Chapter 12

As Lenore crept through the stony hallways, the voices of students and teachers alike grew muted, simply background noise through the thick, ancient stone of the secret halls. She ducked down, almost scraping her head against the low ceiling. She adjusted the notebook tucked against her side.

Her clunky footsteps, clumsy, thanks to her still heavy, aching limbs echoed around her, off the walls, and the low ceiling. It was dark—far too dark for any human to see, but her feet led her forward through muscle memory, and her eyes caught any hint of light and allowed the hall to be illuminated before her.

She circled a corner, pausing before a door, and saw the shine of the doorhandle; she wrapped her fingers around it, and stepped into the rickety elevator. Its figure was bleeding from rust, covered in dust, woven from metal, wire and glass. She glanced to her side, at the stairs, but her aching legs made her swallow down her fear. The door shuddered as she shut it.

It was a gratingly slow ride up, and she shifted her weight between her feet, moving restlessly around the cramped space. She peeled open her book, and glanced upon the first page. It was a duel headed wolf, an archiac sketch from her younger days, dated in the corner—6/8/22. She brushed her fingers along the lines, to the snarling lips, teeth, bristled fur, muscle, ducked head. It was ready to lunge.

She snapped the book shut. The elevator shuddered to a stop. She stepped out. Her jaw tightened as she laid eyes on the dusty, rusted room, which seemed to thrum with memories; blades scattered the ground, and she kicked one away from her as she made her way through.

She leaned out of a window, looking down on the bustling courtyard beneath her.

–

Autumn light streamed through the jagged, broken roof of Iago tower, and carved its light onto the wooden floor, and onto Lenore’s face, softening her features, bathing them in sunlight. She looked up at the sky; clouds curled around in the sea of clear sky, they were light, and stormless, fluffy and mountainous.

She tore her eyes away from the sky, and glanced around the loft of Iago tower, fitted snugly above the clockface. It was hazy with dust, which hung in the streams of sunlight, and swirled around when the wind blew. Fairylights hung around the ceiling, illuminating the room with their glow, and curled around wooden poles, which held up the roof.

She pushed herself up from the leather sofa, and approached the half painted canvas, which stood below the hole in the roof, and had sunlight carved across half the easel. She grabbed a pencil from the coffee table, and began to sketch across the paper, in feather-light strokes, over the softly coloured background; she sunk her teeth into her tongue as she focused, hardly noticing the subtle tang of blood.

Her pencil scratched against the canvas as she formed loops, straight, wavy, diagonal lines, and slowly began to form a person, from the ringlets of her hair, to the curve of her neck, sharpness of the jaw, and swell of her chest; she hadn’t noticed the light coming from the sky, faltering and dim, before bathing the room in a warm glow.

She only stepped away when she heard voices from below, and blinked rapidly, rubbing her eyes; she looked down, at the space between the cracks, and noticed two familiar figures—Wednesday and Fester; she was concerned about him being here.

She quietly kneeled down, and pressed her ear against the floor; voices filtered through, and she caught them clearly.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice.” Wednesday said, turning to face her uncle, who always made Lenore’s stomach drop in unease.

“For my favourite niece, I’m always a lurk away.”

Wednesday circled him slowly, movements measured, “I need you to get into Willow Hill.”

Lenore’s ears twitched as she heard footsteps, though, she couldn’t place them; they were too light for Fester, and not graceful enough for Wednesday. She had heard them before, but she wasn’t sure where. It tugged at her concentration.

“Last time I did that was for your mother. She wanted me to check on her sister.” He said, gaining Lenore’s attention, and admittedly, her curiosity. Wednesday’s too, apparently, as she turned on her heel to face him.

“Aunt Ophelia was in there? When?” She asked.

“Oh, years ago. She’d flown the coop by the time I got committed. I stuck around for a few weeks. They had a top-notch electrochock therapist, Igor. He ran a gulag in Siberia.” He said. Lenore’s stomach sunk at the idea, and she felt sick, a suble ache throbbing in her brow. “He really knew how to rattle the old cerebral cortex.” He said.

The footsteps came slightly louder, and she realised who it was—Agnes.

Lenore’s body tensed as a whip of electricity cut through the air, and forced Agnes to appear, a shocked expression on her face, and her hair frizzy. She whimpered, fear written over her expression. Lenore’s teeth gritted together, and she tried to ignore the anger that simmered in her chest as she caught her scent.

“Nobody sneaks up on me, kid. She with you?”

“This is my stalker. I turned her into an unpaid expendable gofer.”

