We take our seats – Tia still engrossed in a meaningless conversation with a third year – as the Mentors whisper amongst themselves over the heads of their students. The Creators sit motionless, patiently awaiting the meeting. Diana seems focussed on two bolted doors, looming like an omen at the back of the room. As the last dregs of students take their seats, the order becomes apparent; first years in the middle, their Creators on their left, Mentors on their right.
The three chairs at the head of the table are vacant – the centre one slightly grander than the ones beside it – and as the doors close behind us, a nervous silence fills the room.
A few beats of tension pass before the doors of Diana's interest swing open and a vaguely familiar figure strides purposefully into the room, taking the seat on the left of the head chair. Malachy Beighley – the beautiful blond man present for my transformation – links his hands atop the table and scans the faces of the crowd with disinterest. His stare grazes mine and I avert my eyes as a strange shudder ripples along my spine.
After a beat, a young woman follows in Malachy's footsteps, her head held high with a sense of self-importance. The gasp that ripples through the room is not because of her frosty demeanour, nor her exquisite but deathly cold looks; it's because she is identical to Malachy – his female edition – with long platinum hair, icy blue eyes and a hostile aura.
She takes her seat and focusses her gaze on her – what I assume to be – twin brother. He shoots her a small, private smile – his expression perfectly calm – but beneath the table, out of view, I sense his body twisting uncomfortably – squirming almost – and he desperately attempts to hide it.
I glance at Tia and then Diana but neither of them notices Malachy's odd behaviour. Before I have a chance to point it out, another figure glides through the double doors.
A woman, almost six feet in height with dark brown skin and tumbling black hair. Her chocolate-coloured eyes sweep the room, assessing the intimidated faces before her. She wears a crisp grey suit and carries a clipboard, oozing an aura of authority.
She takes her designated seat between Malachy and Female-Malachy, placing her clipboard down neatly. She addresses the group, eyeing each of us individually, her stare penetrating.
'Good morning, everyone,' She announces in a crisp, English accent. 'My name is Aaliyah Fall and I will be your new head of year,' She forces a tight smile, glancing down at her clipboard. 'This is my 125th year working here at the Institute and my first as head of year, so I have high expectations of all my students.'
Although I – like every new first year – have already been informed that my body will never age; hearing a woman who appears in her early twenties describe herself as at least 125 comes as no less of a shock.
'In order to make the most of your time prior to lesson commencement, I would like to keep this meeting as brief as possible. There will be an opportunity at the end for you to raise any questions, but please bear in mind that I am here only to inform you of educational issues. For general questions about your new lives, you may speak with your Creators, Mentors or Councillors.' She pauses, allowing us time to digest the information.
'First and foremost, I would like to welcome you – on behalf of all the faculty and Sir Alec himself – to The Gray Institute.' Her tone shifts only slightly into a façade of false kindness.
'During your stay at the Institute, it is of utmost importance to us – and to yourself – that great care is taken to abide by the rules and regulations in place,' She glances sternly around the room, meeting every pair of eyes, assuring herself that we are as attentive as she would like.
'Sir Alec has already taken the time to inform each of you of the most imperative rule, and in due course you will learn the rest. In a few moments, you will be provided with a timetable; this timetable is unique to you and must not be misplaced.
During the first three years of your stay, you will attend five separate classes. Each of these classes is invaluable to your learning experience and skipping class will be severely dealt with – '
'Excuse me?'
Silence falls as every head whips round, searching for the source of the interruption. A young boy with golden hair and cornflower blue eyes leans forward across the table, his freckled face twisted in an expression of annoyance and amusement. Aaliyah's expression, on the other hand, is solemn and hard.
'Do we have a choice in this?' The Irish boy asks, cocking a blond eyebrow and bravely holding Aaliyah's stare. 'I mean, you've taken us from our homes – from wherever it was that we were – and funnelled us into your 'Institute.' Now you're barking orders at us like we asked for this. Like it was our idea and if we want to stay here we have to abide by your rules.
I, for one, don't want to be here and I'll bet I'm not the only one. So I'll be damned if I'm going to sit quiet like a good little boy whilst you dictate the regulations of your Institute to me.' He pauses for a moment to take a breath, his eyes darting furiously back and forth, looking for a face that will give him support.
His outburst hasn't granted him the effect he desired and instead of anarchy and uprising, there is silence and shock.
'I didn't ask to be here – none of us did,' He continues, urging the rest of us to agree with him. 'Are we just going to lay down and be dictated to?' His tone is less self-assured – more desperate.
Aaliyah's face is set in stone, her jaw clenched, her dark eyes piercing. She purses her lips slowly as an uncomfortably long silence stretches on.
'Are you finished?' She asks finally. Though her voice is calm and quiet, I detect the underlying threat – as does the Irish boy.
'Look, Aaliyah, I didn't – '
'Ms Fall.' She barks, correcting him. His mouth snaps shut.
