Page 4 of Hallowed Bones

—UNTITLED POEM, WRITTEN BY JENNIFER WARDWELL, DATE UNKNOWN

When I return to the admin hall, Amelie is waiting for me. The smile she offers is almost knowing, as if she sees past the bullshit and down to the root of my complicated emotions. I duck my head anyway, looking anywhere but at her. Even if my aunt isn’t my real parent, she’s all I have—or rather, had—left and I don’t want to be reminded how much she doesn’t want me. How alone I really am.

“Now that you’re finished with your goodbyes,” Amelie says, “why don’t I give you a tour, and then you can meet your roommate and get settled in.”

Unsure of what kind of response to give her, I simply nod.

“Oh, you can leave that here,” Amelie says, stopping me as I begin to drag my bag after me. “Francis will have someone take it to your dorm later.”

“Oh…” I look down at my bag and release the handle. “Okay, thanks.”

Together, we head down the side hallway I’d noticed when I’d first stepped through the double front doors. My eyes move over every inch of the walls—from the dark wood molding at the tops to the ornate frames housing various images. Paintings. They have to be paintings. The lines aren’t nearly as smooth and precise as printed ones are.

Amelie pauses at the end of the hall and glances back over her shoulder. “All of these paintings were done by past students.”

“They’re beautiful,” I say. “They must have been very talented.”

“They were,” she agrees. “We’re not necessarily a college that focuses on art, but many of our students have gone on to make great works in many mediums.”

The paintings themselves seem classical and definitely match the aesthetic of the historic building. There are men in Victorian suits and top hats walking along streets with their black canes jammed into the ground at their feet, their heads held high.

The next frame houses a sorrowful-looking woman lounging against a chaise, the wine-red skirts of her dress fanned around her as four men surround where she lies, each of them holding some sort of treat or offering to her beauty. Apples and figs. Books and quills. Jewelry. My lips twitch at her bored expression.

“Were these painted while the students were still attending?” I ask, curious.

“Some were,” Amelie says. “Some were gifted to the institution much later. We’re always grateful for donations, but I believe these paintings mean more than any that money could ever buy.”

My heart squeezes at that comment, and I peel my attention away from the paintings back to the woman standing almost like a ghost cloaked in white as she waits for me. “You must really care about your students.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. “My brother and I have dedicated our entire lives to the souls that pass through the gates of this college.” Her words make it sound as if this place is something far more important than a small college for outcasts like myself. Odd.

Before I can think of a reply, Amelie gestures to the open glass French doors at the end of the hall. “Come. The rest of the campus is this way.”

Leaving the paintings behind, I follow Amelie onto a stone veranda that overlooks a courtyard. We pass through and take a set of stairs down as, overhead, a bell chimes. I glance up and realize that one of the spires I’d spotted upon first entering the gates is actually a large, stacked bell tower. The dull sunlight making its way through the incoming storm clouds shines across a bronze bell swinging back and forth as the sound echoes around us.

“Ah, morning classes have ended,” Amelie says with a small smile. “Let’s hurry or else we’ll be crushed by the crowd.”

The melody is haunting and beautiful and strange as a method of ending classes, but I don’t say as much as several doors alongside the courtyard are thrown open. Students in uniforms—green sweaters with white lettering, matching dark slacks and plaid skirts—spill out.

Amelie is already several paces ahead of me, and I race to catch up to her before she slips into one of the buildings that huddle together in a circle of stone pillars. Thankfully, she pauses to let me catch up.

“Ipswich College was founded as a private academy for those who wished to further their education in the early 1700s. It wasn’t until much later that we became a college. Our administrative hall was originally the home of a wealthy aristocrat who emigrated from Europe and later, on his deathbed, donated the residence to a group of families that were particularly affected by the Salem witch trials of 1692 and 1693,” Amelie explains. “The original buildings appear older because they were inspired by his childhood home in England.”

“Who was he?” I ask as I scan the external corridor. The chatter of students fades behind us, but I’m still viscerally aware that there are many people here. Despite its looks, this college is not nearly as decrepit and empty as it originally appeared.

“Oh.” Amelie pauses at the mouth of the hallway. “It was in his will that he remain anonymous,” she tells me. “There are many historians who have tried to track down the name of our ancestral benefactor, but we hope that they will respect his wishes and keep their findings to themselves should they ever uncover his identity.”

I stare back at her, wide-eyed, as her expression flattens into a serious look. “He requested nothing of those who would inhabit these halls save that everything be kept to the same style of his original home. To honor his request, all architects and builders who worked to add the other buildings to our campus matched the design.”

Well, I suppose that explains the ancient exterior of the buildings. Still, did they have to keep everything as gloomy as possible? A thick layer of dust coats the sill of one of the open windows. His requests couldn’t mean “Don’t clean,” right? I shake my head and offer Amelie a tight smile.

“Interesting,” I say. “This place is full of history.”

Amelie tilts her head in my direction. “History is the path by which we learn to be better for the future.”

Cryptic. Poetic, but cryptic.

Then we’re moving again, and she’s spitting out information faster than I’ve ever heard. Yet still I try to commit it all to memory in the hopes that this place will be somewhere I can stay for a while.