I TUCK A white linen shirt into a pair of black leggings that I found mysteriously laid out for me when I returned from my bath. I stare at myself in my vanity mirror. The only thing I recognize is my long braid. The rest of me looks like I’ve dressed up as a pirate for the Renaissance Faire. If Emily saw me, she would laugh for a year. I just wish I had my phone to take a picture.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door.

“Come in!” I say, and the door swings open.

Layla’s dressed in the same clothes as me, only the pirate gear doesn’t diminish her grace. Her hair is in a high sleek ponytail that reaches most of the way down her back. If anything, she looks more regal than she did last night. “We’ll be late if we don’t go soon. And I’m never late.”

“I’m usually late,” I say in a friendly tone. “Maybe you’ll be a good influence on me.”

She frowns.

“Do you know where these clothes came from?” I gesture toward my black-laced boots. “When I got back from the bathroom, they were on the trunk at the foot of my bed.”

Her frown deepens. “The maid.”

“The maid?” I pause. “You’re kidding.” Dad never even hired a housekeeper and now I have a maid? This school must have cost him his savings. The knot that formed in my stomach last night tightens. Something about my dad’s decision and this entire situation feels off.

She stands a little straighter, which I didn’t imagine was possible with her already perfect posture. “Not in the least.”

Sheesh. She’s stiffer than my ninety-year-old physics teacher. “Well, any chance you know what happened to my clothes?” I ask. “Also, the things I brought with me from”—I remember rule number one—“home. I can’t find my luggage anywhere.”

“Personal items are forbidden on campus. Headmaster Blackwood keeps them locked up.”

“Even my toiletries and my—”

“Everything.”

I grumble. I already miss my pillowcase covered in pine trees that was part of a bed set I lusted after for months. And the scarf Emily knitted last winter that has become a staple of my wardrobe even though it’s lopsided—all the familiar little bits and pieces from my life are locked up somewhere I can’t get them.

“About that—the forbidden part. What’s the deal with all the secrecy?” I ask.

Layla looks at me suspiciously. “Why would you ask me that?”

I definitely wasn’t expecting her to dish on all the inner workings of this place, considering the severity of Blackwood’s rules, but I also wasn’t expecting such a defensive answer. Now she’s piqued my interest. I smile the disarming smile that’s always worked well for me. “I was just hoping you could explain it to me.”

“Don’t be absurd.” She lifts her chin and turns around in one fluid motion. I wouldn’t be surprised if she practiced that dramatic exit, waiting for someone to frustrate her so she could use it.

I follow her into the sitting room. She opens a tall armoire and pulls out two floor-length black coats with hoods and hands me one.

I examine the velvet-lined wool with interest. There are gloves in the pockets. “Is this a cape?”

“It’s a cloak,” she corrects me, “and the quality is impeccable.”

At just about heart level on the left-hand side of the cloak is the crest I saw in Blackwood’s office. It’s embroidered with silver and maroon thread. “ ‘Historia Est Magistra Vitae,’ ” I read out loud. I’m great with Latin root words—it’s one of the things I picked up when I became fascinated with name origins—but I’m awful with the grammar. “History, Teacher, Life?”

“History Is the Teacher of Life—Academy Absconditi’s motto,” Layla says, and sighs like she’s resigning herself to something tedious. “The maroon means patience in battle. The silver means peace. The oak tree signifies great age and strength. The torch represents truth and intelligence. And the sphinx symbolizes omniscience and secrecy.” Layla opens our arched door before the last word leaves her mouth and walks out of the suite without pause.

I follow her and close the door behind us, thinking about the crest as I put the cloak on. The stone hallway is brighter than last night, but the air is still cold, giving it an all-around gloomy feel.

That was a serious rundown of symbols Layla just gave me, not some generalized school motto. I chew on my lip. It’s odd that someone chose colors that mean both “patience in battle” and “peace,” which strike me as contradictory. Also, I don’t know much about crests, but I do know that the sphinx is most commonly associated with Egyptian and Greek cultures. “So back to this secrecy thing—”

“No.”

I take a better look at Layla. I wonder what would happen if she ever met my dad. I bet they would stare each other down, never saying more than two words to each other. I guarantee she’s the type of girl who likes to pretend she never farts and if one did slip out she would pass out from overwhelm. I laugh.

