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ūnum / un

Everything is quiet here.

The airport was so loud. My ears still haven’t popped.

I’m supposed to go to the Headmaster’s house. All the instructions were in an email. I didn’t delete it. But I didn’t read it either. I suppose you could say I was too busy grieving my mother, who has apparently been dead for some time now.

The school’s introductory email has been rotting (like my mother’s corpse, probably) in my inbox for a full day now, which, all things considered, is not that long. Mum has been dead for two and a half months (give or take- he said). Give or take.

Well, I ought to give my father some credit for having this affair handled so quickly. There was a phone call (he talked, I stared at the wall and tried to listen), and then a driver came to take me to the airport. It hasn’t been 24 hours, and here I stand.

If this were back home, maybe I’d skive, but I am, admittedly, utterly lost here, so I gather my bags and climb the short set of steps toward the large red door. The knocker, some kind of roaring cat, is frozen to the red wood of the door, so I knock thrice with my fist. Ungloved, my knuckles sting.

A moment later, a man answers. He wears a suit the colour of the uniform I’ll be wearing for the rest of this year. It doesn’t look right on him, though, the red clashing with his ginger hair like he committed a brutal murder just before opening the door. What must be Pine Mountain’s crest sits proudly on his tie clip. The Headmaster.

In a bygone era, he would’ve been the archetypal headmaster. Now, though, he just looks pompous with his hair combed over the way it is, pocket watch dangling artificially from his suit jacket while a real watch sits on his left wrist. He smells as artificial as he looks, some disgusting cologne cutting through the freezing wind.

I swallow a cough. “Good morning, sir.” At school back home, we don’t call our teachers sir or ma’am, but he seems the kind of man who likes that. And I have no idea what his name is. Nor do I care.

He smiles at the honorific, a thin, pitying expression that only makes him look more pretentious. “And you as well…” he pauses, unsure of which honorific to use. It reminds me I need a haircut. Finally, he settles for my name. I was lucky that Mum gave me a good one like that. Five letters strung into a single syllable, making up a plain and simple word that could go either way. Maybe she knew somehow the way mothers on television are always saying they know everything about their children. She never said so, never claimed to know me, but maybe she did. And now she’s gone.

The Headmaster pays no mind to sudden grief, but then again, neither do I. “Do come in.” He smiles again, the expression not any kinder this time as he gestures through the doorway where snow’s begun to wet the entryway rug. “I trust you’ve read my email.” He still hasn’t introduced himself. He must have a lot of faith in that email. Unfortunate.

I step inside, around his extended hand. “Thank you, sir. Pleased to meet you.” Not knowing his name will only make it easier to ignore him.

He leads me down a corridor, all hardwood and sconces. The parlour is furnished with the same shade of red. A taxidermized lynx stares down from above the hearth. The poor thing was caught mid-leap.

More interesting, though, than preserved predators, is the boy sitting on the sofa in front of me. There’s a cup of tea in front of him, untouched. I didn’t think I’d be meeting anyone else until classes were back in session in January. Does he live here?

He seems to take no notice of my arrival; his expression is completely blank, not like he’s bored, but as if he’s thinking of nothing at all. He’s had the misfortune of wearing red the same shade as the couch he sits on, and if not for his pale skin, he’d disappear entirely into the upholstery. Pine Mountain’s uniform. It’s reassuring, though, seeing the uniform; all I’d seen of it up to now was a flash of red when the driver moved the bag to make space for my luggage. It looks alright, not brilliant, and it’ll be worse against my darker skin, surely, but not terrible.

The Headmaster gestures between us. “Quinn, This is Mr Lacoste. Rafael, this is Quinn.” So not his son, then.

Rafael nods sharply and gives a clipped, “Hello. It is nice to meet you.” He’s not loud. He has an accent and speaks so smoothly that it sounds robotic, inflectionless, as he is expressionless. It sort of fits him, in a strange way, like his voice would be the first to disappear in a loud room.

