she said, turning to me. ‘The red-haired girl. I saw you admiring her work. She’s very talented.’
I blushed. ‘She is.’
‘She’ll meet you before class and bring you along.’ She sat down at the desk and picked up the pen, hand hovering over the page. I stood, waiting for some kind of detail – a time, a day even – but she said nothing. After a moment, she looked up, as though surprised to see me there. ‘That’s all then, Violet.’
In the corridor outside, the cool, fresh air made the studio seem suddenly stifling, my lungs thick with turpentine and paint, eyes adjusting to the light of day. A short, round-faced girl with a shadow of hair above her lip stood waiting, eyeing me nervously. I looked at her, ashamed for us both, and hurried away, though where to, I wasn’t sure.
The soles of my shoes clapped against the marble floor, heart thudding in my chest. I was alone, the place deserted, silent but for the infrared hum of the scanners below. I peered over the rim of the mezzanine that circled the entrance hall, all Doric columns and gold railings, mahogany cases behind housing grinning taxidermied voles, death masks, and candied jewels.
I had been reading some fiendishly dull (yet still to this day widely read) textbook on the history of realist art and – lulled by the numbing warmth of the old radiators and seams of afternoon sunlight that filled the top floor – had fallen asleep at my desk. When I woke, I found a sky-blue paper bird folded on top of my book, a precise, delicate little thing. I unfolded it, gingerly, and stared down at the words. ‘Welcome to the club. Campanile, 6 o’clock sharp. Brace yourself. R.’ I looked out of the window, and saw the clock’s black hands click on – 5:50pm – threw my books into my bag, and ran.
I heard footsteps behind, a mumbled curse. The Dean of Students was balancing a teetering stack of books on one arm as he stumbled across the mezzanine opposite. ‘Violet,’ he said, catching my eye. ‘What on earth are you doing here so late?’ His voice echoed across the hall. Loath to shout back (my own voice reedy, thin), I waited until we’d met in the middle, by the stairwell, to answer.
‘I was studying, sir. I lost track of time.’
‘Evidently.’ He chuckled. ‘You know, the library closes to students at four, except for around finals.’
‘I didn’t realize,’ I said. ‘I’ll get out of your way.’
He drew breath, as though about to speak – then paused, resting the books on the ledge. Their spines, leather-bound in different, faded colours, each read of a similar topic: The Persecution of Witches, a History; Demons and Darkness, a Study of the Occult; Contemporary Theories of Magick. I imagined the crash as they fell, willed it a little, to interrupt the conversation I was about to endure.
‘Violet,’ he began, rocking his neck back and forth. (I imagined his muscles loosening, imagined the words: trapezioid, splenius, levator scapulae …) ‘If you’re having trouble making friends …’ He reached a hand for my shoulder, fingers clubbed and nicked with cuts.
‘I’m not,’ I said, abruptly, stepping back.
His hand hung suspended for a moment; then, seeming to remember himself, he slipped it back into his pocket, fingers toying with something underneath. ‘It’s just … Well, you’re here so late. Not that we don’t encourage commitment to one’s studies, but …’
‘I’m friends with Robin. And Grace, and Alex,’ I said, a slight wobble in my voice that could have related to either the intimation that I was friendless and alone or my frustration at being waylaid. I caught a brief flicker cross his face, a shadow of doubt.
‘Well, that’s good,’ he said at last. ‘But do make sure to keep making friends in other groups, too. You don’t want to get tied into a clique, now, do you?’
‘No, sir,’ I lied. I could think of nothing I wanted more.
‘Good, good. I’d better be getting on,’ he said, smile fixed wide as he slid the books into his arms. ‘Help me open this door now, would you?’
I waited until the door closed behind him, and ran down the stairs, catching myself as I tripped once on the third floor, and again on the first. I pushed the heavy main doors open, air bracingly cool, and ran towards the Campanile.
The first bell rang as I stepped under the arch, the noise deafening, vibrating in the air and through the ground beneath my feet. Robin wasn’t there.
I opened the little bird in my palm (now mangled, since I’d been unable to put it back together) and read the words again. 6 o’clock sharp. I peered back through the arches, but the Quad was deserted, silent but for the rustle of leaves between each of the bell’s long tolls. After a moment, I stepped back into the shadows and looked up into the tower’s golden underbelly, then around; following a carved serpent knotted around the grille, I saw it. Another folded note, tucked between the bars. Another bird, this time a deep crimson colour, and more complex than the last. I reached in and plucked it from the grate, and as the last bell fell silent a key fell to the ground with a sharp ring. I scooped it up, and tried the lock.
A crack, a rattle, and the grille slid open, the void black within. I stepped inside, and felt the air begin to sour as the inner door slammed shut, darkness stony and absolute.
‘Hello?’ I whispered, my voice ringing back. I reached around, scraped my knuckles on the stone walls, slammed palms mutely on the door behind. Silence crawled into every space, into the cracks between the bricks, the knots in the wooden door. I plugged the keyhole with my finger, gripped the handle tight, and stood until the air stilled, panic settling heavy around me. I took a deep breath. Was this some kind of initiation? Or – I thought, guts turning over and again – was it simply a cruel joke?
And if so … how long would she leave me here? An hour? Or all night? I felt my heartbeat quicken further as I turned back into the narrow chamber, finding a recess to my right. I took a step towards it, pawing at my pockets for a lighter with one hand (smoking still an affectation more than a habit, an excuse to lurk where the girls might be) and holding my other arm in front, pressed against the damp, creeping walls. In a ridiculous moment of vanity – pretentious, thinking myself some out-of-century bohemian – I’d bought matches, instead. I struck two out, missing the strip in the darkness, before the third caught and the room burst into a brief, warm light.
‘If this were a horror movie, you’d be about to die,’ Robin said, breath hot against my cheek.
‘You bitch,’ I said, my heart thudding, as she bent double, gulping with laughter. ‘What was that for?’ The match burned out, singeing my fingers, and we stood, again, in the dark. She clicked a switch, and a torch lit the chamber in a bright, full beam.
Seeing me again, she leaned against the wall and resumed her hysterics.
‘Sorry,’ she said, as I began to laugh too (though perhaps with relief, rather than any sense of humour about the situation). ‘I just couldn’t resist.’
‘Well, thanks a lot. That’s at least a decade taken off the end of my life.’
‘See! That’s the spirit. I did you a favour. Die young, leave a beautiful corpse, blah blah blah.’ She looked me up and down, a split-second glance that made me immediately aware of my body, filling the narrow space. ‘Come on. Follow me.’ She paused. ‘Lift’s out of order, so we’ve got to walk.’
She swung the torch around to reveal a flight of steps leading upwards, some strange language etched on the ceiling and walls in faded, white chalk. Up we went, the darkness warped and flickering behind Robin’s silhouette, distorted by the light. After two flights, the floor beneath turned from stone to wood; our footsteps echoed loud and hollow, the occasional board wobbling or creaking underfoot in warning. Robin quickly disappeared ahead, her footsteps heavy above, leaving me feeling my way in the dark. I felt my way through turns in the stone staircase, keeping my balance with the wall; lit another match and looked up to see another five or six floors, the light fleeting in the draught that blew it