Page 14 of Wicked Bonds (Serpentine Academy #1)

Thirteen

Rose

At the ungodlier hour of six a.m. on Saturday morning, a pounding on my door shocks me awake before I seriously debate just rolling over and pretending I’m dead. But the knock happens again, and then again, each one louder and more determined, so I stagger out of bed and answer it.

Standing in the corridor is a woman who looks like she’s been up since before the invention of clocks. Her gray hair is twisted into a bun so tight it’s threatening to detach her scalp, and she’s wearing a navy dress with a hem below the knee and a high collar buttoned to her chin.

“Miss Smith?” she says, not waiting for a reply. “I am Mrs. Bright. I’m here to assist you with the wardrobe conjuring, as it seems you haven’t managed to handle it yourself.”

My brain, which is in bed, just blinks at her. “Wardrobe what?”

She sighs with the deep exasperation of someone who’s spent her life waiting for people less intelligent than her to catch up.

“Students are expected to conjure their own basic clothing and accoutrements upon arrival. But,” her eyes rake over my t-shirt…

which I slept in… again, “we make allowances for those with… unconventional backgrounds.”

I try not to take that as an insult. “Can I put on pants first?”

“Of course. But do hurry. I have other things to attend to.”

She’s already in the room before I can finish tugging on my jeans, her eyes scanning the sparse decor. She spots the wilted succulent on the windowsill, the battered backpack.

“You’ve made yourself at home,” Mrs. Bright observes, which is rich considering home is a place I’ve never actually had. We moved so much I could never remember where the bathroom light switches were when I got up in the middle of the night to pee.

I decide not to respond. Instead, I cross my arms and wait for her to do whatever it is she’s here for.

“Let’s begin,” she says, clapping her hands once. The sound is sharp, and it makes one of my eyes squint.

She walks over to the closet, which is empty except for a single wire hanger.

“You’ll need at least five complete changes of clothing,” she explains, “plus appropriate footwear, outerwear, and any accessories suitable to your status.”

I stare at her. “Is this like, magical Project Runway?”

She doesn’t crack a smile. “Precisely. Watch.” I’m impressed that she knows what reality tv even is.

She closes her eyes, mumbles something that sounds like Latin, and makes a complex movement with her hands. The air shimmers. On the bed, a perfectly folded stack of clothing appears, then disappears with a wave of her hand.

“Your turn,” Mrs. Bright says, stepping aside.

I lift my arms, trying to remember what she did. The incantation is a blur, but I mash the syllables together and move my wrists. There’s a pop, a sulfurous smell, and a pile of clothing lands on the bed.

It’s a crop-top hoodie in neon tie-dye, a frothy purple tulle miniskirt, two mismatched socks—one bright red and the other green with white polka dots, and a rainbow clown wig.

Mrs. Bright doesn’t blink. She snaps her fingers, and it vanishes in a puff.

“Again,” she says. “Try to focus on intent.”

I focus as hard as I can, but my brain is soup. I flick my hands, and say the magic words. This time, I conjure a pair of black jeans, a threadbare t-shirt that says “ASSHOLE” in cracked lettering, and black non-descript shoes.

“Better,” Mrs. Bright allows. “But next time, make sure you visualize the garment precisely. Specificity is key in conjuration. Also, refrain from offensive slogans unless you wish to accrue disciplinary points.”

We repeat the process a half-dozen times.

Each attempt is a little less embarrassing.

Sometimes the magic rebels and I end up with something weird, like a jacket with seventeen sleeves, a pair of shoes fused together, and once a canary yellow bra with silver spikes that floats in the air for a full minute before Mrs. Bright dispatches it with another snap of her fingers.

When it’s over, my closet has a meager but functional array of clothes—all black, all practical, all things I would actually wear. Mostly jeans, tees, hoodies, two leather jackets and a pair of steel-toe boots that I actually kind of love.

Mrs. Bright surveys the work with a poker face, but I can tell she is personally offended by the lack of color or variety.

“You may wish to diversify your options,” she says. “It is customary to have at least one outfit for formal occasions. Perhaps a dress.”

I don’t reply, and she gives up.

She turns on her heel, then hesitates at the door. “If you need further assistance, do not hesitate to contact me,” she says. Her eyes linger on the shelf where the succulent sits, three leaves left.

