The classroom door bounces off the wall as I slam it wide and stride into the classroom. Everyone flinches. Even Exie, with a startled look that vindicates my entry before she schools it back into that high-class disapproval she probably learned from her parents. I give her a shark's grin and swagger to the front of the classroom. To the desk right next to her own, in fact. This is already reckless, but her subtle shifting in her seat throws coal on the fire of my sudden loss of self-preservation. I'm done beating around the bush. If this school is used to delinquents, then I'll just have to find out how high their threshold for nuisance is.

Mrs. Hardwork, true to form, beams fondly at Exie. "Welcome back, dear. I heard you were at the library getting a head-start on your project yesterday evening; I can't wait to see what you produce on this assignment."

Something cold simmers through my chest. Of course our esteemed educator only expects anything from Exie. Nobody ever deemed me worth that kind of attention.

Mrs. Hardwork is still going. "I got a message from Mr. Farnworth that you were having difficulty finding a particular book. He passed the matter on for my assistance. I do believe I have another volume on the Santa Clarissa Cathedral in my personal library. If you humor me after class at today's end, I'll do what I can to get it for you."

Exie demoiselle Quinnell is at it again. I'm not sure which rankles me more: the fact that Exie is so obnoxiously committed to her ruse, or the fact that she's already—in a single day of posturing—done more to infiltrate Melliford Academy than all my exploration, espionage, and troublemaking combined.

Exie's eyes light up. "Oh! That would be wonderful. You have your own personal library? If you have books on Santa Clarissa, there must be all kinds of quality literature in there."

I am drubbed with the urge to empty my stomach's contents into someone else's shoes. Any teacher with half a brain should smell that rancid fakery from halfway across southern Englemark, but Mrs. Hardwork lands in the quarter-brain category. Even teachers at a school for minacious students, it seems, aren't immune to flattery.

Mrs. Hardwork preens. "I don't normally display it to students, but I can be convinced to make an exception."

"Do you consider yourself a collector?"

"Oh, only a little. But I am quite proud of my collection. And the Santa Clarissa Cathedral is a particular favorite of mine."

With that, our teacher treats Exie to a conspiratorial wink.

I wish I could say I'm not thinking straight. But the truth is, my thoughts are perfectly clear as I stand up, grab my chair, and drive it straight through the classroom window.

Glass explodes across the school lawn. Students scream, gasp, freeze. And finally—finally—Mrs. Hardwork reacts. For a moment, she's rooted, a shocked mask pasted over her expression. It's chased by a shadowed look, then a return of neutrality less placid than before. She's trying to regain that placidity, I can tell. She's failing.

"Mr. Ashcroft," she says, looking me dead in the eye. "Please take this young lady to the meeting room."

I realize too late that there's someone behind me. A hand like iron locks around my upper arm. The pale-eyed man from the end of yesterday's class looms at my side. "Come," he says. It's not a request.

"And if I don't?" I spit back.

"Here at Melliford Academy, we prefer when students do things voluntarily. We find it saves a great deal of grief for all parties involved."

"That's too bad."

I lunge sideways. I succeed only in wrenching my shoulder and making an undignified spectacle of myself in front of Exie. She's staring at me like she too has misplaced her haughty mask. Mr. Ashcroft tows me down the aisle. He's not even holding tight enough to hurt, except when I throw myself against his inhuman grip. Something feral grips my consciousness. I buck against that grip, snarling, writhing and kicking like a trapped jackrabbit. My foot catches a desk-leg. It's wrenched free, so I snare another, and this time lock a leg around until Mr. Ashcroft pries me loose. I grab it instead. He frees my hand. I collapse both legs. His grip keeps me standing. This man can't be human. Maybe they're all vampires here, and I should snatch some religious iconography for self-defense. But all iconography was already here, which means anyone here is either immune or accustomed to it. I should have stocked up on garlic.

Then Mr. Ashcroft pries me off the doorway, we're out into the long, empty hall. There's nothing more for me to latch onto. I'm not going to accomplish much by struggling here, so I resolve to make the most of wherever I'm taken. Maybe it'll be a headmaster's office. That'd be a windfall for my exploration. Any room I haven't been to will be, really, especially if it's where students get taken when they've misbehaved. If it's secure, I'm sure it could be barricaded in a pinch. I'm assuming I'm going to need a lockable hideout before this semester is over.

The room is exactly one of those things. It's not a headmaster's office. It is a glorified closet with a heavy door, a church pew at one end, and a single desk at the other. Not even a chair behind the desk. Which is a pity, because I would definitely find a way to weaponize one given half a chance. Mr. Ashcroft walks me inside, walks me to the pew, and sits me on it. "Stay," he says, like I'm a puppy in need of housebreaking.

I want to spit on his shoes and lunge past him out the still-open door, but my sense of self-preservation has at least partly returned to me. I cross my arms and glare at him as he returns to the door. "The headmaster will be here to see you shortly," he finishes, and leaves. He locks the door behind him.

The headmaster. A smile steals across my face as Mr. Ashcroft retreats. Maybe Exie hasn't realized yet that we're after the same thing. I almost hope she has, so I'll have the opportunity to rub this in her face. She might have weaseled her way into Mrs. Hardwork's personal library, but I'll be the first to meet the headmaster of Melliford Academy.

