each with numbers and brass plaques bolted beside them.

  'You'll love our room. It's absolutely stunning, the best one I've had!' Tia squeals excitedly, bouncing along the corridor at frantic speed. 'I hope you don't mind but I've already chosen my bed, if you really want my one then I'll be happy to swap with you.' She beams, stopping abruptly at a dark wood door displaying a hanging number seven. The brass plaque bears black, copperplate writing in bold letters.

  Tia Carey and Eve Ryder.

  I wonder how long I've been being watched for. Long enough for strangers to learn my name, to know that I'm estranged from my family and have no friends. How long had the mysterious they been planning to take me? When had that brass plaque gone up outside this door?

  Tia swings it open to reveal the most magnificent room I've ever seen; bigger than my parents' entire second floor, housing more furniture than I've seen in over six months. The walls are a creamy white and covered in elegant black flower stencilling. Two four poster beds stand grandly opposite one another, one beside the window, the other to the right of the door, black silk drapes hanging delicately between the posts, with black and silver bed spreads and a dozen scatter cushions.

  Small details I haven't thought of in what feels like forever – such as bedside cabinets and lamps, desks and bookcases – leap out at me, overwhelming me.

  'The wardrobe was a waste.' Is all I manage to say, and Tia smiles pityingly, patting my shoulder.

  'Open it.' She nods to the tall beech closet as she perches on the edge of her bed. I step towards it hesitantly, aware that my dirty trainers are spoiling the cream carpet.

  Inside the wardrobe are dozens of garments, separated neatly into categories; some hung on the rail, some folded into the storage shelves above. Elegant dresses of satin and silk, expensive dark suit jackets and crisp cotton shirts, warm jumpers, cool t-shirts and shiny leather coats – more clothes than I've ever owned in my life. The closet floor is lined with pairs of shoes; sandals, stilettos, baseball shoes, high tops – even flip flops of all different colours.

  'Diana is a wonder,' Tia sighs softly as I marvel at the fashion display. 'I don't know how the Creators do it.'

  I smile at the hazy memory of Diana with her soft skin and candy floss scent. It's like remembering a fond, distant relative and I picture her in my mind choosing these clothes for me, stocking the wardrobe for my arrival. As surreal as this entire situation is, I can't help but feel a warmth for Diana – the first person since my parents to demonstrate an act of kindness towards me.

  I reluctantly close the wardrobe, leaving the clothes untouched – scared of ruining them with my grubby hands.

  'You want to take a shower?' Tia reads my mind as she gestures to the wooden door on the opposite wall.

  The en-suite is equally beautiful. Facing me; two gleaming showers stand next to one another and opposite; a deep marble tub with gold taps and clawed feet. A mirror runs the entire length of the far wall, above the marble worktops scattered with every bath accessory I can imagine.

  'I feel too dirty to go in there.' I state bluntly. To my surprise, Tia bursts into a high-pitched fit of giggles, leaping from her bed and pushing me gently over the threshold.

  'Towels are on the wall, if you need anything give me a shout – I'll be right here.' She smiles sweetly, closing the door behind her.

  I stand alone in the luxurious bathroom, gazing silently at the expensive furnishings, trying to take everything in. It's all too real to be a dream. As my fingertips touch the bathtub – its cool, smooth surface, the cold metal taps – I know that no imagination, regardless of creativity, could ever conjure this from its subconscious. Yet if it's not a dream, what can it be? Things like this don't happen to people like me; young, homeless girls aren't simply plucked from the streets and thrown into five star castles. It's too much like the script to a bad movie, too much like the plot to A Little Princess.

  I am not a princess; I'm a common, ex-addict from dingy East London and I am out of place in this bathroom. But the most worrying thought is that all of them – the Institute, Tia, Diana, Sir Alec – are real.

  Tiptoeing to the shower, I lean my forehead against the cool glass door, breathing steadily onto the surface – it doesn't steam. I resolve that, for the time being, it would be best if I simply ignored this strange new body of mine – it's far too mind-blowing to contemplate in the midst of a shower.

  I strip off my filthy clothes, peeling my jeans from my thighs and leaving black, sticky marks on the newly pristine skin. Stepping into the cubicle, I leave dirt trails everywhere – on the plastic coated floor, the metal handle of the door – and I avert my eyes as I twist the knob, letting warm water pour from the shower head.

  It's been so long since I took a shower – or even had a wash – that the experience brings back fond but painful memories of a childhood in my parents' house.

  I push them out of my mind – as I've done so often over the past couple of years – and try not to watch the ink black water run down the drain. Months of built-up filth swirling down the plug hole is an embarrassing sight even to myself.

  I scrub my skin mercilessly with a pale cream loofah, using a sweet smelling gel which lathers to bubbles. I take a sharp file and coax the dirt from underneath my fingernails, coat my hair in shampoo and wash it three times over.