“Hello.” My tone could be kinder, I’m sure, but he’ll have to forgive me; I’ve had a bit of a long day.

Before I can say anything else, the Headmaster claps, “Now that the two of you are acquainted, I believe a tour is in order.” I can’t fully stifle my cringe. His voice is too loud in the low-ceilinged study, and there’s something disconcerting about the way his hand closes over mine to stop me from grabbing my bag. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll have someone bring them to your room.” His smile is softer now, but no more kind. He’s leaned down slightly, and this close, his cologne nearly chokes me.

I shake his hand off, barely catching the “Fuck no” before it leaves my mouth. “Ah, I think I would rather carry it.” He frowns. “I’ve got some, erm, personal things in here.”

He blanches.

I smother my cringe, not wanting to think about whatever he’s imagining. Instead, I look over at Rafael. He hasn’t moved an inch. He doesn’t even look like he heard a word of that.

Finally, the Headmaster speaks again. “This is quite different from what you’re used to, I’ve been told, but I’m sure you’ll adjust quickly. If you have any questions, Mr Lacoste should be able to assist you.”

“Thanks.”

As if on cue, Rafael stands up. It’s a stiff motion that makes me wonder how long he’s been sitting there. I wasn’t late. I watch him walk down the corridor and put his coat on, all without another word. Probably annoyed at having his holiday interrupted. I get it. At least his mother isn’t dead. Probably.

It’s true, Pine Mountain’s campus is lovely, but I don’t trust it. All snow covered like this; I can’t tell what’s underneath. It’s unnerving. It’s much smaller than Summerville and much less open, all stone against deep reds, like blood on snow, like a cathedral was built in the middle of nowhere and then left to rot before being repurposed as a school. And that’s just what I can actually see of it. The entire campus, only one building, is surrounded by fog, and something tells me that’s perpetual.

I shiver and pull my coat tighter around me. It’s not rated for this weather, I think.

Maybe the cold is the reason I find myself drifting towards a building on the edge of campus. It stands alone, a small stone place, probably the size of my living room, weathered and crumbling.

“That building is what remains of the original campus,” Rafael says when he notices me eyeing the chapel. He sounds a bit wary, words too slow, looking at the building like it might collapse any second now, but he shakes his head, and the hesitation is gone. “Pine Mountain was originally a one-room schoolhouse. Eventually, they had to add more space. The buildings we use now, though, are all less than half a century old. Everything was rebuilt after a storm took down many trees and destroyed half of the old building.”

“Damn.” Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, but he doesn’t seem shaken.

He just continues the tour spiel. Maybe it’s his accent, maybe it’s the way he sounds incredibly tired of this already, or maybe it’s that I don’t care, but the words float in one ear and out the other.

This whole ordeal makes me want to scream. I get the sudden urge to shake him by the shoulders. Nothing feels real.

He’s talking still, saying nothing actually important. But what is there to say? It’s a high school; no one likes high school.

It’s starting to snow now, and the weight of the frozen water feels a bit like drowning. My coat is pitifully insufficient. Against this weather, it could hardly be called a coat.

Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday.

What would Rafael do if I just told him I don’t want to be here? If I left him to wander around this antique place alone? Would he feel relieved or think I was a bitch? Maybe it doesn’t matter if it shuts him up.

Oblivious, he carries on, pointing to a lynx statue (the school’s mascot, I’ve gathered). It’s not awful, kind of a cute thing, eyes slightly wild, cast mid-leap to imitate the real animal in the Headmaster’s House. Someone’s put a pink collar on it, and its nose and ears are rubbed shiny, clearly beloved, and I can’t help reaching up to pet it too.

The slip is sudden, stupid too. This whole thing is stupid (what gives this place the right to have so much ice?), but that doesn’t stop me from nearly falling on my arse. Rafael is pushing me away before I realise I’ve grabbed onto him.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t think there’s anything to say. But I have to say something, so I say “Sorry.”