'I apologise, Ms Fall,' He replies, a little more reservedly. 'I'm not deliberately causing problems here. I'm not trying to be a rebel or lead an uprising against the authority, I just want some answers. We all do.
All we've done since we arrived here is what everyone else has told us to. We've had no real chance to take any of this in. Our mental well-being – after receiving the shock of our lives – doesn't seem to be top priority.'
'I understand, Mr O'Brien,' Aaliyah – Ms Fall – replies, though it's quite clear she doesn't. 'But as I mentioned before your interruption, you will be provided with a Counsellor to help you come to terms with your transformation.
There are one hundred students in this building alone, all of whom are dealing with the significant change to their lives. What would you have me do? Sit down with you all individually for three hours a day to talk about your feelings?'
'No...' The Irish boy – Mr O'Brien – shrugs, his voice faltering.
'Please do not make the mistake of believing that you are the most important student in this Institute. Or that yours and your fellow students' well-beings are not mine – and the rest of the faculties' – top priority.
Your growth and learning as an Immortal are the foundations on which this Institute is built, they are of utmost importance. Whilst we are not negligent, we are also not indulgent.
You will be given fair treatment, Mr O'Brien, like everybody else. But nothing more than fair.' Ms Fall concludes, never stopping to take a breath, never shifting her steely gaze from Mr O'Brien's.
'Would anyone else like to waste valuable time going over their emotions?' Ms Fall asks, glancing quickly around the table, satisfied that no-one looks even the slightest bit inclined to an outburst.
'As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,' she throws a final pointed glance at Mr O'Brien. 'You will study from Monday to Friday, 8:30am until 4:30pm. Whilst the foundations and regulations of this Institute are similar to those of a school, please refrain from regarding it as one. This is a training facility. There will be no detentions, no notes home to parents; breaking the rules will incur serious penalties.
Your education is of the highest value; therefore, I suggest that whilst in classes, you pay the utmost attention.
Mr O'Brien, would you be so kind as to hand these out, please?' She pulls a wad of laminated sheets from the spring of her clipboard and waves them in the direction of the blond boy. She has chosen him deliberately – to assert her authority and power over him – and he stands reluctantly, clenching his teeth as he takes the papers from her.
He places mine down in front of me and I study the copperplate script in the top left corner, neatly spelling out my name. The timetable is simple; the days of the week vertically along the left, hours in the day along the top. The individual subjects are colour coded and supply room numbers and tutor names.
'The timetable is straight forward,' Ms Fall begins. 'Most days you will find one or more classes repeat – this is correct and a regular occurrence. The five classes are as follows:
Theory, which is split into two modules; Separating Myth From Fact and Going Undetected.
As the title indicates, much of this class is written work and discussion groups.
Practical, during which you will cover physical techniques and skills as well as forensics and biology.
Languages, which is self-explanatory.
Counselling, which is the time to ask questions, voice concerns, talk about your emotions, fears, former lives and generally learn to cope with your transformation.
And finally, One To One, during which time you will individually study with a Professor to learn about and strengthen your 'gifts.' Of course, this class only applies to those students who possess gifts, the rest of you will not find it on your timetables.
On weekends you may do anything you please; socialise, attend functions... but as you know, you are not permitted to leave the grounds.
Anything materialistic you may need such as clothes, toiletries etcetera, do not hesitate to ask your Creators; it is their responsibility and they will bring you anything you require.
You may or may not know that today is Sunday; therefore, classes will start tomorrow. As for the rest of the day, I suggest that you ask your Mentors to show you around the Institute and get familiarized; 'getting lost' will not be accepted as an excuse for being late to class.
Are there any questions?' She pauses for a moment to allow us time to respond. The faces to my left and right are blank with shock, unable to process the plethora of information cascading from Ms Fall's lips.
Had we not witnessed the Mr O'Brien incident, perhaps there would be a significant number of questions. Unfortunately, we did, and our willingness to converse with Ms Fall has vanished.
'Excellent,' She grins, satisfied with our terror. 'Well, it was a pleasure to meet you all. Thank you for coming and once again; welcome to The Gray Institute.'
*
'You look horrified.' Tia smirks as, dazed, I follow her through the endless corridors. She prances a few steps before me, always circling back to allow me time to keep up. It's like being in the company of a restless seagull.
'I can't say with absolute honesty that I'm one hundred percent comfortable.' I admit sarcastically as Tia leads me through yet another hall.
I sense we're drifting from the dormitories as the building begins to look less like a castle and more like a modern office block. The walls turn from aged stone to pristine white plasterboard, the floors from mason bricks to shiny tiles.
'We're entering the study half of the Institute where you'll take part in your lessons. You'll see the classrooms for yourself tomorrow but what is important to know about this side is the common rooms.' Tia smiles.
