granite steps to a massive stone entryway. It’s like the feeling you get when someone reads over your shoulder in the subway.
Cara leans in and whispers, “I thought we were supposed to be the spooky ones.”
I stifle a snort.
Dr. Haskins cuts me a look as we follow her through the front door and into the grand entrance.
The school’s headmistress waits for us, smiling. A refreshingly young woman, she sports a suit snug enough to give Dr. Haskins a run for her money. She stands next to a large, round oak table that holds a vase of breathtaking fresh flowers.
The foyer is massive, as big as Simulation House itself. Its floors are marble. Its granite walls are lined with banners, most as big as movie screens and hanging from long metal rods with gold tassels on the ends, depicting old English hunting scenes: foxes, beagles, white horses, and men in red jackets.
Beyond the foyer I hear the typical high school sounds: lockers slamming, shoes squeaking, laughter, conversation, a book dropped, papers rustling, someone shouting playfully, “Give it back, Rufus!”
The two women give each other a quick, pumping power shake. No hugs for these two.
Dr. Haskins introduces each of us.
Headmistress Holly smiles but does not shake our hands. “Ladies,” she says, though mostly to Dr. Haskins, “follow me.” She turns on her heel and marches down a marble hallway, her shoes clacking endlessly through the twists and turns.
I glimpse a few students on our journey, probably student aides since we seem to be in some kind of administrative wing. There is no uniform at Nightshade, and in fact the kids we see look like any kids we’ve ever seen anywhere: pale and hungry, long and limber, wary and whispering of “the new kids.”
I resist the temptation to wave. Alice’s voice echoes in my mind from a dozen missions or more: You’re too nice, Lily. That’s why you’re the Third Sister. Don’t even smile until week two; everybody knows that! I can’t help it. Her advice makes me smile all the more.
We stop at a huge wooden door with a pointy top and two big, black metal bands about halfway up. Its iron handle is long and thin, like in some old medieval castle.
The headmistress opens it and ushers us in.
For a room with such a big door, her office is surprisingly small.
The two grown-ups stand and smile, then sit across from each other, a tidy desk between them.
We Sisters stand awkwardly aloof in the back as the two headmistresses make polite chitchat (“How was your flight?” “I love that scarf”).
I check out the walls. They are full of the obligatory diplomas and credentials plus a handful of framed glossies of pretty Headmistress Holly shaking hands with local politicians and a few old celebrities.
A barred window to my right overlooks a solemn courtyard. Movement below captures my attention. I move closer, trying not to be too obvious.
A tall, striking young man with long black hair and a black trench coat lights a cigarette.
I smile. All kids everywhere are the same. Iron gates, early curfews, and efficient headmistresses can’t keep them from lighting up whenever they get the chance.
He does it pretty cavalierly for a student, though, not even bothering to see if anyone’s looking.
Someone is.
A figure with a luxurious auburn mane slinks into view. She’s dressed in black leggings and a black thigh-length sweater that hugs every curve (she’s got plenty). A gray scarf is wound around her elegant neck.
Though they stand apart and never once touch, the two look intimate. I watch smoke ooze from his mouth as he speaks.
Maybe that’s why she stands just a little too far away. I know I would.
They smile often, though, and their body language implies intimacy either already shared or about to be any damn moment.
With his large, pale hands, he tosses away one cigarette and immediately lights another. He offers it to her.
She demurs.
He laughs, smoke rising from his open lips.
She slaps his
Cara leans in and whispers, “I thought we were supposed to be the spooky ones.”
I stifle a snort.
Dr. Haskins cuts me a look as we follow her through the front door and into the grand entrance.
The school’s headmistress waits for us, smiling. A refreshingly young woman, she sports a suit snug enough to give Dr. Haskins a run for her money. She stands next to a large, round oak table that holds a vase of breathtaking fresh flowers.
The foyer is massive, as big as Simulation House itself. Its floors are marble. Its granite walls are lined with banners, most as big as movie screens and hanging from long metal rods with gold tassels on the ends, depicting old English hunting scenes: foxes, beagles, white horses, and men in red jackets.
Beyond the foyer I hear the typical high school sounds: lockers slamming, shoes squeaking, laughter, conversation, a book dropped, papers rustling, someone shouting playfully, “Give it back, Rufus!”
The two women give each other a quick, pumping power shake. No hugs for these two.
Dr. Haskins introduces each of us.
Headmistress Holly smiles but does not shake our hands. “Ladies,” she says, though mostly to Dr. Haskins, “follow me.” She turns on her heel and marches down a marble hallway, her shoes clacking endlessly through the twists and turns.
I glimpse a few students on our journey, probably student aides since we seem to be in some kind of administrative wing. There is no uniform at Nightshade, and in fact the kids we see look like any kids we’ve ever seen anywhere: pale and hungry, long and limber, wary and whispering of “the new kids.”
I resist the temptation to wave. Alice’s voice echoes in my mind from a dozen missions or more: You’re too nice, Lily. That’s why you’re the Third Sister. Don’t even smile until week two; everybody knows that! I can’t help it. Her advice makes me smile all the more.
We stop at a huge wooden door with a pointy top and two big, black metal bands about halfway up. Its iron handle is long and thin, like in some old medieval castle.
The headmistress opens it and ushers us in.
For a room with such a big door, her office is surprisingly small.
The two grown-ups stand and smile, then sit across from each other, a tidy desk between them.
We Sisters stand awkwardly aloof in the back as the two headmistresses make polite chitchat (“How was your flight?” “I love that scarf”).
I check out the walls. They are full of the obligatory diplomas and credentials plus a handful of framed glossies of pretty Headmistress Holly shaking hands with local politicians and a few old celebrities.
A barred window to my right overlooks a solemn courtyard. Movement below captures my attention. I move closer, trying not to be too obvious.
A tall, striking young man with long black hair and a black trench coat lights a cigarette.
I smile. All kids everywhere are the same. Iron gates, early curfews, and efficient headmistresses can’t keep them from lighting up whenever they get the chance.
He does it pretty cavalierly for a student, though, not even bothering to see if anyone’s looking.
Someone is.
A figure with a luxurious auburn mane slinks into view. She’s dressed in black leggings and a black thigh-length sweater that hugs every curve (she’s got plenty). A gray scarf is wound around her elegant neck.
Though they stand apart and never once touch, the two look intimate. I watch smoke ooze from his mouth as he speaks.
Maybe that’s why she stands just a little too far away. I know I would.
They smile often, though, and their body language implies intimacy either already shared or about to be any damn moment.
With his large, pale hands, he tosses away one cigarette and immediately lights another. He offers it to her.
She demurs.
He laughs, smoke rising from his open lips.
She slaps his
Similar Books
Dolphin Child
James Carmody
Wed to the Texas Outlaw
Carol Arens
Crushed Ice
Eric Pete
Princeps' fury
Jim Butcher
Love Immortal
Linnea Hall
Forever Amish
Kate Lloyd
Unspoken
Dee Henderson
Ranch 1.5-The Christmas Tree Bargain
J.L. Langley