His entire body is rigid. He’s not even looking at me; he’s doubled over, hissing in pain. He grits out something, in French, I think (right, they speak it here), but it’s too fast and too low for me to hear.

“What?”

“I said: Don’t touch me.” The words are quick and sharp, nearly as biting as the wind. He forces himself to stand straight again with what looks like great effort and tries to glare, but he can’t meet my eyes, or doesn’t want to. I turn to follow his gaze, where it’s fixed over my shoulder, but there’s nothing there, and when I look back to him, he’s gone ahead across the plaza without me.

He’s not walking all that fast, but he doesn’t slow down for me either. I start to jog to catch up, then remember the ice (stupid fucking Canada) and slow to a walk. Still, I find myself looking back. But even a second look into the forest surrounding the campus reveals nothing more than before. The tree line is still eerily empty.

At least anything that I can see.

What a lovely thought.

Our footsteps are silent in the snow, like the flurries are absorbing sound somehow. It’s nothing like the thin, crunchy ice we get every few years at home. And now my socks are starting to soak through. Great. But at least, we seem to be heading inside. About time.

The school lobby is more stone and red, a mix of Gothic and rustic. There’s a pinboard on the wall by the door with a sign overhead reading: Dining Hall with flyers I don’t bother reading. Against the other wall is a floor-to-ceiling trophy case, and some cushioned benches outside a door marked Infirmary. It’s so quiet I’d think I was here alone. It’s nice, but I make myself look back to Rafael.

He’s sat himself on one of the benches with red cushions–matching again–, reaching up and feeling along his left shoulder. When he touches it, he makes a sharp sound that makes me look away, not quick enough, though. He glances back up to me with a look that says I shouldn’t ask if he’s alright.

Maybe it’s a hockey injury. Everyone in Canada is crazy about it, I think.

Abruptly, he stands again, “Follow me.” He sounds like he’s still in pain and looks no more eager to be here than he was at the Headmaster’s House, but I guess he was told to show me around, and orders are orders, I guess. Maybe I should be offended, but I can’t blame him. This place isn’t anyone’s idea of paradise.

“This building is divided into five blocks: The Lessons Block for core classes, The Performing Arts Block for fine arts, The Library, The Dining Hall, and The Athletics Block with the gymnasium. It might sound like a lot, but the campus is still relatively small, so no matter where we start, you’ll be able to see everything.” The sudden diplomacy doesn’t match his expression. “Is there anything you want to see first?”

No, but again, I have to say something. “I mean, this is just like any other school, right? I just want to know where my classes are, so I don’t get lost.”

“Alright. I’ll make sure you don’t get lost. There are only sixteen kids in our year, so we all have mostly the same schedule, give or take a few. You should make friends easily.” I swear there’s something bitter about the way he says it, but it’s gone in an instant. And-

“Wait, what? Sixteen kids?”

“There are only 200 students here in total. Pine Mountain is a very small school. That’s why I said it would be easy to find friends.” He says, already, turning down the corridor, “We’re near the library now, so we can start there.”

I hurry to catch up, and he leads me through a set of red double doors into a library with vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows depicting various wildlife. I saw this part of the building from the outside, but still it’s even smaller than I would’ve thought. I guess that tracks with the whole 200 students thing. Damn. That’s going to take some getting used to.

While Rafael talks, I track a bear as it leaps for salmon across four windows. When the salmon meets a glittering end in the bear’s jaws, I move on to hares digging burrows and then birds making nests until I’m back at the bear.

It’s not that the library isn’t interesting or that if I listened, I couldn’t come up with a question or two; in fact, I’m sure whatever Rafael’s saying is very helpful, but I can’t think of anything to say. And I can always ask him to explain it again later. Or someone who actually wants to talk to me. Everyone’s bound to be interested in the foreign transfer student, right?