“Huh,” he said appreciatively. “I’m a big fan of child labour. A stampede of chupacabras makes less noise than you; learn to hold your breath, and walk on the seams of the floorboards.”

“Thanks for the pro-tip.” Agnes said.

Lenore’s damp breath creeped from between her lips, a certain hunger fogging her mind as her anger worsened; she dug her fingers into the floorboards to ground herself.

Agnes approached, “I took the liberty of getting you the Willow Hill blueprints.” She unravelled them, and both Wednesday and Fester took them.

Lenore shook her head, and muttered under her breath, “what are you doing, Wednesday?”

Wednesday glanced at the ceiling, and Lenore’s breathing paused; fortunately, her focus quickly changed, “I need you to find Lois. Could be a patient, could be a doctor. Just make sure the head shrink, Dr. Fairburn, can’t trace you back to me.” She said.

“Oh, don’t worry. If there’s an expert on getting committed to a loony bin, it’s me.” He laughed.

– 

Lenore watched quietly, ear pressed to the floor, and eyes catching movement through the cracks of the aged wooden floorboards; Wednesday, Fester, and Agnes soon left, going their separate ways. Lenore kept her wits about her, caution riddling her body as she climbed down.

The metal floor rattled beneath her as she walked along, and she paused before leaving, looking at the machine before her; she brushed the dust off, and simply stared. It had always caught her attention, since she first discovered this, and she never knew what it was.

It had nothing to do with Iago tower; it wasn’t necessary, and yet here it was.

She froze when she heard footsteps.

No one should be here—maybe Wednesday, or Agnes hadn’t left yet, she thought.

She breathed in deeply, and caught a scent. It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, nor was it either of them, and it shouldn’t be here. Although, she had smelt it before, old, stuck like smoke to the corners of Iago tower, though, it never been this alive before. Never this fresh. It seemed to tug at her mind, like she knew it, but couldn’t place it. She cursed herself for the fogginess the full moon brought.

Her claws snapped out.

Her blood seemed to burn through her veins with the hunt.

“Who are you?” She called out, and her voice resonated. It echoed around her. She heard breathing still. “I know you’re there.” She said. “What’s your interest in Iago tower, hm?”

Silence hung heavy.

“You, I know you. From where, though? Are you here to remove me? Am I a threat? Or are you here for another reason? Perhaps Wednesday, but I’ll have you know she’s protected.” Lenore said, hiding the shake in her voice, and the tremble trying to effect her hands as the pit in her stomach deepened.

Lenore dropped down from the platform, and onto the floor. It creaked beneath her. Her legs began to ache with that bone deep ache again. She breathed in. She closed her eyes, and focused. It tugged at her mind, and she tried to follow it, letting her body move without thought.

She stepped into the stairwell, and opened her eyes as footsteps rattled the steps; she saw a black cape billow as a figure ran down the stairs. She didn’t follow, couldn’t, her painkillers had began to wear off, but she’d caught the scent, sickly sweet, floral, feminine.

“It’s only a matter of time, a werewolf never forgets a scent, or gives up a hunt.” She called down, into the darkness.

Her nerves lessened, and she sighed in relief, letting her shoulders fall, the tension leaving her body. “It’s not Fairburn.” Lenore said—she knew that at least. She combed her hand through her hair, and her phone buzzed. It was an alarm—she had TA session.

Lenore slumped down against the elevator floor, and it shuddered to life, slowly descending down to the darkened stone halls in the walls. She looked down at her hands, at the scars which covered them, a scarlet line slashed through her palm, and a much older, dimmer rough burn on her other hand. She traced the scar on her forearm, a blight against her otherwise smooth skin. It carried memories that made a headache bubble between her eyes.

Once the elevator stopped, she quickly made her way through the corridors, goosebumps covering her skin against the cold she couldn’t feel, she ducked under low ceilings, and tried to ignore the scent that still hung in the halls.

Uncertainty settled on her at the idea of this person knowing about the secret passages—they must’ve stayed at Nevermore at some time, she surmised. She shook away the thought.

Lenore stopped cold, and pressed her ear against the stone wall; her breathing slowed, so she could hear the room through the wall better; she heard breaths, and a familiar voice.

“Come on, Lenore, where are you?” Ms Capri muttered, and Lenore could hear her pacing, before she suddenly stopped.

Lenore slowly kneeled down, careful to stay quiet, and opened the door to the music room; she crawled through, closed it behind her, and stood up. She wiped knees off, and approached Miss Capri. She spun around, eyes wide, but relaxed upon seeing Lenore. She clasped a hand over her chest.

