Firespell

by Chloe Neill

  I shook my head, which was a fib. I had tons of questions, actually, but not the sort I thought she’d appreciate, especially since her PR skills left a lot to be desired. She made St. Sophia’s sound less like boarding school and more like prison. Then again, the PR was lost on me, anyway. It’s not like I was there by choice.

  “Good.” Foley pulled open a tiny drawer on the right-hand side of her desk. Out of it she lifted an antique gold skeleton key—the skinny kind with prongs at the end—that was strung from a royal blue ribbon.

  “Your room key,” she said, and extended her hand. I lifted the ribbon from her palm, wrapping my fingers around the slender bar of metal. “Your books are already in your room. You’ve been assigned a laptop, which is in your room, as well.”

  She frowned, then glanced up at me. “This is likely not how you imagined your junior and senior years of high school would be, Ms. Parker. But you will find that you have been bestowed an incredible gift. This is one of the finest high schools in the nation. Being an alumna of St. Sophia’s will open doors for you educationally and socially. Your membership in this institution will connect you to a network of women whose influence is international in scope.”

  I nodded, mostly about that first part. Of course I’d imagined my junior and senior years differently. I’d imagined being at home, with my friends, with my parents . But she hadn’t actually asked me how I felt about being shipped off to Chicago, so I didn’t elaborate.

  “I’ll show you to your room,” she said, rising from her chair and moving toward the door.

  I picked up my bag again and followed her.

  St. Sophia’s looked pretty much the same on the walk to my room as it had on the way to Foley’s office—one stone corridor after another. The building was immaculately clean, but kind of empty. Sterile. It was also quieter than I would have expected a high school to be, certainly quieter than the high school I’d left behind. But for the click of Foley’s heels on the shining stone floors, the place was graveyard silent. And there was no sign of the usual high school stuff. No trophy cases, no class photos, no lockers, no pep rally posters. Most important, still no sign of students. There were supposed to be two hundred of us. So far, it looked like I was the only St. Sophia’s girl in residence.

  The corridor suddenly opened into a giant circular space with a domed ceiling, a labyrinth set into the tile on the floor beneath it. This was a serious place. A place for contemplation. A place where nuns once walked quietly, gravely, through the hallways.

  And then she pushed open another set of double doors.

  The hallway opened into a long room lit by enormous metal chandeliers and the blazing color of dozens of stained glass windows. The walls that weren’t covered by windows were lined with books, and the floor was filled by rows and rows of tables.

  At the tables sat teenagers. Lots and lots of teenagers, all in stuff that made up the St. Sophia’s uniform: navy plaid skirt and some kind of top in the same navy; sweater; hooded sweatshirt; sweater-vest.

  They looked like an all-girl army of plaid.

  Books and notebooks were spread on the tables before them, laptop computers open and buzzing. Classes didn’t start until tomorrow, and these girls were already studying. The trustees were right—these people were serious about their studies.

  “Your classmates,” Foley quietly said.

  She walked through the aisle that split the room into two halves, and I followed behind her, my shoulder beginning to ache under the weight of the duffel bag. Girls watched as I walked past them, heads lifting from books (and notebooks and laptops) to check me out as I passed. I caught the eyes of two of them.

  The first was a blonde with wavy hair that cascaded around her shoulders, a black patent leather headband tucked behind her ears. She arched an eyebrow at me as I passed, and two other brunettes at the table leaned toward her to whisper. To gossip. I made a prediction pretty quickly that she was the leader of that pack.

  The second girl, who sat with three other plaid cadets a few tables down, was definitely not a member of the blonde’s pack. Her hair was also blond, but for the darker ends of her short bob. She wore black nail polish and a small silver ring on one side of her nose.

  Given what I’d seen so far, I was surprised Foley let her get away with that, but I liked it.

  She lifted her head as I walked by, her green eyes on my browns as I passed.

  She smiled. I smiled back.

  “This way,” Foley ordered. I hustled to follow.

