Page 27 of Hollow
I chuckle. “That’s true. But the woods aren’t scary at all. They’re actually beautiful this time of year with the leaves all turning and the smell of frost and woodsmoke in the air. Darkly beautiful. You should go and take a walk. Perhaps go into town, take a look around. Sleepy Hollow gleams in autumn, like a shiny penny.”
He gives me a steady look. “You know we can’t leave the school. We don’t have the same privilege as you.”
I ignore the frostiness on the last sentence. “Have you even tried?”
Paul glances around him warily. The library is fairly busy at the moment, students studying or pulling books off the shelves. The candles flicker at every desk despite there being no draft in the lofty stone building. I think the collective energy of the students agitates the flames.
“No,” he says, lowering his voice. “They were very adamant that we don’t leave the campus. Not until after Samhain, and even then, we would go together as a group.”
“Doesn’t that bother you that they treat you like children? You have to be at least twenty-five. You could be married with children in another life.”
“I’m twenty-three, actually,” he says, giving me a bashful grin. “And yes, it’s peculiar. But who am I to argue or go against their rules? They give us free room and board, and all we need to do in exchange is learn magic.” He wiggles his fingers in the air.
“Sounds a little too good to be true,” I say under my breath as I dip my raven quill in the tiny vessel of blue ink. Crane was insistent that our writing skills needed polishing too, so he’s making us complete the exam in ink instead of pencil. I could use the practice.
“Still, it’s silly to keep you here,” I add, then groan inwardly when the side of my palm smudges the ink, creating a blue splotch on my skin. “Especially since you won’t remember anything of this place when you leave.” What are they so worried about?
Though I’ve only been attending school for a week, each day, there are more things and rules that don’t make any sense to me. For example, I overheard my alchemy teacher, Ms. Choi, talking about how the linguistics teacher actually has a family back home in India, but he had to leave them behind in order to work here. In general, the school won’t accept those who have family since they don’t allow them to bring them, but I suppose he was the exception, maybe because his family is so far away. Perhaps they want him to forget them.
Paul is frowning at me. “I beg your pardon. I won’t remember anything of this place?”
My brows go up. Oh. He doesn’t know?
“You don’t know what happens when you leave?” I ask, and he shakes his head. “You won’t remember your time here. Or you won’t remember what you learn.” I leave out the part where I do remember what I learn with Professor Crane for some reason. “When I go back home tonight, I won’t remember our conversation here, right now. Not until tomorrow when I ride through those gates again.”
Paul rubs his lips together, blinking. “Madness,” he says after a moment, flipping another page of the book until we land on an entry about the Five of Cups, a drawing of a weeping figure beneath. “How can they do that? I don’t recall signing up for memory erasure.”
“I have a feeling it happened when we took our tests,” I say. “Though I still can’t remember much of mine. Can you?”
“No. But they had said that was normal. They never said that would extend into other areas of our education.” He studies my face for a moment. “You must know why they’re doing this. You’re a Van Tassel.”
“Well, don’t let that fool you. My mother is very selective with what she tells me. But from what she said, it has to do with the school not trusting the students enough to keep their studies to themselves. They want to keep everything here as secret as possible.”
“And when we graduate? Then what?”
“She said the magic is ingrained. All you’ve learned will come naturally to you.” He gives me a disbelieving look. “Hey,” I go on. “I’m only repeating what she said. I don’t agree with it.”
“And yet here you are.”
“And here you are,” I counter politely. I tap my quill on the edge of the vessel to get the excess ink off. “Now, back to studying. You know Professor Crane is going to ask the hard questions.”
Paul sits back in his seat briefly, tugging at the ends of his grey suit jacket before straightening up again, newly focused on the book. “Alright. Write down five things the Five of Cups represents.”
This one’s easy, I think as I write down the word grief.
* * *
I wasn’t wrong when I said Professor Crane was going to make his test hard. The moment class started, Crane handed out the test paper and silently pointed to the chalkboard that had the questions scribbled on it, as well as the words: you may leave when you’re done. At least, that’s what I think it said. For a teacher, his penmanship is far worse than mine.
Regardless, I took my time with the test. I still feel like I have to prove I should be here, so the last thing I want is to rush through something and fail because I got too confident or lazy. I have been playing with tarot cards since I was young, but the little booklet that came with the stack (which I had stolen from a box in my mother’s closet) didn’t go into much detail. Some of the cards, I was completely interpreting the wrong way, not knowing all the nuances. The Death card didn’t always mean death? That was news to me.
By the time I finish, having taken extra care not to smudge the ink as I am prone to do, I look up and realize that I’m the last one in the classroom.
I look over at Crane, expecting him to admonish me for taking so long, but his head is in his hands, and his eyes are closed. His black hair is a mess like he’s been pulling on it, and I notice his socks don’t match. He’s usually so refined and put together.
I get up and walk over to his desk, delicately placing the test on top of the pile of others.
“Everyone’s done,” I tell him.