V

(5:15 PM)

Celeste Dean • (suh-lest)

My palm dragged right across the textbook that laid open on the table, leaving a thick smear of wet ink over three lines of Latin I hadn't even read.

I let out a low breath and pressed the heels of my hands into my burning eyes.

The library had a golden cast today, and from where I sat, I could feel the scorching heat from the fireplace that wasn't even close to me.

 I hadn't been studying for an hour.

Three tables over, sitting right in the path of the drafty window, was Rosalie Sinclair.

My eyes followed her, and I watched shamelessly as her spine was pin-straight. Her dark hair was gathered with a silver comb, though a few damp pieces had escaped, curling against the side of her neck. She didn't seem to notice the heat at all, or maybe she did and just chose to ignore it.

Her pen just kept scratching against her paper, steady and focused. It was bewitching. Beside her, she had a cup of sage tea sitting untouched, a thin skin forming over the cold liquid. I sighed under my breath.

It was embarrassing how easily I noticed everything she did. The faint purple ink stain on her left thumb. The way her teeth caught her lower lip whenever she was confused. I felt a hit of embarrassment wash over me. How could I be yearning for my fellow gender this way?

It took me years to realize that I didn't like the opposite gender. In fact, everything repulsed me about them. I was a kid back then, innocent and curious.

I used to stare at Matilde across the dining room, telling myself I was just jealous of her hair or wanted to steal her shoes. Matilde was my childhood friend growing up back in the village. I remember that we used to be so close, almost inseparable.

But then came the afternoon we shared a blanket at a sleepover. When her arm brushed against mine, my whole skin felt hot. My heart was hammering so hard against my ribs I was terrified she'd hear it through the dark. That night, I spent three hours staring at the ceiling, holding my breath every time she shifted, realizing no boy had ever made my pulse jump like that.

I was only 9.

"What a lovely evening, isn't it?" Helena whispered, sliding onto the bench across from me.

Unlike me, Helena liked boys. But sometimes she confused me. According to her, she was sent to this place because her mother wanted her to stay away from boys. Either that was the case, or Helena was in denial of her sexuality. There were multiple times I'd caught her ogling at the sight of naked women in the magazines she managed to sneak in every term.

She was smirking; I knew that mischievous smirk anywhere. I wondered what she wanted to say now.

"What's lovely about this evening? I'm so tired." I muttered, gripping my iron pen until my knuckles turned white. And indeed I was.

"Right. And you've been translating the same line about original sin since four o'clock. It's rare to see you in such an environment anyway." Helena murmured, leaning over the table. I met her gaze. "It's been four months, Celeste. You know her schedule better than her own roommate. At some point, you actually have to use your mouth and talk to her."

I stared down at the book below me, my stomach twisting into a tight, cold knot. I knew who she was talking about. Helena knew me like an open book. It was that, or I'm just very easy to read. Nevertheless, I never hid my desires for Rosalie. It always manifests in some way when she's around.

We both whip our heads to the click-clack of prayer beads that soon appeared in my line of sight.

Sister Agnes stepped out from the shadowy stacks, her wire-rimmed glasses appearing soon after. She wrapped her fingers hard against our table, her piercing blue gaze abruptly finding mine.

"Miss Dean. Miss Ward," she rasped. "The novices are already gathering downstairs. Rehearsal for the Candle Procession starts in twenty minutes."

Helena's facial expression morphed into that of disappointment, and I was forced not to imitate hers.

"Yes, Sister. We're very much aware." Helen answers her, her eyes going to meet mine before rolling her eyes.

"Ensure your lanterns are clean and trimmed. Do not be late."

The second her black skirts rustled down the aisle, Helena nudged my leg under the table. "Come on. If we don't go babysit the first-years, someone's going to set their own hair on fire."

~

The courtyard was a total swamp from last night. I hated when things like this happened. Under a leaking canvas tent, long tables were crammed with hundreds of raw candles and unpolished tin lanterns.

I pulled my scarf higher over my nose and leaned against one of the pillars. The candle procession mostly took place when first years arrived. It was one of those traditions the university loved to preserve, along with its ancient Latin prayers and the portraits of dead women who had apparently been important enough to haunt the corridors long after their deaths.

Every year, the first-years were given a candle.

Every year, the older students were made to clean the lanterns, trim the wicks, and escort them through the grounds to the chapel. It was exhausting, if I had to admit. Add to the mix rehearsals as well.

I had done it twice already. Safe to say I had mastered the routine.

I vividly remember my first time; I had been a nervous wreck with wet shoes and a candle I was terrified of dropping.

The second time, I had been forced to spend an hour convincing a girl named Elodie that she wasn't going to catch fire. It was a terrible day to remember because she was annoying to the core.

This year, I had been assigned to help Helena supervise the newest class. Trust me, it wasn't an honour at all. It was more of a punishment because if we were to vote on who wanted all these, no one would raise a single hand. Unless it was the first years.

I scoff.

"Who are you staring at this time around?"