I jump up and test the desk across the room. It's nailed to the floor. Of course it is. I check it for drawers, but they're all open-faced, and there's nothing in them. I wiggle their bottom shelves. None are loose, and the nails that rivet them are as thick as my pinky. I would need a hatchet to dismantle this thing, and if I had a hatchet, I wouldn't need the desk drawers. I try the pew, too. It's unsecured, but also solid wood and too weighty to do anything except barricade the door with. I'd need at least a second person to move it anyway. There's a hymnal shelf built along the underside of its seat, though so I run a hand along that. It meets something almost immediately.

There's a book in there. A hymnal or bible, I assume, with a fine leather cover already tangible to my fingertips. I try to draw it out the narrow slot I've shoved my hand through, but it needs to leave the same way it went in. I give it a good shove. A weathered, beaten volume tumbles to the ground under the pew. I pick it up and catch my breath. There's no title embossed on the cover. There is an angel.

Footsteps outside. I shove the book down the back of my shirt's waistband on reflex. I'm no twig, and I know from experience that anything book-sized disappears from immediate and implied view the moment I drop my blazer over it. A key rattles in the door's lock. Instinct drives me to the back wall. Then I remember this is a school, and almost relax until I remember it's a school for criminal children whose parents have given them up to be broken. At least if Exie is to be believed. It occurs to me only now that she knows an uncanny amount about such things, but I'm given no time to dwell on my revelation before the door swings open.

I don't know what I was expecting, but the headmaster of Melliford Academy still manages to defy those nonexistent expectations. He's a frail, grandfatherly-looking man with an abbott's smile and priestly clothes embroidered with enough crosses to give the devil a hernia. I retreat warily to the pew. Not because I expect him to jump me—he's in his eighties at minimum—but because I won't trust anyone here until I know what's going on, at which point I will likely trust them even less.

The headmaster gives Mr. Ashcroft a cordial nod, then a second nod towards the door. The man leaves with visible reluctance. I decide to take that as a compliment. Then the door thuds shut again—not locked—and I'm left in the room with grandpa Melliford.

"Desdemona Winchester, was it?" he says. His eyes crinkle from a lifetime of smiling.

I want to say "Des" again just to see how he'll respond. But being faced with true authority shackles my tongue. It always does. "Yes, sir."

"I'm Headmaster Massingham, if I come unintroduced," he says. "I was informed that you had an incident in class today."

It's not a question, and there's no obvious answer other than admission of my crime, so I remain silent. He doesn't seem to want an answer anyway.

Leander Massingham—if this is indeed the commissioner of those creepy angel paintings—dons an almost regretful expression. "That is to be expected, I suppose. You have just been transplanted halfway across the continent, far from family, adjusting to an entirely new social system. I imagine it is quite ungrounding."

He's trying to lure me into a false sense of security. I remain mute in my seat. Massingham unlinks his hands and slips them into his sleeves instead. He could have a knife in there. My eyes dart to his chest, where a sizeable silver cross dangles on a not-thin chain. I could likely rip that off him in a fight. If the metal is solid, it would make a handy weapon.

Massingham nods to himself, squinting up at the ceiling. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I think I shall let this one slide. Why don't you take the rest of the day off, Des? Take a walk around the ground if it calms your mind, or take time to unpack your things if you haven't already. I also have it on good authority that the library is nice and quiet under Mr. Farnworth and Mx. Nibley's supervision. I shall let Mrs. Hardwick know not to expect you, and to fill you in on any necessary material the next time you meet. Hopefully this is not too much of an imposition on your routine."

If I stiffen any further, I'm going to break. I didn't tell him to call me Des, and while I'm not saying no to a day off, there's no way this isn't a trap. What for, though, I haven't a clue. If it is one, it's not like any I've ever encountered before.

"Do you have any questions for me, Des?" says Massignham, turning to me.

"Why?" I blurt out.

"Hm?"

I can't make words do what I want them to, so I gesture around. "That's it? A day off and a free pass from my teacher? No letter home? No public service? You didn't even take me to your office." Habit catches me as I finish the sentence, and I add, "Sir."

Massingham's surprise would be endearing if it didn't make my skin want to slither off my body and crawl away without me. It's followed by a look of mild concern. "And why would we?" he says. "You have a lot on your mind, and windows are, of course, replaceable. No one was hurt. We do not wish to degrade our students with menial labor, and a momentary outburst is hardly worth troubling already troubled parents with. We have seen far worse before."

I want to shoot something witty back at that, but my insubordination is swallowed by something far less whetted. I'm not supposed to feel reassured here, I'm sure. Certainly not valued, when I just smashed a window in the middle of class. Except that those seem to be the exact sentiments Massingham seems keen to instill in me.

"Do you object to my propositions?" he says, having given me ample time to reply.

I shake my head meekly. "No, sir."

"Very well. Then you are free to enjoy your afternoon."

He glides to the door and opens it for me. I still expect an attack as I pass him, but none comes. And then I'm out. I'm free. I can bolt if I need to. Instead, I identify the nearest statue large enough to hide me, and pretend to graciously take my leave. Massingham goes the other direction. The same direction Mrs. Hardwork did the first time I stalked her. This time, I see where he goes. It's a nondescript door that he opens without a key, though I could have sworn it was locked when I first tested it. I mark it mentally, then break cover and make a beeline past it to my secret room. I need to investigate this book.

Like this chapter if you suspect Des is headed straight through that door  😂

Comment what you think the book might be!