She exits in a rush of floral perfume, leaving me alone with my new wardrobe and a faint sense of accomplishment.

I run a hand along the clothes. It’s the most I’ve ever owned at one time. It feels weird that my mom can’t see this.

I try not to think about it. Instead, I pick out an outfit for the day, black jeans, black t-shirt, black hoodie (what else) and get dressed. I lace up the boots.

If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well look like myself.

Breakfast in the dining hall is quieter on weekends, but there’s still a crowd, and most of the students look like they were raised by a pack of wolves, judging by their table manners.

Come to think of it, maybe they are wolves.

I’m still figuring out what everyone ‘is’ here.

The food options, however, are better today, and there are trays of actual pastries, a bin of bagels, and carafes of coffee that smells delicious.

I grab two chocolate croissants and a cup of black coffee, then duck out before anyone thinks I want to join their table (no, thank you, not in a million years).

I take my haul to the quad, where a row of old oaks still holds on to the last gold and orange leaves of fall.

The sun is uncharacteristically strong for this late in the year, and the warmth on my face feels like a gift after the last few days.

I pick a bench at the far edge, near a stone wall, and settle in.

The croissant is perfectly flaky and buttery, with rich, melting chocolate, just like you can get in a patisserie.

Not that I’ve been to anything fancier than a Starbucks, but it’s what I’d imagine a patisserie croissant would taste like.

For five minutes, I let myself eat it slowly, eyes closed, pretending I’m in Paris and not trapped in a supernatural prison pretending like it’s a regular college.

The coffee is hot and bitter enough to shock me awake, and the combination makes me briefly euphoric.

I don’t know if this is a side effect of the bloodmark, but I suddenly want to hoard these tiny pleasures, like some kind of doomsday prepper of joy.

A breeze rattles the dry leaves and brings with it the ever-present scent of pine and wood smoke. I tip my face up, soaking in the moment, which is why I don’t see Thorne and her entourage until they’re basically right in front of me.

She’s wearing pleated trousers and a preppy pink sweater, her hair artfully pushed back in a headband with a bow.

For a minute I picture Mrs. Bright clapping her hands in approval at Thorne’s wardrobe conjuring choices.

Thorne’s friends trail behind, including the girl with the ruined hair from Elemental class (now dyed dark blue in a failed attempt at damage control).

Thorne looks me over, as if considering whether I qualify as a new species of insect, but she doesn’t say anything.

Not out loud, anyway. Her face speaks volumes.

I raise my coffee cup in a silent toast. She sneers, then flounces off to what I’m guessing is the cool kids side of the quad, where a bunch of witches and two boys who might be vampires are hanging out. They all turn and stare at me, but I ignore it. I have pastries and no fucks to give.

I finish breakfast and start wandering the grounds, careful not to get too close to the forest edge, which is marked by a series of iron posts with signs warning about ‘hazardous areas.’ The gardens are wild but beautiful, with tall hedges and patches of long-stemmed roses.

There’s a greenhouse, locked and glowing faintly green, and a pond where three ducks paddle in circles.

I briefly wonder if they’re in my classes, before deciding no, they’re just regular old garden-variety waterfowl.

I circle the perimeter, mapping out the campus in my mind, where all the landmarks are like the main building, the dorms, staff cottages, a weird stone mausoleum that is, according to the plaque, ‘for ceremonial use only’.

Most of the other students are in pairs or clumps, moving with the purpose of people who belong there.

I recognize a few from my classes, but nobody bothers me.

I like it that way. After twenty minutes, I end up back on the quad, this time sprawled on the grass with my arms behind my head and my hoodie pulled up to block the light.

I let myself drift, eyes half-shut, listening to the dull hum of the campus. Somewhere, someone is playing the violin. There’s a whistle of wind, a shout, a girl’s laughter. For a moment, it’s almost normal. Not good, but not actively terrible, either.

I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to stay here, to make it through the year without getting murdered by the Coven or devoured by a demon or whatever other fate the Accord has in store. I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking, but it’s better than nothing.

I fall asleep like that, the ground cool but the sun on my face warm, pretending, just for a little while, that I could belong here for a bit.