As we walk, I consider the content of Mr O'Brien's outburst earlier. Was he right? Should I be pushing back against the authority? Should I be angry that Sir Alec, Ms Fall – whoever – has taken me from my life and put me here, telling me that I can't leave?
I suppose I should. And perhaps the idea of simply running away should have occurred to me before now.
'Tia?' My voice echoes around the hall as I walk. 'What would happen, theoretically, of course, if I tried to escape?'
Tia halts abruptly, rounding on me, her eyes suddenly huge and frightened.
'Eve!' She hisses, darting her gaze, searching for eavesdroppers. 'You mustn't!' She shakes her head fervently. 'I – ' she hesitates. 'I'm not allowed to tell you what would happen – it interferes with your education – but I implore you not to try.'
'I just – ' I shake my head. 'I just don't understand. You can't put someone somewhere against their will and tell them they can't leave. Isn't that false imprisonment?'
'Technically,' Tia shrugs. 'But it's for a good reason. You'll see why when you start your Theory lessons, they'll explain everything to you. In the meantime just... just promise me you won't try to escape?'
I stare at Tia, her expression etched in fear, and nod once. 'I promise.'
'Good,' she breathes a sigh of relief. 'Come on.' She jerks her head and we continue along the hall.
We approach one of the many whitewashed doors lining the corridor, all mysteriously closed. Tia places a hand on the doorknob and swings it open, revealing a spacious, airy room filled to the brim with hostility.
The walls are a sickly, pale blue wash, the floor cold white stone. Sofas are dotted around the room in artistic, modern curves and designs. Glass coffee tables shaped like bubbles house ash-trays and wine glasses whilst a wide screen TV hangs on the far wall, projecting a luminous cookery programme.
My mother once took me to an 'IKEA' show home and it was virtually identical to this.
'This is one of the four common rooms situated in this half of the building,' Tia explains as ten or so students on the nearest sofa halt their conversation to acknowledge our intrusion. 'They're very important to the students; this is where we come to relax during breaks and most evenings, meet up with our friends and socialise. After a while you'll pick a favourite – usually depending on who hangs out there. This...' she wrinkles her nose, eyeing the unfriendly students. 'Is not mine.'
She needn't explain why; if I didn't know better, based on this common room I would still assume the Institute is a psychiatric one.
Tia closes the door and pulls me away, down another flight of stairs to a well-lit corridor. Along the right-hand side are a pair of swinging metal doors.
'The cafeteria,' Tia smiles, pushing one open to reveal a steel-clad interior, not unlike the room I first awoke in. The tables are fit for thirty or so people running orderly and vertically across the width of the room. Through the far wall is a partially view-obstructed kitchen with large freezers and stoves.
'Obviously, we don't eat three square meals a day,' Tia smirks, nudging my arm like the joke is a funny one. 'You'll need to visit the cafeteria once a day. Each year group is given a separate time, yours will be 7:00am. Don't miss it or you'll go without and believe me, it's not worth it.
On the other hand; if you miss your meal three days in a row, they'll just force feed it to you, so it's doubly not worth it.'
Opposite the cafeteria is another impressively large room – clad from floor to ceiling in black, it has two levels. On the ground floor, the entire right wall houses a shiny black bar with decorative mirrors and tall, stylish stools. A deck complete with speakers twice my height stands opposite, surrounded on all sides by a clearly marked dance floor. Around the edge of the room are endless tables and chairs and directly in front – a towering staircase leading up to the balcony level. Strobe lights cling to the ceiling, spotlighting luxurious booths – I haven't been to many night clubs in my time but this is by far the best I've ever seen.
'On the second floor is a jacuzzi,' Tia smirks suggestively, wiggling her eyebrows. 'Everybody is here on Friday and Saturday nights. Professors and faculty don't come in here – unless there's an emergency it's strictly students only – I come here every weekend.' She smiles proudly, nodding her head in achievement.
Tia's favourite common room is much like the first half of the castle; clad in velvet and oil paintings, tapestries and oak furniture. It is warm and inviting, like Tia herself. She spares me no details on th
e layout of the Institute, insisting on showing me the library – a mind-blowing collection of endless books, stacked from floor to ceiling in tall display cases – a miniature museum of the Institute with information on its commission and building work and a study hall, which Tia tells me no-one ever uses.
There are spas and beauty salons run by the students, a gym packed with equipment for use when you please, a cinema with listings of hundreds of films – almost anything one could want for and anywhere one could want to go is packed into one impressive building.
Tia stops in front of a pair of tall, mahogany doors. Her eyes are wide and darting and she chews the inside of her bottom lip, staring at me, her amber eyes seeking out my approval.
The doors look heavy and are bolted from the outside with a thick slab of wood, they scream 'Keep Out', but Tia has other ideas, it seems.
She steps forward, placing her dainty hand on one of the expensive gold handles. I place my hand far less daintily on her arm.
'I don't think we should be going in here.' I state firmly as the small hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1) Page 6
