EIGHT: THE DINING HALL

Orla

The slow, sinuous glide of morning sunlight across her face stirred Orla into awareness.

She blinked groggy eyes open, and instead of seeing faded shiplap on the ceiling, she saw painted stone with fancy wood moldings and rainbow splotches where the light caroused through the crystal lamp by the desk. Her desk.

It wasn't a dream, she marveled, sitting up. She touched the fluffy comforter, then reached for the quilt, bunching the stiffer material in her hand. It was real. I'm really at Bilarthus.

Across the room, Vera snored in her bed, tucked beneath the blankets.

Orla knew it was early yet, so she tried to be quiet as she got up and started to inspect her side of their dorm. She hadn't had much of a chance the night before, too tired to do anything more than change into pajamas, open the empty wardrobe, and set her bag inside. Now she looked at the desk and all its drawers, finding them and the shelves above it all empty.

Makes sense, she reminded herself. I haven't gotten any of my school things yet. Even as the thought occurred to her, a nervous frisson upset her hungry stomach, twisting about it like a barbed wire. Master Porter said they had a fund for children like her, but how much would it cover? Would it be enough for everything she needed? What did someone need when attending a school for Seraphium?

Vera snorted and jerked awake like someone had stuck her in the backside with a needle. She grunted a garbled, "Whatimeizzit?"

Confused, Orla blinked at her, and Vera blinked back, slowly gaining cognition. "Oh," she finally said, rubbing at her eyes, patting the bonnet she'd tucked her curls inside. "Sorry, what time is it?"

"I...dunno."

Grumbling, Vera reached for the nightstand and picked up her wristwatch. "Not yet seven. What are you doing up?"

"I guess I'm usually up this early," Orla replied. The walk to school had always been long, and Morty typically got restless around dawn. She'd go down to make her breakfast and find Mr. Byrne already awake, looking as if he hadn't gone to bed. The bastard. "I'm excited, too."

Vera hummed and nodded, still half-asleep, so Orla went to the wardrobe to get her bag and find a change of clothes. When she opened it, she paused upon seeing all her clothes hung on hangers or folded on the clean shelves.

"Did you—? How did my stuff get put away?"

"Hmm?" Vera asked, sluggishly getting about. "That? The furniture does it sometimes."

"...the furniture?"

"Mhm. Master Porter explained to me last year that with so many Seraphium in one area, unexplainable things are far more likely to happen. Sometimes it's good, and sometimes it's not. Another girl had all her shoes stuck to the ceiling one day. She had to find one of the Masters to come and get them down."

Fortunately for Orla, her shoes were exactly where they were meant to be, and she was able to grab her things and make for the showers in the shared bathroom down the hall. Despite the early hour, other girls were already inside, two chatting by the row sinks, another at the marble counter, leaning forward to see her face in the gilded mirror and apply mascara. Another was in one of the shut shower stalls, the sound of water splashing on the green and blue tiles.

Orla ducked her head and hurried past them, not wanting to be cornered in a bathroom. That had happened one too many times with Marissa Mallard and her goons. However, her luck didn't hold when she was on her way out after cleaning up; one of the girls called out, "Hey—who are you?"

She was pretty—they all were. Her chubbiness rounded her pink cheeks and complemented the rich mahogany color of her bouncy hair. Another of the girls was tall and very blonde. Not in the way that Orla was blonde, which is to say rusty and drab, with an odd tangle of flyway strands never making it into her hair tie. No, the girl was a statuesque blonde with hair like well-shined gold spilling from her scalp. The third was slighter than the other two, with dark hair and red polish on her nails, her skin still wet from the shower. The fourth, still at the mirror, had dark gray skin that nearly matched her uniform's blazer, a sharp pair of ears parting her braided hair.

"I, uh, I'm Orla. I'm a new student."

"Oh, a transfer?" the first girl said, Orla not bothering to correct her. Maybe being a transfer student was better than being thought a weirdo who'd been in a normal high school only days before. "Cool! I'm Peridot, and that's Katherine—." She pointed to the blonde, who gave a bored wave. "Itla—."

"Crane," the shorter girl fresh out of the showers corrected.

"Itla Crane, and that there's Sovie."