  We walked down the aisle to the other end of the room, then into another corridor. A few more turns and a narrow flight of limestone stairs later, Foley stopped beside a wooden door. She bobbed her head at the key around my neck. “Your suite,” she said. “Your bedroom is the first on the right. You have three suitemates, and you’ll share the common room. Classes begin promptly at eight-twenty tomorrow morning. Your schedule is with your books. I understand you have some interest in the arts?”

  “I like to draw,” I said. “Sometimes paint.”

  “Yes, the board forwarded some of the slides of your work. It lends itself to the fantastic—imaginary worlds and unrealistic creatures—but you seem to have some skill. We’ve placed you in our arts track. You’ll start studio classes within the next few weeks, once our instructor has settled in. It is expected that you will devote as much time to your craft as you do to your studies.” Apparently having concluded her instructions, she gave me an up-and-down appraisal. “Any questions?”

  She’d done it again. She said, “Any questions?” but it sounded a lot more like “I don’t have time for nonsense right now.”

  “No, thank you,” I said, and Foley bobbed her head.

  “Very good.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the hallway.

  I waited until she was gone, then slipped the key into the lock and turned the knob. The door opened into a small circular space—the common room. There were a couch and coffee table in front of a small fireplace, a cello propped against the opposite wall, and four doors leading, I assumed, to the bedrooms.

  I walked to the door on the far right and slipped the skeleton key from my neck, then into the lock. When the tumblers clicked, I pushed open the door and flipped on the light.

  It was small—a tiny but tidy space with one small window and a twin-sized bed. The bed was covered by a royal blue bedspread embroidered with an imprint of the St. Sophia’s tower. Across from the bed was a wooden bureau, atop which sat a two-foot-high stack of books, a pile of papers, a silver laptop, and an alarm clock. A narrow wooden door led to a closet.

  I closed the door to the suite behind me, then dropped my bag onto the bed. The room had a few pieces of furniture in it and the school supplies, but otherwise, it was empty. But for the few things I’d been able to fit into the duffel, nothing here would remind me of home.

  My heart sank at the thought. My parents had actually sent me away to boarding school. They chose Munich and researching some musty philosopher over art competitions and honors society dinners, the kind of stuff they usually loved to brag about.

  I sat down next to my duffel, pulled the cell phone from the front pocket of my gray and yellow messenger bag, flipped it open, and checked the time. It was nearly five o’clock in Chicago and would have been midnight in Munich, although they were probably halfway over the Atlantic right now. I wanted to call them, to hear their voices, but since that wasn’t an option, I pulled up my mom’s cell number and clicked out a text message: “@ SCHOOL IN ROOM.” It wasn’t much, but they’d know I’d arrived safely and, I assumed, would call when they could.

  When I flipped the phone closed again, I stared at it for a minute, tears pricking at my eyes. I tried to keep them from spilling over, to keep from crying in the middle of my first hour at St. Sophia’s, the first hour into my new life.

  They spilled over anyway. I didn’t want to be here. Not at this school, not in Chicago. If I didn’t think they’d
just ship me right back again, I’d have used the credit card my mom gave me for emergencies, charged a ticket, and hopped a plane back to New York.

  “This sucks,” I said, swiping carefully at my overflowing tears, trying to avoid smearing the black eyeliner around my eyes.

  A knock sounded at the door, which opened. I glanced up.

  “Are you planning your escape?” asked the girl with the nose ring and black nail polish who stood in my doorway.

  2

  “Seriously, you look pretty depressed there.” She pushed off the door, her thin frame nearly swamped by a plaid skirt and oversized St. Sophia’s sweatshirt, her legs clad in tights and sheepskin boots. She was about my height, five foot six or so.

  “Thanks for knocking,” I said, swiping at what I’m sure was a mess beneath my eyes.

  “I do what I can. And you’ve made a mess,” she confirmed. She walked toward me and, without warning, tipped up my chin. She tilted her head and frowned at me, then rubbed her thumbs beneath my eyes. I just looked back at her, amusement in my expression. When she was done, she put her hands on her hips and surveyed her work.