When he’s done, he leads me down a corridor, and then we’re in a building of classrooms. This must be The Lessons Block. All the buildings except the old schoolhouse and dormitories are connected by closed passageways. He says all the core classes are held here. The classrooms are locked for now, but they’ll be open the day before break ends to hand in assignments that were supposed to be done over break, he says. Don’t worry, you’re exempt, he says.

I nod and follow him silently down another corridor. We’re going to the theatre, he tells me.

The theatre takes up most of The Performing Arts Block, accessible down a dimly lit but elegant corridor lined with framed posters lighted by sconces that show past plays and musicals. I spot a few I know, but most of them I have no idea about.

Rafael opens a plain-looking door, and suddenly the space triples in size, the corridor opening out into a cavernous space so dark I think it could swallow me whole, the faint outlines of seats like rows of teeth in the blackness.

“This is the student entrance, the official entryway is on the building’s exterior,” Rafael says as he leads me down a flight of stairs in the centre aisle.

That hardly makes a difference. The theatre is beautiful, small but grand and more gothic than the library. The only light comes from a lamp on stage where choral risers are set up behind a semicircle of orchestra chairs. They must’ve had a holiday concert.

“Pine Mountain is small enough that we don’t need a balcony, and keeping the building’s height low makes it easier to heat, so they fitted the whole thing out a bit like a giant set of risers.” He explains, nodding to the setup on the stage.

“Cool,” I say lamely, still staring around the space. Summerville is a STEM specialist school; it had some music extracurriculars, of course, but its theatre was a purely practical space, intensely lit so we could see the weekly guest lecturers.

Rafael, with his dark clothes, fits in here. I was right about him before; in the dark, he does almost disappear. But I look anyway, straining my eyes in the dark. It hurts a little, the artificial night a sharp contrast from the bright snow and the natural light of the library, but my eyes adjust quickly. I’m glad because I feel like turning the lights on would ruin this place’s beauty a little, somehow.

Rafael continues on with the tour, but it’s just like in the library. The building as a whole is more interesting than the number of bricks used to build it or whatever dumb trivia they put in whatever tour guide they had him memorise.

There must be a lot of fucking bricks because I run out of things to look at before Rafael’s done talking, so I just look at him. He’s taller than me, enough that I can tell from here, and the only way I can describe him is monochrome, like a character from one of those artsy Who-Done-Its.

His hair is an even darker shade of black than mine, the kind of natural ink-black that you hardly ever see, made even rarer because his skin is several shades lighter than mine. If his hair is black, then his skin is white. And still his posture is stiff, back perfectly straight. Probably the maybe-hockey injury.

He’s staring through me as he talks, just like he did outside. Maybe he’s that way with everyone. I’m a little worried, though, that he can tell I haven’t heard a word he’s said.

“Quinn, do you have a question?”

I jump, startled somehow, even though I’ve been literally staring right at him. “Huh?”

“You’ve been staring. Do you have a question about the orchestra program?”

Oh, is that what he’s been talking about? Shit. After several seconds too long, I shake my head. “No. No, I just- uh, what instrument do you play?” There. That’s probably a safe question.

“Viola.”

“Oh, great.”

After my brilliant show earlier, I do actually try to pay attention as Rafael takes me through The Athletics Block. It’s a multicourt, and it’s not big, but by now I’m expecting the scale. Apparently, they have a football team here, but I don’t feel like trying out.

Soon, the tour is finished, and he’s leading me to the dormitories, across the plaza this time, instead of back through the building. I try my best to listen as he explains that you can eat lunch out here if you want, but I find my eyes glued to the ground, tracing non-existent patterns in the aggregate, as I follow. He continues, unaware of my apathy (I doubt I’m doing that stellar a job at hiding it), pointing out alumni gift benches as we pass them.

It’s been such a long day… it really has.

“Can we be quiet?” The words come out far sharper than I want them to and too loud in the snowy silence of the plaza, and he spins to face me, startled and shrinking in on himself like a scared little kid. I don’t know what to do with it, or my sudden exhaustion. “Sorry. But please.”