The girl at the mirror didn't bother to turn around. Orla nodded at the introductions and eyed the open doorway, hedging closer while she clutched her dirty clothes to her chest.

"Where's your uniform?" Crane said, and by her snide tone, Orla guessed she really meant, "What on earth are you wearing?" Orla glanced down and tugged at her t-shirt, having picked what she thought to be her best clothes, though her shirt and jeans didn't compare to the uniform's quality. Orla hoped Master Porter would find her new clothes soon.

"I haven't gone to pick up my things yet," Orla told her, and she received a skeptical look in return.

"You're not some kind of Bloodless, are you?"

"Bilarhl's bones, Itla! You can't go asking people that," Peridot complained. "It's so rude!"

"Why? It's a simple question. I can't ask questions?"

"Not like that!"

"You're both annoying." The mascara clicked in Sovie's hand as she pressed the cap onto the tube. She turned enough to level a mean look at the group, revealing her odd eyes, the sclera black and her irises a murky pink. "Let the new girl leave. She wants out of the room, you dolts."

"Oh! Sorry, didn't mean to block the way!" Peridot shuffled to the side despite not really being in the way of the entrance. Orla was simply suspicious of getting too close. "It was nice meeting you!"

"You—you too," Orla said, awkwardly stepping past the group into the corridor. She thought she heard Crane scoff, but Orla didn't care to stick around and find out if she did. Instead, she went in search of her dorm, relieved to find it where she'd left it, Vera shuffling on her shoes and yawning widely into her hand.

"Ready for breakfast?" the other girl asked as she stretched. "We should get there early so you have time to eat and meet with Master Porter."

Orla nodded, her stomach rumbling in agreement. She froze when she felt Morty's cold, feather-light weight coming to rest upon her shoulder, preening his incorporeal plumage, and she glanced at Vera, waiting for a reaction. The other girl continued to get ready for her day. She tucked textbooks into her leather satchel, followed by a hardcover journal and a series of fountain pens. She looked up at Orla and did not see Morty.

"Ready? Meals are in Callisto Hall."

Orla studied Morty from the corner of her eye, his shadowy head canted as if observing her in turn. He sent questions at her: ready? Ready?

No one can see him, she thought. Is he a Talent? Or something else?

"Yeah, I guess I'm ready."

Vera led Orla back through Ganymede Tower, the main floor less crowded so early in the morning, though a few students still dotted the tables or followed them through the doors into the crisp morning air. More than one person paused to stare at Orla.

Callisto Hall resided closer to the main administration building she'd visited the day before, Jupiter Forum, connected by a long courtyard and a commons surrounded by ivy-laden walls. Gardens encompassed it, penned in by iron fences and gates with tidy nameplates on them, some swaddled in netting, others wholly encased in glass. A peak inside one showed Orla a jungle in miniature, the face of a curious lemur peering back.

"We don't get to visit the gardens without supervision," Vera commented as they approached the towering stone building, the roof pitched and covered in clay tiles, the gable inlaid with more of those eerie statues with their watching eyes. "Not the more exotic ones, anyway. One of the upper Houses tends to them."

They entered the dining hall through the open doors, and Orla paused to take in the scene. Six levels split the hall and circled upwards clockwise, the highest level holding a single long table with large, comfortable chairs on only one side of it so the occupants could view the levels below. The lower tiers held a mixture of square and round tables staggered at different heights, some with benches, some with chairs—but each tier contained a similar table along its inner wall bearing a veritable feast of different foods on gold chargers and platters.

"Come on, we're meant to sit over here." Vera didn't hesitate to stride forward, leaving Orla to nearly break her neck as she tried to take it all in. Golden chandeliers hung from the distant ceiling, each lowered to a varied height as to best illuminate an area of the dining hall, but what really caught Orla's were the things flitting between the gilded, festooned arms. They set the crystals to tremble and spin.

"What—what's that?" she asked. Vera didn't need to look up.

"Fairies," she answered, undeniably smug in her knowledge. Orla got the feeling she'd been the one asking questions last year, and she enjoyed being able to answer them now. "Luminare Minor, to be exact, and the Fae do not take kindly to being compared to them. I would suggest against doing so."

"The—the Fae?"

"Of course."

Vera chose one of the more reasonably sized tables for the pair to sit at, but first directed Orla to grab a plate and find what she wanted at the banquet table.