  “It’s not bad. I like the eyeliner. A little punk. A little goth, but not over the top, and it definitely works with your eyes. You might want to think about waterproof, though.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m your suitemate, Scout Green. And you’re Lily Parker.”

  “I am,” I said, shaking her hand.

  Scout sat down on the bed next to me, then crossed her legs and began to swing a leg. “And what personal tragedy has brought you to our fine institution on this lovely fall day?”

  I arched a brow at her. She waved a hand. “It’s nothing personal. We tend to get a lot of tragedy cases. Relatives die. Fortunes are made and the parentals get too busy for teen angst. That’s my basic story. On the rare but exciting occasion, expulsion from the publics and enough money for the trustees to see ‘untapped potential. ’ ” She tilted her head as she looked at me. “You’ve got a great look, but you don’t look quite punk enough to be the expulsion kind.”

  “My parents are on a research trip,” I said. “Twenty-four months in Germany—not that I’m bitter about that—so I was sentenced to lockdown at St. Sophia’s.”

  Scout smiled knowingly. “Unfortunately, Lil, your parents’ ditching you for Europe makes you average around here. It’s like a home for latchkey kids. Where are you from? Prior to being dropped off in the Windy City, I mean.”

  “Upstate New York. Sagamore.”

  “You’re a junior?”

  I nodded.

  “Ditto,” Scout said, then uncrossed her legs and patted her hands against her knees. “And that means that if all goes well, we’ll have two years together at St. Sophia’s School for Girls. We might as well get you acquainted.” She rose, and with one hand tucked behind her back and one hand at her waist, did a little bow. “I’m Millicent Carlisle Green.”

  I bit back a grin. “And that’s why you go by ‘Scout.’ ”

  “And that’s why I go by ‘Scout,’ ” she agreed, grinning back. “First off, on behalf of the denizens of Chicago”—she put a hand against her heart—“welcome to the Windy City. Allow me to introduce you to the wondrous world of snooty American private schooldom.” She frowned. “ ‘Schooldom.’ Is that a word?”

  “Close enough,” I said. “Please continue.”

  She nodded, then swept a hand through the air. “You can see the luxury accommodations that the gazillion dollars in tuition and room and board will buy you.” She walked to the bed and, like a hostess on The Price Is Right, caressed the iron frame. “Sleeping quarters of only the highest quality.”

  “Of course,” I solemnly said.

  Scout turned on her heel, the skirt swinging at her knees, and pointed at the simple wooden bureau. “The finest of European antiques to hold your baubles and treasures.” Then she swept to the window and, with a tug of the blinds, revealed the view. There were a few yards of grass, then the stone wall. Beyond both sat the facing side of a glass and steel building.

  “And, of course,” Scout continued, “the finest view that new money can buy.”

  “Only the best for a Parker,” I said.

  “Now you’re getting it,” Scout said approvingly. She walked back to the door, then beckoned me to follow. “The common room,” she said, turning around to survey it. “Where we’ll gossip, read intellectually stimulating classics of literature—”

  “Like that?” I asked with a chuckle, pointing at the dog-eared copy of Vogue lying on the coffee table.

  “Absolument,” Scout said. “Vogue is our guide to current events and international culture.”

  “And sweet shoes.”

  “And sweet shoes,” she said, then gestured at the cello in the corner. “That’s Barnaby’s baby. Lesley Barnaby,” she added at my lifted brows. “She’s number three in our suite, but you won’t see much of her. Lesley has four things, and four things only, in her day planner: class, sleeping, studying, and practicing.”

  “Who’s girl number four?” I asked, as Scout led me to the closed door directly across from mine.

  Her hand on the doorknob, Scout glanced back at me. “Amie Cherry. She’s one of the brat pack.”

  “The brat pack?”

