When Fern’s alarm went off at six o’clock the next morning, she was surprised to see that Vipsania’s bed was empty—though it showed signs of being slept in. Fern had already written off Vipsania as a late sleeper and someone who did things at the last minute, and so she couldn’t make sense of her getting up before sunrise—even for the first day of classes. After quickly running through her morning prayers, Fern opened the door to the shared bathroom—planning to get her hair in order and put some cream on her ever-stubborn acne—and found her roommate staring blankly at the mirror.
Fern almost didn’t recognize her. Her hair—her dyed hair with the bangs that she took so much pride in—was gone—shaved off. It was a rough and uneven job—probably done with hair clippers on an unwilling subject. This, Fern realized at once, must have been Vipsania’s “punishment” for failing the Trial, even though she’d made it all the way to the end.
“Good morning,” Fern mumbled. Vipsania said nothing.
She didn’t so much as glance at Fern while she brushed her teeth and washed her face and combed her brown hair into tolerable order, but just kept staring in horror at her own reflection. Despite herself, Fern felt guilty. After all, she’d won fair and square, and she hadn’t chosen Vipsania’s punishment. Yet Fern could tell that this was more than a mild embarrassment for Vipsania—that what those older students had done actually hurt her. She couldn’t think of anything to say—and even if she could, she felt she wasn’t the right person to say it—but she said a prayer for Vipsania as she departed alone for breakfast, her roommate still staring at the bathroom mirror.
Fern picked an empty table to enjoy her first breakfast of the school year, although she was joined by Lyra and Cassia in the last few minutes. The contrast between her two suitemates was almost amusing. Cassia, who’d apparently survived the maze unscathed, seemed relaxed and cheerful, and she appeared to have a newfound respect for Fern on realizing that she too had passed the Trial. Lyra—who’d wiped out just a few minutes in—was uncharacteristically sullen, and her face and arms were plastered with flesh-colored bandages, which were supposed to hide the pictures of male genitalia that the upperclassmen had drawn all over her in permanent marker. Across the dining hall, she could see another freshman girl whose skin was stained by green paint. While Fern didn’t like the mean-spiritedness behind them, these did seem like more reasonable punishments—really, just mild humiliations—compared to what had happened to Vipsania.
Fern’s first class of the school year was Latin. Having already met her teacher, Fern felt less anxious as she made her way across campus towards Aquinas Hall as the bright morning sun broke over the eastern skyscrapers. She was still uncomfortable in her uniform, and it was made even worse when she crossed paths with Dean, who’d finally replaced his leather jacket with a school blazer, and looked somehow even more handsome and mysterious than the day before, which was becoming a very dangerous pattern. At least they weren’t heading in the same direction. And there was one thing about the school uniforms that Fern appreciated: it made her effectively anonymous.
Choosing where to sit in the new class wasn’t ordinarily a challenge for Fern Kubelsky. Her parents’ rule from when she’d first started school had been clear: sit in the front, where the teacher could see you, and participate. Of course, it had made her classmates back in Bancroft think she was an insufferable teacher’s pet, but Fern stuck by it out of principle. Now, however, she hesitated. There were only three rows of wooden desks in Sister Theresa’s cozy, somewhat old-fashioned classroom, each wide enough for two chairs. Someone she didn’t know was already sitting at each of the desks in the front row, and she just didn’t have the courage to sit next to a stranger—especially one her own age. So, she took a place in the second row, unpacked her things, and did her best to act like she belonged. Maybe next time she’d arrive a little earlier and take a seat in the front. A few other freshmen filtered in, but none of them took the open spot next to Fern.
Just seconds before the bell rang, Vipsania Montagnese—wearing a black beanie over her shaved head—slipped into the seat next to her.
“Hiya, Fernie,” she said. She wasn’t quite as animated as when they first met, but she showed no signs of resentment for the previous night’s events—at least, not towards Fern. Fern tried to venture an apology, but Vipsania brushed her off.
“Not your fault,” she said tersely. “Don’t worry about it.”
Vipsania Montagnese turned out to be an unusual deskmate. She yawned and sighed and stared at the ceiling and picked at her fingernails, but her hand shot up every time Sister Theresa asked a question, and she took the most beautiful notes Fern had ever seen—despite the sketches of ghouls and specters and other horrifying things in the margins. Perhaps the most frustrating to Fern was the ease with which Vipsania picked up Latin vocabulary and grammar. Even though they were both beginners, Vipsania never seemed to struggle. It reinforced Fern’s suspicion that being a Rothko Scholar came naturally to Vipsania, while she had to work for it.
Why exactly Vipsania wanted to take Latin was a mystery, although Fern suspected that her roommate’s fascination with the macabre was to blame. Perhaps their was some old book of medieval tortures she wanted to read. Fern’s attachment to the Tridentine Mass—an attachment she’d inherited from her grandmother—was the only reason she could give for her own choice.