"And it's—free?" she asked, feeling gauche for having to say anything. "At my other school, getting food in the cafeteria costs money."

Vera's reply came out tartly. "Well, seeing as this is a boarding school, they can't let you starve." Then, she added. "It's covered in tuition."

Orla still didn't know exactly how that was being paid, so Vera's answer left her with more questions. Shrugging, she grabbed one of the heavy ceramic plates and piled on waffles and strawberry compote. She had best get what she could before someone came around and told her otherwise.

By the time they'd returned to their seats, Orla and Vera had been joined by two boys, both apparently in their year. The first was average in height but lean, with easy, assured grace as he used his hands to speak. It looked as if he'd left his short black hair purposefully messy, and it had a strange white streak in it, like a sprig of off-colored grass growing right in the middle of his head. He had the collar of his blazer popped against his neck, his tie loosened.

Next to him, the second boy looked as if he'd had difficulty leaving his bed, and though he'd taken more care with his appearance, he hadn't quite managed to tuck in the tail of his shirt. His chestnut hair fell into his hazel eyes, and a heavy smattering of freckles crossed his cheekbones. When Orla and Vera sat down, it seemed as if he looked at Orla's shoulder—at Morty—but then he frowned as if confused, lowering his attention to his meal.

"This is Lucas Thornhaven and Alex Anderson," Vera said, pointing to the first boy and then the second. "Don't mind Thornhaven. He has no manners."

"Nice to see you too, Cicero," Thornhaven said after munching on his cereal. "Whose the new meat? Why doesn't she hav'ta wear the uniform?"

"She does," Vera quipped. "Chew with your mouth closed."

Thornhaven rolled his eyes, then jerked his chin toward Orla. His friend Anderson was looking at Orla's shoulder again, squinting, then shaking his head. "Where you from, then?"

"Maine?" she answered, uncertain. "I'm starting school...late."

"Never heard of that before," he said, jostling Anderson. "Have you, Alex?"

"No," the boy admitted. His deep voice surprised Orla, slow and calming in contrast to Thornhaven's rougher accent. "But, it does not seem impossible for it to happen. It is simply unlikely."

"Eh," Thornhaven grunted. "The school should know what it's doing, at any rate. Maine? Didn't know they had a sanctum up there, though."

"They don't," Vera said, testy.

"Wait, does that mean you're Bloo—?"

Under the table, Anderson thumped his knee against Thornhaven's, and the other boy choked, ducking his head.

"See?" Vera muttered in an undertone. "Mannerless."

"What I meant to say," the boy grumbled, glaring. "Is it's nice to meet you—uh, whatever your name is."

"It's Orla Tiernan."

"Tiernan? Definitely Bloodless."

Again, Anderson thumped Thornhaven under the table, throwing in an accompanying dirty look. Orla was getting tired of being confused.

"What is that?" she demanded, trying to keep her tone friendly. "'Bloodless?' I don't understand."

Thornhaven reached up to scratch at his head, right around the white sprig. "Yeah, not really supposed to go saying it around. Sorry about that. It's what we call Seraphium who don't have Seraphium parents."

"And you can tell that by my last name?"

He shrugged. "Tiernan's not a Seraphium name. Not one I've ever heard of, at any rate."

"You somehow know every Seraphium's last name?" Orla deadpanned. Thornhaven flushed, and Anderson hid a soft smile in his hair, eating a slice of his orange.

"No, I don't. No one does—but regionally, most families know each other, and once you join a House, you learn the names of most everyone else in the House, no matter where they are in the world. Just never heard the name Tiernan before," Thornhaven defended. "I didn't mean nothing by it. I don't care if you're Bloodless." Vera laughed—short and sarcastic. "I don't! Really!"

"Oh." Orla popped a bite of strawberry into her mouth and chewed, thoughtful. Was my father a Seraphium? Was he not? Does it matter? She glanced at Thornhaven. Huh. Wonder if he's heard the name Byrne before?

The boy moved on from the fraught conversation and prodded Vera's arm, earning an annoyed hiss for his efforts. "Hey, Cicero. Have you finished Davidson's essay for Languages and Literature?"

"Of course I have."

"Can I read it?"

"No!" Vera answered, scandalized. "I'm not letting you copy!"