He nods, then opens his mouth as if to speak again, but seems to decide against it.

“What?”

He says nothing. I stare at him. It’s rude, I know, and he looks uncomfortable, but I can’t help it. It feels strange to look at someone like this, to have to puzzle out what they’re feeling from bits and pieces when normally all you have to do is glance at the whole. It makes my eyes hurt a bit.

“Okay, you don’t have to be silent.”

“You said-”

“I can tell you want to ask me something. So ask.”

He hesitates again, but finally he does ask. “Are you alright?”

Does he care? He’s asking as he cares. He didn’t seem thrilled about this arrangement before, but his face is somewhat more amiable now. After way too long, I make myself nod. But he seems the kind of person who likes to hear things out loud, so I add, “I’m okay, thanks. I’m just tired.”

His expression changes a little into what I think is an attempt at a smile. It’s hard to tell because only his mouth has moved, brows still furrowed slightly, in a way that gives the expression a sort of wariness. But if it is a smile, it’s forced, stretched too wide and doesn’t curve up enough, and it hasn’t reached his eyes. It’s a peculiar chimaera of an expression.

His tone is far kinder than before, though, no longer bitter and bored. “I see. You must’ve had a long flight, and the benches are kind of boring, aren’t they? I’m sure you can read them for yourself sometime. Apologies, the Headmaster said, to show you everything.” He looks around from the snow to the benches to the cloudy, grey sky. “I suppose he didn’t really mean it, did he?”

Everything.

That makes me laugh. It’s kind of a relief, honestly. “Did he? I think I can find the toilets by myself, thanks.”

He stands and stares for a few seconds, tapping out a rhythm against the back of a bench. The snow swallows the sound, but I imagine it’s like a woodpecker.

“I was joking.”

“I figured. I didn’t want to laugh, though, just in case I got it wrong. Sometimes I get it wrong. It was funny, though.”

“Eh, it’s fine. You should laugh at me sometimes, to keep me humble, you know.” To keep me tethered to this plane. Or else my mind will just wander right off.

He looks confused again, but this time, he laughs. “I don’t think you’re arrogant.”

He’s so sincere, I feel a little guilty. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh. Well, I still don’t think you’re arrogant.”

“Erm… thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” The words have a quality of certainty to them, like all this snow, I’m not quite sure what to do with.

Then, after a pause, he picks up as if none of that happened. “Speaking of the restrooms, though, the doors to both restrooms have lynx paws on them, so you just have to remember which is which. Though I guess you could use either one.”

I follow his gaze downward slightly to the pin on my jumper. A black cat with a knife in its mouth that says “they/them” that I forgot I put on there. This woollen thing has been stuffed in the back of my closet for ages because it never gets truly cold enough to wear it back home. It’s plenty freezing here, though. Bloody Canada. “Ah, yeah. I just use the girls, though; it’s usually cleaner.” And I don’t want to get beaten up. “And you get to hear all the gossip.”

He frowns at that. “I don’t think there’s anything worth hearing.”

“Probably not. But thanks for the tip.” Maybe I shouldn’t have tuned him out before. Oh, well. Too late now.

“It is my job to show you around.” His laugh is awkward this time. I don’t entirely mind. In fact, I’m disappointed when the sound fades quickly into the cold air, swallowed like his tapping, by the forest around Pine Mountain’s campus.

“Do you board? Live in the dormitories, I mean?” I ask, mostly just so he’ll talk again. The silence is a bit unnerving. Of course, I realise only after I’ve asked how shitty it is of me to bring up his maybe being left here for the holidays.

“No, I live in the neighbourhood up the street. Most people live close to campus. There’s a small shuttle that goes around and gets everyone, but I live close enough to walk.”

“You walk? In this weather!” The words burst out too theatrical, but I’m too tired to care.

“Yes.” He frowns.

“I just meant, isn’t it cold?”

“It is,” he nods, “objectively. But I’ve lived here for my entire life, so I’m used to it.”