After all, she had no idea where her life was going after graduation.
“I’m so excited to have two Rothko Scholars in my class,” said Sister Theresa when the bell sounded at the end of the period. “You both did very well.”
They thanked her, then scrambled off as quickly as they could without being rude. The first day of classes, at least in Fern’s opinion, was no time to stick around and chat with teachers.
Marbrose Catholic Academy operated on a rotating block schedule that Fern found extremely confusing. There were eight periods in all, but they never seemed to go in numerical order. A day might begin with 8th period, then go to 3rd, then 1st, then conclude with 7th, and then the next day would be completely different. Only the first Monday of each two-week cycle would include every period, and then students would have to race across campus to get to each class on time. Miss Stott had assured her there was a system of some kind—something about odd and even numbers and counting by threes—but mainly it meant Fern didn’t feel safe without her printed schedule, and the other freshmen were constantly asking upperclassmen which period was next.
Generally, Fern enjoyed her classes. After Latin, she had history with Mr. Aspinall, who made up for being slightly shy and awkward by his enthusiasm when he actually stood up to lecture. History had never been Fern’s favorite subject, but she had a feeling Mr. Aspinall would be able to make it interesting. Once again, she had Vipsania as a classmate, though she sat with Dean near the back, which made Fern rather annoyed. They went off in different directions for the third period of the day, which was the fifth period in numerical order. Fern’s class was at the south end of campus in Kopernik Hall, while Vipsania had been heading vaguely towards Cochran, possibly for an art class of some kind. Fern was ever so slightly disappointed, but not for reasons that she was proud of. Science was one of her strong suits, and she wanted to give Vipsania a chance to see that she really was good at something. Fern breezed her way through the first hour or so of freshman biology, and she was pleased to see that her teacher, an elderly, bald-headed gentleman named Mr. Siracusa, was obviously impressed.
“Rothko Scholars,” he said whimsically, with just a hint of a Sicilian accent. “Always a pleasure.”
On her way to lunch, Fern crossed paths with Miss Stott, who was helping a particularly lost-looking freshman girl find her way to McClanahan Hall. Once the other girl had thanked Miss Stott and raced off towards lunch, Fern and Miss Stott strolled together for a while, almost as though they’d been planning to meet in just that spot.
“You look like you’re quite getting the hang of things,” Miss Stott observed.
“Just doing my best,” said Fern. “Um, I do have a question, however.”
Miss Stott raised an eyebrow.
“About last night, you mean? I thought you girls were sworn to secrecy.”
It took Fern a moment to realize that Miss Stott was only joking.
“It’s alright, Fern. The Trial of the Underworld is one of the school’s oldest traditions—though it’s changed quite a bit over the years. My class was one of the first they actually made run that horrible maze—and they didn’t do traps back then, just chased you through the dark with paddles. Before that, I believe they made the girls break into the crypt in the convent. Rather disrespectful, if you ask me.”
She winked at Fern.
“And that… stuff they had us drink? I thought it was—.”
“Wine? Yes. Technically against the rules, I suppose, not to mention the law, but it’s not particularly strong stuff. At least, they tell me that they water it down.”
“What did they put it in?” asked Fern. “It wasn’t just wine.”
“Ah, now that’s a secret even I’m not privy to,” said Miss Stott, laughing airily. “Something the older girls came up with themselves—years ago, I believe. After my time, though. We had to drink an entire chalice undiluted then do the maze blindfolded. As I’m sure you can guess, not many of us made it. My bottom was sore for days.”
“Did you see what happened to Vipsania?” said Fern, trying to sound casual.
Miss Stott’s face turned hard.
“That punishment did not receive prior approval,” she said. “But it unfortunately can’t be undone.”
She sighed.
“Poor Vipsania. I’m sure it was her sister’s idea. I can’t figure out what it is that makes those two loathe each other so.”
She leaned on her cane and gazed up at the sloping Gothic roofs of McClanahan Hall. The sun had nearly reached its zenith, and Marbrose Catholic Academy looked almost strange—like a medieval monastery that had somehow crawled out into the daylight of the 21st century. Thus far, Fern had liked the school’s affectedly old-fashioned architecture, but now it struck her as slightly ominous, like it was concealing secrets that couldn’t survive in the light of day. She quickly shook off the impression, but it had unnerved her all the same.
“Get some lunch, Fern dear,” said Miss Stott. “Make some friends. Vipsania can handle herself. She is a Montagnese, after all.”