“Where did you come from?” She asked.

Lenore silently approached, making Ms Capri walk backwards, a shocked expression on her face. Her breathing stuttered when she hit the wall beside the door, but Lenore paid no mind, and simply closed the door. She stepped back; Miss Capri stepped away from the wall, and fell expressionless.

“What were you doing with Ms Parker?” Miss Capri asked, walking towards her desk, with Lenore in tow.

“Just bumped into her, and helped out. Nothing more.” Lenore shrugged, earning a subtly narrowed look over Ms Capri’s shoulder.

Miss Capri settled at the seat before her desk, and began to flick through timetables, paperwork, sheetmusic. Lenore sat on the stage, breathing roughly through her teeth—through pain—as she brought her legs up to her chest. She quietly watched the teacher flick through the papers.

Her eyes flickered along the tension strung through her back, along with the rippling muscles which tightened her jaw. Her ringed fingers tensed against the table.

“You look like you do with a spa day.” Lenore remarked, flicking a section of her overgrown fringe out of her face. She frown upon noticing how the blonde was yellowing.

“You do, too. I can smell the adrenaline rushing through you.” Ms Capri said. She collected papers in her hands, and tapped them against the table. She turned to Lenore. “What’s wrong?”

Lenore’s heartrate quickened.

She knew Miss Capri could hear it.

“It isn’t anything that important, I… just remembered something I have to deal with.” Lenore murmured.

“Do you need to go and handle it?” She asked, a suble disappoint lacing her voice.

“No, there’s nothing I can do about it right now.” Lenore said. She pulled her sketchbook away from its position pinched snugly under her arm, and laid it on her lap. She traced the imperfections on the leather absentmindedly.

“What’s that?” Ms Capri asked. She walked over, and sat down beside Lenore.

“My sketchbook. I’ve had it since my stint in the-” she closed her mouth. She looked down at the book, and squeezed it tight; she felt a warm hand lay over hers. She looked at Miss Capri, and then down to her hand.

“Can I see it?” She asked.

Lenore stilled momentarily in hesitation, then nudged it over, but Ms Capri didn’t take it; she laid it over both their laps, feathered pages open. She looked at the first page, and curiosity flickered over her expression as she looked down.

“It’s a two headed wolf,” she said, “what inspired you to draw this?”

Lenore looked down at the snarling wolf, then at the cowering wolf, ears flat against its head, eyes wide. “I was asked to draw myself, in a metaphorical sense, of course.” She said.

“This is how you see yourself?” She asked lowly.

“This was years ago,” Lenore laughed off. “It’s been a while. It’s not my best drawing either; the proportions aren’t great, nor is the anatomy.”

Lenore quickly moved pages, skipping along, revealing flashes of other pictures, disfigured self-portraits, landscapes, people, animals, flora, before she came to the final picture—the single magpie, perching on the branch, straggling leaves hung onto twigs, surrounding the bird, which seemed to jump off the page.

The feather—it looked ink dipped, shining irredescent—slipped onto Miss Capri’s lap, and she caught it between her fingers. She held it in the light beam, which carved across Lenore’s face, and spun it. It twinkled like starlight.

“From the muse, I assume?” She asked.

“Mm, I think I might have to find a new one.” She softly closed the book, and laid it beside her.

“Well, I don’t imagine that will be hard for you.” Ms Capri remarked in a mutter, and she placed the feather on the stage.

Lenore laughed in disbelief, and her face shifted into amused offense; she playfully shoved Miss Capri’s shoulder. “Now, what’s that supposed to mean?” She asked.

“Only that you seem to be quite popular.” She said.

Lenore folded her arms over her chest, and looked at her teacher incredulously, “you are lying through your teeth.”

“What do you mean?”

She didn’t even humour Miss Capri with a reply, and looked away to hide her smile, “am I here for a reason, or simply to discuss my social life?”

“Lesson planning.” She said, “I’ve got to teach guitar, but I don’t actually know how to play them, and the few we have are out of tune.” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, and cast a look into the corner of the room, where multiple dusty guitars sat.

“What instruments do you know?”

“Almost everything but guitar.”

“That’s certainly a blind spot.” Lenore winced.

Ms Capri glared at her, but her gaze quickly softened under Lenore’s rare mischievious smile, showing her canine’s that her lips caught on. “I’ll help you.” Lenore said, rising up from her seat. She frowned subtly at the loss of Miss Capri’s warmth.