“Makes sense.” He makes a lot of sense. I probably sound like an idiot.

—

At last, we stop at the small building marked as the dormitory. It’s tiny, more like a large terrace house than a dormitory. It looks a bit like home. That’s nice, at least. Still, I don’t want to go in yet.

We’re kind of staring at each other now, and I regret my hesitation.

“Quinn,” Rafael says my name suddenly, experimentally. It sounds different in his accent, foreign. “Is that short for something?”

For some reason, I can only shake my head.

“If you don’t mind me asking, were you lying earlier? About your bag, I mean.”

“Caught that, did you?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not so good with these things.”

“Yeah. Your Headmaster is a fucking creep.”

“He is?”

“Well, perhaps not, but I don’t like his vibe.”

Rafael blinks as if processing that, then, “Fair enough. If it helps, he mostly stays in his office. I haven’t seen much of him in my few months here.”

“That’s probably better.”

He nods. Then, “Pine Mountain Academy might be small but it actually has very few boarding students. You won’t have a roommate. And everyone has left me completely alone since I joined, so if you like to be alone, it won’t be hard.”

I wince. The kids here probably think they’re bullying him. But actually, it’s kind of funny.

“Cool.” Except I don’t like to be alone. I search for something, anything I can say to push away the silence that’s rushing in. I’m glad, really, I’m glad that I won’t have to stumble around this place on the first day with my nose in a map, I’m glad that I’ll at least get to have a bit of privacy, I’m glad that he told me. It’s a hard thing to put into words. Most things are, but glad, especially, I think. “Erm, thanks for the tour, coming in over the holiday and all, even if you do live close.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Before I can think of something else to say, just to stall solitude a bit longer, Rafael is letting me into the dormitory lobby and saying goodbye.

He waves to the woman at the front desk, and then he’s walking home, and I’m alone.

I try to watch as he goes, but the snowfall makes it hard. I’m too cold to try for long anyway. Hopefully, my room is warm.

NEXT CHAPTER

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duo / deux

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tria / trois

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quattuor / quatre

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interlude : fünf

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six

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septem / sept

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octo / huit

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Elise must see the questions on my face because she turns thoughtful. “Hmmm, how to best explain it? Well, first you must understand about pocket dimensions. Magick is a part of everything, including things in your world, what we Magickal beings call The Original Domain–that being everything that existed before Earth’s intervention, which is to say everything that evolved naturally–but there are places where the Magick has been gathered up and made ‘thicker’ so to speak, until it formed a wall. Certain areas were walled off to create what are known as pocket dimensions. These dimensions that Magickal beings call home exist all over Earth and are collectively known as The Extraworld. Witches, like myself, can travel between them using portals, and so can most other beings, but if one so wished, they could also simply walk. Maintaining a true pocket dimension of such a size is impossible, even for a being as powerful as Earth, so The Extraworld, while hidden and inaccessible to Originals–non-Magickal beings, has to follow the rules of this plane. It takes up physical space and cannot remain stable if too many things occupy the same space, which is the problem Earth encountered. As human development expanded, there became less and less room for pocket dimensions, so, as you read, Witches were enlisted to protect the unoccupied areas of the natural world, to keep them safe for Earth’s rightful use. Now, on to your question: Like any dimension, the Extraworld has areas where the ‘walls’ naturally thin. These are frequently used entrances and exits for Witches, and we maintain them with Wards and charms and all of that, and for the rest of the dimension, ensuring it does not tear. Normally, this isn’t too much of a problem. Every pocket is fairly large, and even for the most clever creatures, the doors are hard to find. Most simply don’t bother. But any wall can be broken with sufficient brute force. That is what the Ébauches have done. They are desperate to return home anyway they can and are tearing the walls down to find a way to get there.”

novem / neuf

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decem / dix

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undecim / onze

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duodecim / duoze

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trēdecim / treize

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interruption : vierzehn

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sedecim / seize

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