  Once I'm satisfied that every inch of grime has been removed, I step out of the shower and onto a warm, fluffy rug. I snatch a large white towel from the wall and wrap it around myself, snuggling into its softness, breathing in its gentle, talcum powder scent. I feel fresh and rejuvenated, cleansed of my demons – washed off with the dirt and rinsed down the drain.

  I step to the mirror – take a sharp breath upon seeing my reflection – and wonder if I'll ever adjust to my new appearance. My hair now clean and hanging damp across my shoulders, my skin cleansed of dirt and harmful toxins; I radiate with a beauty I've never possessed before.

  A long white dressing gown hangs on the back of the bathroom door and once I'm satisfied that everything besides my hair is dry, I shrug it on – losing myself in the folds of the luxurious fabric.

  'Thought you'd fallen down the drain.' Tia lies on her stomach across her bed, her head bent in concentration. I cross to my bed – fingering the soft material of the drapes – to see that she's painting her nails aubergine.

  The bay window next to my bed has a wide ledge for sitting on and I cross to it, settling down on the plump cushions to gaze at the view below. It's late at night, the sky is almost black, but the pale moon and solar lamps dotted around the courtyard help to illuminate it. A gravel pathway leads through a luscious green meadow, coming to an end at the patio before the Institute's main doors. A willow tree hangs morosely over a narrow stream, just beside the quaint bow bridge which leads to a field on the other side.

  'Tia? Can I still smoke?' I ask suddenly. Tia raises her eyebrows, pausing a beat.

  'You can, some of the other students do. Quite frankly it's pretty pointless; the nicotine doesn't satisfy your body and you no longer experience cravings.'

  No cravings means no urge to ever do h
eroin again. And even if I did, the drug wouldn't affect me – like Sir Alec said.

  If I could just wrap my brain around the possibility of this world being real, this could be the best thing that's happened to me in a long time.

  'What happens if I need something? New clothes or cigarettes?' I ask, realising that not being able to leave the Institute could pose some serious issues.

  'Just let Diana know, she'll get you whatever you want.' Tia smiles, closing the lid on her nail varnish.

  There are a thousand questions I have for Tia – about the Institute, about my supposed new life – but it's all so absurd – so absolutely impossible – that I can't bring myself to ask them. To ask would be to accept that this is my life now, and I can't seem to shake the feeling that this is a TV show or some kind of prank.

  Perhaps this is a mental institution, perhaps I overdosed and it made me go crazy. Perhaps I'm dealing with it by creating a false reality where my shrink is a headmaster and my nurse is my vampire best friend.

  A light knock on the door startles me from my thoughts and I look to Tia in panic. She smiles at me, cool and calm as she slides from her bed and crosses the room.

  'Good evening, ladies,' A familiar voice sounds and I feel my body relax, soothed by its Creator's soft tones. Diana emerges, beautiful and elegant, focussing her gaze on me.

  'I hope I'm not intruding.' She says hesitantly, her blue eyes wavering.

  'Of course not, Diana, you look lovely tonight.' Tia smiles. Diana pats her shoulder fondly but doesn't take her gaze from me.

  'Hello again, Eve,' She steps towards me slightly, her expression worried. 'I hope you're settling in well?' There's a distinct air of hesitation in her voice – like a mother about to ask her teenage son to clean his room.

  'Surprisingly well, thank you.' I nod, realising it's the truth. I'm yet to throw myself around the floor in a fit of hysteria, yet to go mad with the realisation that the world isn't the way I thought it was.

  'I'm glad,' She smiles, relief flooding her face. 'I'm not sure if Sir Alec informed you about the meeting tomorrow morning?' She asks. I shake my head. 'Ah, well it's nothing to be nervous about, all the new students will be attending. It's just a brief meeting to introduce you to your head of year and set you on your way.'

  'Can Tia come?' I blurt before thinking, stifling a laugh as Tia beams delightedly over Diana's shoulder.

  'Of course, Tia would be attending regardless; she's your Mentor,' Diana nods. 'I will also accompany you.' She adds quickly. I smile with relief, which seems to please her.

  'Diana?' I call her by name for the first time and take a hesitant step closer. 'Is this like a school?' The question is ridiculous and I feel ridiculous asking it, but instead of laughing or mocking me; Diana considers it seriously.

  'Eve, here at the Institute, every year twenty new students are selected and changed – like you were. Those students go into the same year group and are taught the same skills at the same time. Your head of year oversees those twenty students' entire training, your teachers teach you their individual subjects, some are practical, some are theory. Sir Alec is the head of the Institute and oversees absolutely everything.

  Does that sound like a school to you?'

  I consider this information carefully whilst Tia and Diana watch me with cautious eyes, anticipating my reply.

  'Well – ' I hesitate, unsure if my intended answer is the right one. 'Yes.'

  'Of course it does,' Diana nods sincerely. 'And in many respects, it is. But it would be safer for you not to look at it that way.'