  “Yep. Did you see the blonde with the headband in the study hall?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s Veronica Lively, the junior class’s resident alpha girl. Cherry is one of her minions. She was the brunette with short hair. You didn’t hear me say this, but Veronica’s actually got brains. She might not use them for much beyond kissing Foley’s ass, but she’s got them. The minions are another story. Mary Katherine, that’s minion number two—the brunette with long hair—is former old money. She still has the connections, but that’s pretty much all she has.

  “Now, Cherry—Cherry has coin. Stacks and stacks of cash. As minions go, Cherry’s not nearly as bad as Mary Katherine, and she has the potential to be cool, but she takes Veronica’s advice much too seriously.” Scout frowned, then glanced up at me. “Do you know what folks in Chicago call St. Sophia’s?”

  I shook my head.

  “St. Spoiled.”

  “Not much of a stretch, is it?”

  “Exactly.” With a twist of her wrist, Scout turned the knob and pushed open her bedroom door.

  “My God,” I said, staring into the space. “There’s so much . . . stuff.”

  Every inch of space in Scout’s tiny room, but for the rectangle of bed, was filled with shelves. And those shelves were filled to overflowing. They were double-stacked with books and knickknacks, all organized into tidy collections. There was a shelf of owls—some ceramic, some wood, some made of bits of sticks and twigs. A group of sculpted apples—the same mix of materials. Inkwells. Antique tin boxes. Tiny houses made of paper. Old cameras.

  “If your parents donate a wing, you get extra shelves,” she said, her voice flat as week-old soda.

  “Where did you get all this?” I walked to a shelf and picked up a delicate paper house crafted from a restaurant menu. A door and tiny windows were carefully cut into the facade, and a chimney was pasted to the roof, which was dusted in white glitter. “And when?”

  “I’ve been at St. Sophia’s since I was twelve. I’ve had the time. And I got it anywhere and everywhere,” she said, flopping down onto her bed. She sat back on her elbows and crossed one leg over the other. “There’s a lot of sweet stuff floating around Chicago. Antiques stores, flea markets, handmade goods, what have you. Sometimes my parents bring me stuff, and I pick up things along the way when I see them over the summer.”

  I gingerly placed the building back on the shelf, then glanced back at her. “Where are they now? Your parents, I mean.”

  “Monaco—Monte Carlo. The Yacht Show is in a couple of weeks. There’s teak to be polished.” She chuckled, but the sound wasn’t especially happy. “Not by them, of course—they’ve moved past doing physical labor—but still.”

/>   I made some vague sound of agreement—my nautical excursions were limited to paddleboats at summer camp—and moved past the museum and toward the books. There were lots of books on lots of subjects, all organized by color. It was a rainbow of paper—recipes, encyclopedias, dictionaries, thesauruses, books on typology and design. There were even a few ancient leather books with gold lettering along the spines.

  I pulled a design book from the shelf and flipped through it. Letters, in every shape and form, were spread across the pages, from a sturdy capital A to a tiny, curlicued Z.

  “I’m sensing a theme here,” I said, smiling up at Scout. “You like words. Lists. Letters.”

  She nodded. “You string some letters together, and you make a word. You string some words together, and you make a sentence, then a paragraph, then a chapter. Words have power.”

  I snorted, replacing the book on the shelf. “Words have power? That sounds like you’re into some Harry Potter juju.”

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous,” she said. “So, what does a young Lily Parker do in Sagamore, New York?”

  I shrugged. “The usual. I hung out. Went to the mall. Concerts. TiVo ANTM and Man vs. Wild.”

  “Oh, my God, I love that show,” Scout said. “That guy eats everything.”

  “And he’s hot,” I pointed out.

  “Seriously hot,” she agreed. “Hot guy eats bloody stuff. Who knew that would be a hit?”

  “The producer of every vampire movie ever?” I offered.

  Scout snorted a laugh. “Well put, Parker. I’m digging the sarcasm.”

  “I try,” I admitted with a grin. It was nice to smile—nice to have something to smile about. Heck, it was nice to feel like this boarding school business might be doable—like I’d be able to make friends and study and go about my high school business in pretty much the same way as I could have in Sagamore.