Lenore brought over a guitar, an old, rustic one, with spider webs in the cavity, dust caked over the body and strings; she brushed it clean once she sat down, and the dust puffed up in a cloud. Her eyes watered, nose burning, and she sneezed. It was a soft, high-pitched sound.

Ms Capri looked at her incredulously, and covered her creeping smile with her hand.

“Shut up.” Lenore mumbled.

She plucked the strings, and the sound resounded out, she kept going, down to the deeper tones; she grimaced at how out of tune they were. “These can’t have been stored correctly.” She said.

“They were in a storage cupboard when I found them.”

“Yeah,” she twisted the tuning pegs, “the temperature variation must have warped the strings.” She cleaned the spider webs out.

Lenore tuned the guitar, twisting the tuning pegs, and then plucked at the strings; for once, she thanked her overly sensitative hearing, which had cursed her for too many school trips, and holidays, but it made easy to tune a guitar by ear.

“Okay, then.” She said, “we can start with the basics. You already know about chords and scales, so it’s a simple matter of applying that knowledge here. I’ll just teach you the physical parts. I’ve got a good book in my dorm that you can reference from. I’ll drop it by when I can.”

“Thank you, Lenore.”

Lenore stood up, and shrugged. “It’s nothing.” She murmured; she held the guitar in her hands, and stepped forward, her knees bumping Miss Capri’s. She spread her legs subtly, letting Lenore move nearer. “Alright, then.” She offered her the guitar, and Ms Capri took it. She rested it on her lap.

“What should I do now?” She asked.

“Give me a moment.” Lenore said, and she stepped up onto the stage; her knees collided with the stage, and she winced at the pain which struck through her legs. She pressed herself up behind Miss Capri, legs bracketing her, and reached around, resting her head inches from her shoulder.

It was quiet, devastatingly so, only their louder than usual breathing cutting through the tension between them. She gently grabbed her hand, then her other, and guided one around the body of the guitar, then around the neck.

“Okay,” she said quietly, warm breath feathering against Ms Capri’s skin, who subtly bared her neck, almost unnoticeably. Lenore’s chest tightened, and her heart lurched, then quickened. “Just press your fingers here, and here. You’ll probably end up getting callouses if you practise often.”

“What now?” Miss Capri craned her neck, and looked over at her shoulder at Lenore.

“Just take this hand, and strum gently.” She said, easing Ms Capri’s hand towards the strings. She moved her fingers along the strings, but struggled to play them correctly. “Let me,” Lenore moved gently across the strings, letting the notes play out.

“Just relax.” She guided Ms Capri until she could play herself, somewhat confidentally.

“You’re a quick learner.” Lenore moved back, and got to her feet, grimacing at the aching in her legs. She sat beside Miss Capri, and looked down at her lap, trying to hide the pink curling around her ears, creeping down south.

“Your hands; how have they healed?” Ms Capri asked.

“Just fine.” She tried to hide the strain in her voice.

She could hear Miss Capri’s doubt in the silence, and turned her hands, showing her healed, scarred palms. “See?” She didn’t get a reply, instead Ms Capri traced the scars on her hands, both the older, and the new. Lenore looked at Miss Capri’s face, from the ringlets of her hair, to the curve of her neck, and the sharpness of the jaw. Ms Capri looked back, and her eyes flickered down.

Lenore’s phone buzzed.

They moved back.

It was a notification. It told her to go to the greenhouse.

“Um, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.” Lenore stood up, and took her book with her.

“Bye, Lenore.” She smiled softly.

Lenore’s chest warmed.

– 

A low, autumnal sun sat full on the horizon, framed by clouds, and sky, dipped in dusk; its light broken by the treeline, by the branches, leaves, tree trunks, shining onto the school, leaving Lenore’s skin sunkissed as she stilled near the greenhouse, the door ajar.

It caught her cheekbones, shining off her silky smooth skin, and her jaw cast shadows onto her neck. It drenched her in the warmth of dusk. She breathed freely, the knot in her chest loosened as the damp, wild air rushed down her lungs. Her eyes twinkled in the light.

She caught her hair between her hands, and tugged the hairtie off her wrist; she cinched the curly strands together in a low ponytail. She rolled up her sleeves. She cast a look into the trees, watching as they trembled and swayed in the breeze.

She stepped into the greenhouse, a blanket of humid heat hitting her, forming a sheen of sweat on her brow as she walked deeper. It thrummed with life, plants, coloured with greens, pinks, purples, sat on tables and shelves, hanging from the ceiling.