Fern again ate with Lyra and Cassia, and they were joined by Lyra’s brother Lorenzo and one of his friends. Lorenzo made polite conversation with Fern about her morning classes, which temporarily distracted her from her sense of guilt over Vipsania. What finally shook off her feeling of malaise was the sight of Dean Calvert sitting alone just a few tables away, picking indifferently at his food. Based on what Vipsania had told her, Fern had assumed that Dean would have no trouble finding friends. After all, he was rich—very rich—and part of one of Marbrose City’s oldest families. Yet the other students seemed to be avoiding him—or perhaps he was avoiding them. She’d been staring at him for perhaps a minute when Dean looked up and their eyes briefly met. Fern told herself she had nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t a sin to look, or even to admire. Besides, she desperately wanted to talk to Dean, even if that conversation began with “Why were you looking at me?” But, he turned his eyes away, and Fern ended up mainly feeling foolish. Miss Stott was right. She should focus on making friends—not staring at a boy she hardly knew.
Fern was halfway to Fenimore Hall when Vipsania suddenly appeared by her side, walking briskly. She appeared to have skipped lunch in favor of going back to the dorms to put on even more makeup—perhaps in the hope that if she put enough shadow around her eyes, people wouldn’t notice her shaved head. Just like in first period, they sat together in the second row of Dr. Strathmore’s classroom, which Fern was pleased to learn they held in equal admiration.
“The word you’re looking for is ‘Art Nouveau,’” said Vipsania as they gazed at the vintage posters that decorated the classroom walls. “Pretty rad, huh?”
“Indeed,” said Fern.
Dr. Strathmore ran a strict classroom—far more so than Mr. Aspinall or Sister Theresa—which Fern didn’t mind. The reading list was somewhat biased towards the early twentieth century, which was hardly unexpected, given Dr. Strathmore’s fashion sense, but the first work they were assigned was a 1939 short story by the mononymous Fenimore, Marbrose City’s most famous writer and the namesake of Fenimore Hall.
“Marbrose City in the 1930s was not so different from Marbrose today,” said Dr. Strathmore. “And although Fenimore has been accused—somewhat unjustly, I might add—of romanticizing the crime and corruption of Marbrose City’s Jazz Age, his skilled characterization, insight into human nature, and playful use of the argot of the Marbrose underworld is the foundation of his immense literary reputation.”
“Read between the lines in that book,” said Vipsania as they left Dr. Strathmore’s classroom, “and you’ll learn a lot about Marbrose City.”
“Meaning?”
“Dear old Fenimore was pals with all the gangsters and crooked politicians who ran Marbrose City back in the ‘20s. So if you wanna know how Marbrose got this way…”
“I still don’t understand,” said Fern.
They stopped beneath the portrait of G. K. Chesterton, who seemed to glower down at them disapprovingly.
“So,” said Vipsania in a whisper. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard of the Imperium?”
Fern shook her head.
“Well, that’s what people call the arrangement between the gangsters and the city government—you know, the mafia controls the rackets, the city council keeps the pressure off, and the mob makes sure their friends in city hall get reelected and kick some of the profits up to the mayor and his cronies. It started as a literal deal between Giuseppe Montagnese and Boss Abbott—they shook hands on it in the Imperium Club in the Dreyfuss in… I dunno, 1920-something—hence the name.”
“And what does that have to do with Fenimore?”
Vipsania glanced down the hall, as though to make sure no one was listening. She lowered her voice and leaned closer to Fern.
“See, everybody knows about the deal—it’s not exactly a secret—but not everyone knows that there were two other people sitting at the table.”
She paused dramatically.
“And… who were they?” asked Fern.
“One was Richard Galt—you know, Henry Galt’s dad—and the other… was Fenimore.”
“But why would—?”
“Because he set up the deal,” said Vipsania. “Who else had all the right connections to pull off something like that? So in a way, Fenimore’s the reason Marbrose City is… like, the way it is. A house built on lies, blood, and shadows.”
“It sounds like you’re guessing,” said Fern skeptically.
“Fernie,” said Vipsania, her voice dripping with condescension. “Giuseppe Montagnese was my great-great-grandfather. I know what I’m talking about.”
Fern looked a little sullenly at her copy of the Collected Short Stories of Fenimore as she and Vipsania left the building and set out towards the dorms. Apparently even the assigned reading in Marbrose City was rotten—at least if Vipsania was to be believed. And Fern still wasn’t sure if she did believe her—or whether she should. Miss Stott didn’t share Vipsania’s cynicism, and the teachers she’d met were all kind and friendly and… well, not evil. But then Fern remembered her strange journey in the dark the night before, and the older girls with their masks and robes. She had assumed that the “Gods of Marbrose” were merely a melodramatic flourish to make their journey through the underworld more exciting, but… well, if Vipsania could be trusted, maybe there was something more sinister going on.
She needed to ask someone else—someone who knew Marbrose City but who wasn’t a school employee or the daughter of a crime boss. Perhaps another outsider, but one who—.
Fern caught herself. She was describing Dean Calvert, and he was the last person who was likely to divulge any secrets to her.