Same School, Different Day?

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Fairfield Academy, Kuyahoora Valley, Adirondack Foothills

The early morning had a slight chill in the air, the warm days were fleeting. Soon the trees would be bare, their naked limbs searching for warmth of a Sun hidden by endless gray clouds. Emory hadn’t said goodbye to Senna. She hadn’t needed to. 

The pull had come again the night before—stronger, deeper, like something ancient in her blood pulling at her like the tides. 

The town car appeared without explanation, idling patiently at the end of the trail that wound through the woods from the lodge. When she’d stepped out onto the gravel path, duffel slung over her shoulder, it was already waiting—black, sleek, and silent, it had known she was coming. She slid into the backseat, heart pounding in her ears. There was no driver visible when she first approached, and even now, she avoided looking too closely at the figure behind the wheel. 

Constance’s voice intruded into her thoughts, cold sharp. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” 

Emory shuddered. She hadn’t thought of Constance for most of the summer. At least not while she was awake. But now the voice was back. Dry. Acidic. Perfectly timed to ruin things.

She gripped the worn strap of her bag with one hand. The other—reached up and pressed the pendant against her chest, beneath her shirt. Cold. Sharp. Real. The stone flared cold and sharp against her skin—a bite of clarity that grounded her in the moment. Not quite pain. Not what she’d call pain, anyway. But close enough to stop the spin. 

 She did it again. Held it. Pressed it hard. Breathe. One. Two. Three. 

Senna had placed the necklace around her neck at dusk the night before, eyes serious, voice low. “It will keep you safe. But no one can see it, Emory—not yet. Hide it. Protect it. It knows who you are, even if they don’t.”

To ground her growing anxiety, Emory held a conversation with herself. My name is Jane Dora Smith. Not Emella. Not Emory. No one at Fairfield knows. This is a clean slate. Breathe Emory. Jane. Jane darn it. Breathe Jane.

Except for the voices in her head, the hour-long car ride passed in silence. The trees passed in a blur along roads barely wide enough for one vehicle. And then—directly across the road from them. Fairfield Academy appeared out of nowhere.

Even before the car slowed, the weight of the seculin, the old wards woven into the very air made her skin prickle. Even though she didn’t understand what it was, Emory could feel the Wyndec. Her breath caught. The gates were black iron, tall and twisted, their Gothic flourishes curling upward like skeletal fingers clawing at the clouds. 

As the car rolled forward, gravel crunched beneath the tires like bones snapping underfoot. She clenched her fists in her lap, knuckles white, and kept her eyes forward. A thick line of ivy crept up one of the gate’s stone pillars like it was trying to escape. She understood the feeling.

The campus beyond was a strange blend of stately decay and military precision. The main building stood at the center, massive and brooding, its spires stabbing at the sky like accusations. Arched windows stared down like watching eyes, and ivy crawled over the gray stone like veins under translucent skin. Even under the bright blaze of the afternoon sun, it cast its own chill.

Further back, she spotted what she assumed were the dormitories—austere, lined up like soldiers. No-frills. No comfort. Built to last, not to welcome.

The Town Car came to a stop in front of what appeared to be the oldest of the stone buildings. There was an understated sign proclaiming ‘Stave House’ in beautifully painted letters. A knot of students buzzed around the steps, some in overly starched uniforms, others in street clothes—carrying trunks, battered suitcases, and strange cases with locks and glyfts etched into their surfaces. 

Languages rose and fell in the air—some familiar, some ancient, some entirely inhuman. She stepped out of the car, boots crunching on the gravel. She didn’t look back. No one told her what to do. No one greeted her. Perfect.

Feeling like she had multiple voices in her head—all arguing at once, Emory took a deep breath and counted. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Press the pendant. Breathe. One. Two. Three. 

Calming down, but with her heart still thudding, she glanced around. Too many voices. Too many eyes. Too much movement. 

She reached for the pendants again, pressed them into her chest until her eyes watered. Grounded. Here.  Now.

The building ahead of her loomed like a challenge. She squared her shoulders, grabbed her duffel, and started forward, her bag heavy at her side, the pendant burning cold comfort against her skin. Let them think she was nobody. For now.