  'Why?' I frown, feeling a strange shiver along my spine as Diana and Tia exchange a quick glance.

  'Come on, Eve, why don't I help you choose an outfit to wear?' Tia says suddenly, her tone far too bright, her voice too loud.

  'But it's the middle of the night – ' I protest weakly as Tia grabs my arm, dragging me to the wardrobe and muttering about winter colours. I glance back at Diana – who still stands in the centre of the room – but she avoids my gaze. She smiles at the floor and makes an excuse to leave, hurrying into the corridor without a glance back.

  Chapter Five

  The beautiful king-size bed with its threaded silver sheets, little scatter cushions and goose-down pillows calls to me; inviting me to rest my frazzled mind and transformed body upon it. I relent without resistance, slipping beneath the warmth of the duvet, ready to embrace some much-needed sleep and regain my energy in time for tomorrow's absurdities.

  The pillow is soft, sagging beneath my head to create a comfortable nest, the sheets are like butter; smooth and velvety across my sensitive skin. I breathe in the cleanliness – the scent of jasmine washing powder – and close my eyes, waiting patiently for sleep to take me.

  It takes a while – longer than usual – and I try to ignore the infuriating sound of Tia loudly turning the pages of Jane Eyre, the lamp at full brightness.

  There are only a few hours of darkness left before I must attend the mandatory meeting. I toss and turn amongst the bedsheets, testing a variety of positions, huffing and puffing in anger as each in turn fails.

  'What are you doing?' Tia eventually asks me, peering over the top of her book.

  'Trying to sleep, what the fuck are you doing?' I snap, my anger getting the better of me. 'It's five in the morning, is Jane Eyre really that – '

  'Oh, we don't sleep.' She interrupts, silencing my tirade.

  'What?'

  'We don't sleep,' She repeats sheepishly, fiddling with her bedclothes. 'Did I forget to mention that? Sorry. I thought you were just... you know, winding down, getting lost in your thoughts... whatever.' She shrugs her shoulders guiltily as I sit up.

  'We don't sleep?' I raise an eyebrow. 'Ever?'

  'Um, no,' She admits, setting her novel aside. 'I can come with you to the library if you want to choose a book.' She beams, narrowly dodging the accurately thrown pillow as it travels from my hand.

  At first light we dress for the upcoming meeting. I've never been so spoiled for choice and I hunt through the deep wardrobe, unable to settle on a single outfit. After half an hour of trying on an array of clothes, rejecting them and starting over; I eventually choose a beautiful boot-cut trouser suit with a plain black shirt – minimalistic and elegant. I select a pair of knee-high boots with thin, sharp heels before brushing my newly clean hair, letting it fall neatly to my shoulders.

  The woman in the mirror is unrecognisable, a strangely – and vastly – improved version of myself. My body and face have changed dramatically in the past two years and it's hard to tell which features are a product of natural hormones and which are the result of my transformation.

  My appearance was never first on my list of priorities and when I hit the drugs, it fell swiftly to the very bottom.

  As Tia bustles into the bathroom, I cross to the window to watch the birds swoop gracefully overhead, some landing in the recently thawed stream. The early morning sun sparkles on the water's surface, reflecting the vibrant green grass.

  I can't help but feel pleased – no matter how laughable it is – that I may still walk in the sun's rays; feel their heat upon my skin, view the world in the light with its colours and blue sky.

  What a shame it would be to lose all this, to remain forever in the shadows of cold, bitter night.

  The meeting is to be held on the spacious second floor and – amongst the large crowd awaiting entry to the room – I stand nervously with Tia and Diana. My fellow nineteen first years form an orderly line outside the tall doors to the conference room. Each of them is flanked by their Mentor and Creator and some are surprisingly confident, unaffected by the sudden and dramatic change to – not only their lives – but their long-held beliefs. Others are, predictably, nervous, like me and a small percentage are utterly petrified; their eyes squinted tight as if they might cry, their shoulders hunched in an effort to be invisible.

  Tia chats relentlessly to her fellow third years, each of them addressing her with warmth and fam
iliarity. She virtually ignores me as we stand formally in line, showing off her impressive mentoring skills by briefly introducing me to each of her acquaintances before turning her back on me to gossip.

  Diana takes my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, shooting me a small, humble smile – urging me to relax.

  Without warning, the doors creak open and silence falls over our group of sixty. The first years making up the front of the queue step forward, disappearing into the conference room as I shuffle along behind. Diana stays closely by my side as we near the entrance, her smooth hand on mine; a reminder that this is not a dream.

  Beyond the wooden doors lies an airy, high-ceiling room the length of a football pitch, width of an Olympic swimming pool and kitted out with the largest table I've ever seen. The space is unoccupied with no decoration and no windows. The students take their seats around the table, following the white place cards printed with their names. I circle, following Diana's lead, searching for my own name. On the right side of the table, nearest the back, a bold printed Eve Ryder is sandwiched between Tia Carey and Diana Haddix.