I looked to my left. Helena was standing beside a table, elbow-deep in a box of candles. Her sleeves had been rolled to her elbows, and there was a streak of soot across her cheek.

"I'm not staring at anyone." I roll my eyes, pushing myself off the pillar.

"Mhm." She hums. I know she didn't believe me, but Helen never believed me most of the time. Typical Helena.

I walk closer to her, my fingers rubbing against my clothes. "I'm looking at the candles."

She only nods her head as she continues rummaging through the box.

I continue watching her, and I see her mouth twitch. She pauses midway and stands up right before throwing me a wink. "Your girlfriend isn't here?"

At the mention of Rosalie, I fight a smile from climbing my face, but that too was betrayed by the blush on my cheeks.

"I wasn't looking for Rosalie." I countered, not knowing what else to say. But at least it was the truth.

She doesn't say anything. I began reaching out for a candle before a pang of pain oiled my skin. Helena had slapped my hand away.

"Trimmed ones are on the other side." In contrast, Helena was a short girl. I'd tease her about her height now and then. With her brown curly hair and freckled face, she was a very pretty girl if I had to admit, but I never said it to her face. I didn't want her head swelling occasionally.

"I know," I reply back. "Why are you harsh on me today?" I ask her, pouting. Helena was also a mother figure at times when she wanted to be. She reminded me so much of my mother but now she's late.

"Cause why are you touching the untrimmed ones?" Helena asked, giving me a look. She knew I was only doing this to mess with her.

She offered a sweet, entirely fake smile before dismissing me. "Go clean a lantern."

I turned away before she could see me smile.

The courtyard was filling up fast. The darkness had already begun to settle. First-years were huddled together under the leaking canvas tent, looking like they'd been dragged out of bed. I had to roll my eyes when one student started quietly crying into her sleeve while another was trying to light a damp wick with a wet match, and a third was staring at the chapel doors.

"Don't," Helena said, stepping up behind me. I almost had a panic attack.

I flip my rosary on my chest.

"Whatever you're thinking."

"I wasn't thinking anything," I lied, turning my attention back to the crowd.

That's when I saw her. She stood slightly apart from the rest of the first years. She had dark hair that looked almost black and she wasn't fidgeting or crying. She was just... watching. Her eyes moved slowly across the space-the chapel, the cloisters, the upperclassmen, the high windows-like she was memorizing the entire layout.

"Who's that?" I asked, glancing down at Helena who had by this time, already emptied the box.

Helena glanced over, but the second her eyes landed on the girl, her goofy expression vanished completely. Her eyes narrowed, and she whipped her head back toward her empty box.

"I don't know."

"You're lying," I said. "You know everyone."

"I know you. Unfortunately."

I stare at for a brief second, my eyes noting the blush that was settling on her cheeks.

"Helena."

Knowing I wasn't going to let go, she let out an irritated sigh. "She's a first-year. Her name is Clara Bellamy."

Helena looked genuinely uncomfortable, which was rare enough to make my stomach prickle with unease.

Before I could push her on it, Sister Agnes struck the chapel bell.

Clang.

The heavy tone rolled over the courtyard, instantly deadening every conversation. "Positions," the nun called out.

And just like that, the casual chatter died. I watch as Helena straightened up, her face instantly shifting into compliance.

The first-years were shoved into rows, handed their lanterns, and flanked by the older level. I fell into line near the back. I couldn't see Rosalie from here, and I told myself that was for the best.

Soon after, Sister Agnes began the Latin prayer.

"From darkness, we enter the light."

One by one, the wicks caught fire. A hundred tiny flames flickered to life. The procession started to move in silent steps. For a few minutes, everything went according to routine.

And then -

I smelled it.

It was the smell of thick smoke.

I lifted my head just in time to see a candle near the front go out. Then another. Then five more.

What's happening?

I thought it was just a sudden gust of wind-until every single flame in the courtyard died at once. I feel my heart start to race, my eyes dancing hysterically.

Total, pitch-black darkness swallowed us whole. I grip onto my scarf with one hand, the other clutching the lantern.

Suddenly, there was a shriek at the front. The air felt cold, goosebumps forming on my neck. A tin lantern slammed against the stones with a sharp, clang.

"Stay where you are!" Sister Agnes's voice barked through the dark. There was a tone in her voice, I didn't just know what it was.

Fear?

My heart hammered against my ribs. Everyone was panicking. A girl close to me, although I couldn't recognize what year she was in, started muttering under her breath prayers.

Helena's hand shot out through the dark, gripping my wrist like a vise. "Don't move," she hissed.

I nod frantically, my eyes trying to adjust in the darkness. By this time, the courtyard was covered in pitch darkness.

As my eyes slowly adjusted to the twilight, that was then it dawned on me. Something was terribly wrong.

The first-years were hyperventilating, some clutching the grips of their friends but some of the older students weren't looking at Sister Agnes. My eyes followed their gaze and they were staring at the center of the crowd.

At the center of the crowd stood Clara Bellamy.