Lenore looked around, and reached forward, brushing a leaf between her fingers, tender as ever as she felt its life under her skin. It would be easy to tear—she wouldn’t, though. It was far too delicate to hurt.

“You know touching random plants isn’t a good idea; what if it’s poisonous?” Ms Parker asked, appearing from behind a row of plants, teasing smile apparent on her face.

“It isn’t.” Lenore said, voice adorned with an equally teasing lilt.

“Oh, then what is it?” Hailey asked, leaning on the opposite side of the bench.

“Arrowhead plant, though, this specific one is a Syngonium podophyllum, known otherwise as Maria Allusion.”

“Okay… how tall do they grow?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Well, this type isn’t found in the wild, but specimens of the same genus are vines, and can grow ten to twenty metres tall climbing up trees.” She said, “though, these don’t often grow above six feet, usually about one point five metres.”

Miss Parker narrowed her eyes, a competitive flare sparking. “And how do you know it’s the Maria Allusion variety? Why isn’t it another type?”

“The pink colouration.”

“What life stage is it in?”

“Juvenile.”

“Why?”

“It’s only groundcover. It hasn’t been given the opportunity to grow into the adult stage.”

“And how does it grow into the adult stage?”

“Give it support to climb on.” Lenore answered, a smug glow on her face.

“Fair enough,” Ms Parker pushed off the table, and came around to join Lenore, “you know your stuff.” She leaned beside her, a thoughtful look on her face.

“Is the impromptu pop-quiz over?” Lenore asked.

“It is.”

“What did I score?”

“Top marks.”

Lenore shot her a crooked smile. “Good. I expect nothing else.” She pulled away from the plant, and turned to face Miss Parker with her arms crossed.

“You seem ready to work.”

“Ready, and able, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel old.” Hailey grimaced. “Follow me, would you?” She walked off, further into the greenhouse, into the corner, and Lenore followed behind, towering over the woman’s small figure. She stopped by a few bags of potting soil, alongside perlite, and other materials.

“What? Do you need me to carry something?” She asked.

Ms Parker rolled her eyes, and glared at her. “No. Miss Yuson, I don’t.” She muttered, “just go and retrieve the plants so I can repot them.” She placed a messily written list into her hands. “If you need help, holler.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She murmured, and playfully saluted.

Lenore dodged a plastic pot hurled at her, ducking behind a wooden table. She smiled slightly, fondly, and set off to walk between the rows of plants. She clasped the list in her hand, smoothing the crinkled paper. It was a string of hearts first, a vine which tickled the floor from its place on the table, with mottled, marbled green leaves.

She recognised most plants, as they came from Thornhill, however, a few new plants stood out; an elegant blooming Peace Lily, a ridged Rattlesnake plant, and a number of others which had come from Hailey’s personal store. Lenore cautiously avoided a threatening vibrant blue Wolfsbane, which sat tauntingly on the shelf—she glared at it as she passed.

“Where did your plant knowledge come from?” Miss Parker asked.

“Not anywhere specific. I- when… when I was younger I liked the idea of nurturing something, helping it.” Her voice fell to an almost inaudible murmur, “not just destroying it.”

“It runs in my family; they were always involved in ecology, taking care of the Earth. I was just the next in a long line.” Hailey said.

“It’s honourable.” Lenore quietly walked through the room, but froze when she came to a plant hanging from a pot, lush with green leaves, and white berries that looked like pearls. Her throat thickened. Her breathing came raspily. She stumbled backwards.

It was mistletoe, but there was something about this plant—it made her mind strain, made her instincts scream at her—the fog of her mind thinning, allowing memories to creep through.

She flinched, and it rippled through her body when a hand rested on her shoulder. Lenore spun on her heel, and grasped the hand tightly, almost thoughtlessly crushing it in her grip. It was Miss Parker.

Lenore released her grip, and stepped away from her. “I’m sorry.” She hadn’t even heard her approach. “I’m just allergic to mistletoe. I didn’t realise you had any here.” She said—she was allergic, right? That’s what her mind told her, what she remembered, what she had been told.

She shook her head.

Ms Parker cradled her hand.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I need to go. It’s getting late.” She said. Sunlight shined through the greenhouse, bathing the entire classroom in sunset.

It was getting late.

Moonrise was upon her.

The sun was getting low—she ran the sentence over in her mind, repeated it, forcing away any other thoughts, and she walked further into the school grounds. 

– 

Thank you for reading. I hope you have a good Christmas if you celebrate, and if you don’t, have a good day regardless.