Page 9 of Hollow
“This is where I leave you,” Mathias squeaks fearfully, pulling his roan to a stop.
I stare at the gates to the school for a moment, expecting them to open toward me as if operated by phantoms, but they remain closed. And from the looks of the snake and key emblem on the center, they’re locked shut.
I glance over my shoulder at Mathias. His face has paled, and his horse is snorting impatiently, either picking up on his fright or the energy of the school. “You know you don’t have to escort me back later,” I tell him. “I won’t tell. I’ll be fine.”
He swallows, looking torn as he mulls that over, chewing on his bottom lip. Then he shakes his head. “You can count on me, Ms. Van Tassel. I’ll be back here at four.” His horse raises its head and paws at the damp earth. “I should go now,” he adds quietly.
He turns the horse around, and they take off at a gallop, disappearing into the woods in a ruddy blur.
I look back to the school. I don’t blame Mathias for leaving. I doubt they would let him past the gates anyway—seems like I’m not even able to go through. I bring Snowdrop closer to investigate, and she, too, begins to protest. She’s always been a good mare when it comes to magic, but my magic is small compared to what is taught behind these stone walls.
The more that I stare at the school, the more it seems like a sentient beast and the more that the gates look like a cage. I came here with my parents when I was a child, and I remember it being this large, endless kingdom in the middle of the woods, flanked by the darkest lake, a lake that seemed to hold monsters in its depths, but all details from that visit are blurred like memories from childhood often are.
And yet, my visit this July seems blurred too. I came up here with my mother to meet with my aunts, an interview and a test that was required for admission. I remember standing outside the gates with my mother, staring in awe at the fog that was still present even in the height of summer, the black, inky surface of the lake, the foreboding feeling of power behind the stone walls, and then…that’s it. I don’t remember anything from being inside. I don’t remember who I met or what we discussed or what anything looked like.
A shiver rolls through me, passing down onto Snowdrop, who snorts anxiously, her skin shivering. I lean down and give her a pat.
“Easy there,” I coo to her, stroking her silky soft neck. “Nothing to be afraid of. It—”
“Katrina Van Tassel?”
I jolt in my saddle, and Snowdrop rears back with a whinny. I manage to stay on, holding her reins in place, staring down beside us where a woman in a hooded cloak has appeared from out of nowhere.
“I’m sorry!” I exclaim as Snowdrop spins around. “You gave us a fright.”
“That’s quite alright,” she says in an even voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Snowdrop lets out another loud snort and a shake of her head, but she’s calming down. I can’t help but stare at the woman, wondering who she is. I’ve never seen her before, and I thought that was impossible in this town.
“I’m Margaret Jansen,” she says. “I know you don’t remember me.”
I blink at her. It’s the strangest thing. When I was first looking at her, I couldn’t make sense of her face, like her features were arranged backward, and now they’re finally coming together to create something I recognize. She’s fairly tall and angular, her thin frame visible despite the thickness of her black cloak. Under her hood is a long, brittle-looking neck and a small face perched on top with a sharp chin, reminding me of a heron. Her cheekbones are hollowed out, as are the circles under her eyes, her lips thin and dry, her brown hair streaked with white and grey. Only her eyes remain bright and shining and very, very dark. The more I stare at them, the darker they seem to grow, making me feel dizzy.
“Of course I do,” I say dumbly. “I met you when I was last here. You showed me around.”
It’s like remembering a dream. None of it is clear—it’s as if the fog that surrounds the campus is doing the same to my brain. But I remember this woman now, sitting with her and my mother in a cold, drafty office, sipping tea with mugwort leaves and talking about my “gifts.” She looked different then, younger somehow, her energy warmer.
She gives me a thin, patient smile as if she can hear my thoughts. Maybe she can. Telepathy is a gift that I may not possess, but perhaps others do.
“I’m sorry we don’t have a welcome committee,” she says, pressing her bony hands together. “First day of school is always a bit chaotic.”
I glance over her head at the school, noticing for the first time how empty it is. Silent. Even the birds are quiet, the air completely still.
“Am I late?” I ask, a thread of panic around my chest. Is this even the right day? My mother had woken me up this morning, talking so fast about my first day at the institute that I couldn’t remember the last time she was this excited about something. Did she get the dates wrong? Should I have been here earlier? Later? All she had said was to meet Mathias at eight.
“Not at all,” the woman says. “You will go at your own pace here. There is no punishment for being late or prize for being early. All that matters is at the end of each semester, you’re able to demonstrate yourself in your tests.” She pauses, casting a shrewd eye over me. “Perhaps we should have a little demonstration now.”
She points at the gate with her thin, white hand. “Are you able to open the gates from where you are?”
I stare at her blankly. “What do you mean?”
“Can you open the gate using your mind?”
“My mind? No. Sorry, I’m a little confused.” Where did she get the idea I was able to do that?
She stops at the gate and looks at me over her shoulder. “We’ve had this discussion before, Katrina.”
“It’s Kat,” I say absently. Another memory comes flooding back. I was sitting in a tall wooden chair in a cathedral-like room with stained glass windows. The windows were covered in red and blue flowers, and when the light came through, it made the stone floor look bruised. I was holding a cup of tea in my hands, steam meeting my face as I sipped it, and there were four cloaked women standing in front of me, their eyes closed and chanting under their breath. Two of them were my aunts, Leona and Ana; the others were Margaret and someone else. Her sister Sophie, I think.