"Aw, c'mon...."

Slowly, as breakfast continued, Orla watched other students drift into the hall. The levels filled up, the younger students below them, the rest older—those on the level below the top one being the oldest of all, though Orla couldn't guess a proper age. Unlike the underclassmen, their uniforms had color to them—stripes on their sleeves, jewels on their tie pins, symbols on their capes instead of simple white circles. Above them, the staff sat enjoying their meal, though Orla couldn't see them very well past the sunlight filling the stained glass window at their backs.

It's beautiful here, she thought. Why would Mr. Byrne try to deny me this? Does he really dislike me so much?

Something terrible occurred to her, and Orla's hand hesitated with her fork almost reaching her mouth, dropping waffle on the table.

Does he blame me for what happened to my parents? Master Porter told me I was the only one who survived. Does he blame me for them dying?

Orla didn't know the answer, and didn't want to know. She continued to peruse the hall, observing the students and all the strange and marvelous things they could do. Her casual inspection eventually brought her attention back to their level, to one of the tables in the corner. Each table sat several people and it had grown crowded. Roughly fifty second-years had joined Orla and the others, so the far table with its sole occupant was an oddity.

A girl sat there, tall and pale with black hair drawn into a bun, primly dressed with her uniform buttoned to the throat, her hands covered in dark gloves. When she lifted her eyes to blankly meet Orla's curious stare, they flashed a cool, mirror-like silver. She sipped a cup of coffee with nothing else in front of her.

"Who's that?" Orla asked, wondering why no one else had taken one of the several seats surrounding the girl. Thornhaven looked over his shoulder to see who Orla meant, then sat forward with a huff, shaking his head.

"Arden Raferty," he told her, keeping his voice low. "I wouldn't go messing with her, Tiernan. Her daddy's a Nightshade. I'm guessing you don't know what that is, but trust me: that's bad news."

Again, Orla found herself at a loss for words. "Her dad's a, uh, plant?"

Thornhaven's expression suggested he thought her more than a bit stupid, but if he had something else to say, he didn't get the chance. A stilted silence swept over their level as Master Porter descended from the instructor tier, and Orla hunched her shoulders when she found herself the center of everyone's inquisitive looks.

"Good morning, Miss Tiernan," Master Porter greeted. "If you're finished eating, it would be best for us to visit the Arbitrator now and get your schedule arranged before classes begin."

"Okay." Orla hurried to her feet, soundly knocking her knee into the underside of the table. Someone snickered, then hushed under Master Porter's unimpressed regard.

"Master Porter?" Vera asked.

"Yes, Miss Cicero?"

"May I come?" When the older woman raised a questioning brow, Vera went on to explain. "So Orla doesn't get lost afterward. We're bound to have most of the same classes, right? I can show her the way."

Master Porter didn't spend long considering it. "Yes," she said, a note of relief in her stern voice. "You will come along with us. I'll write you a note if things run over."

"Thank you, Master." Vera pushed her plate away and stood, managing not to bruise any limbs as she grabbed her satchel. Orla, already red in the face from the sudden attention, felt her blush deepen further as she fumbled for something to do with her hands, settling on sticking them in the pockets of her jeans.

Why'd she want to come? She looked sidelong at Vera. The other girl nervously tucked a curl behind her ear and adjusted her satchel's strap to sit on her shoulder. We've only just met. Is she trying to trick me? A lifetime in Dirgemore with the likes of Marissa Mallard had taught Orla not to trust others her age. Finding out she'd been lied to her entire life by her grandfather didn't help matters. But, Vera only smiled, and she, by all accounts, seemed genuine when she did so.

Orla mustered her courage and told the stupid anxiety in her gut to settle down. She'd gotten into the car, abandoned everything she knew in life; that had been much harder than making a friend should be.

With that decided, Master Porter made for the steps, and Orla and Vera followed. As an afterthought, Orla glanced behind them toward their table—and then the far table beyond. Thornhaven and Anderson had gone back to chatting, but the spot where the silent, dark-haired girl had been sitting was vacant, the half-empty coffee cup abandoned. No one else seemed to notice or care.

"Orla?"

Hearing her name, Orla turned away and hurried down the steps afterMaster Porter and Vera. She left her considerations behind.

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