Layla turns to me sharply. “What?”

For a brief second, I consider telling her. “Look, we’re here together, right? In this, well, this castle, I guess, for at least the next few weeks until we go home for the holidays—” And home forever.

She huffs. “I’m not going home for any holidays.”

I search her face for a hint of emotion but find none. I would be devastated if I wasn’t with my family for the holidays. “Just the same, we might as well make the best of it. Don’t you think?”

Layla turns away from me and down a stone corridor with a series of narrow arched windows cut into it. The stone is so thick that you could easily use the windowsills as seats. I can picture archers perching in them once upon a time, raining arrows down on enemy invaders.

“This building takes some time to learn,” Layla says, completely ignoring my comment. “It zigzags, but the thing to remember is that the outside is a rectangle. So if you follow the outer wall, you can always find your way again.”

It’s like I’m having a conversation with the supermarket lady, Agnes, who hums incessantly and barely listens to anyone. Instead of answering whatever question you asked, she responds with whatever she’s currently thinking about. Emily and I treat her like a fortune cookie. If she tells us the artichokes are running rampant or that potato sprouts look like zombie fingers, we figure trouble’s afoot, but if she goes on about a new ice cream shipment, it’s going to be an amazing day.

“And if you find yourself outside in a courtyard or garden, you’re somewhere in the center of the rectangle,” Layla continues in a monotone, like she’s reading out of a brochure. “The entire structure is three stories tall, except for one tower that’s four stories.”

“Blackwood’s office,” I say, happy to recall a sliver of information about this place.

“Yes,” she says, and takes a quick questioning look at me. “You can orient yourself by that tower. Think of it as north and the girls’ dormitory as east. Directly across from us, on the west side of the building, is the boys’ dormitory.”

I count the doors and the turns as we go, a crack in a stone, a step that’s steeper than the others, committing them to memory. I was the kid everyone followed around at carnivals because it only took me one go-around before I knew where everything was. Dad says it’s from obsessively learning every inch of the woods near our home, which are a bazillion times harder to map than a building or a fair.

Layla reaches the end of the corridor, goes down three steps, and turns left. “I suspect the class schedule here is going to be different from what you’re used to. While some classes are back to back, most are not because many of the courses involve physical exertion. Our heaviest days are Monday through Friday, with a lighter schedule on the weekend. But the professors have the right to call an impromptu challenge whenever they want.” She pushes a flyaway hair back into place. “Now we’re entering the north side of the building, which has classrooms and faculty offices.” She points to the wall. “And the south side has common rooms—the dining hall, library, weapons rooms, and so on.”

I stop abruptly. “Hang on. What kind of weapons rooms?”

She stops, too. “We have a fairly extensive sword collection. And the bows and knives are some of the best.”

I can feel myself grinning. I’ve never used a real sword. Dad always made me practice with a wooden one, which I did so often that I broke my fair share of them. And a room full of knives? Sign me up.

“But the poisons aren’t what they could be,” Layla continues, almost to herself. “There’s no point in talking about it now, though, because we won’t get to that side of the building until lunchtime.”

My smile disappears. “Poisons?”

“I hear they’re expanding the curriculum next term, so it may improve.” Her delivery is matter-of-fact.

As far as I can tell, the only reasons to teach poisons are because you plan to use them or because you think someone might use them on you—neither of which sits well with me. “Why exactly are we learning about poisons?”

She looks at me like I can’t be serious. “You’re excited by knives but wonder why there’s a poisons class? If this is some kind of carefree, innocent act, you can do better than that.”

I stare at her. “Using knives, arrows, and swords is a skill. Poisons are strictly about hurting people.”

“Right. And knives are for cuddling,” she says flatly, and starts walking again. “You have an appointment right now with the head of assessment. His office is just down this hall.”

I grab her wrist, but she smoothly undoes my grip before I get a good hold. She glares at me, the first real sign of life I’ve seen in her. “Don’t ever do that.”

“Touch your arm? Sorry. But stop the tour for a sec. I’m serious. What’s with the poisons and the archaic eye-for-an-eye rule?” My off feeling is escalating and I’m getting the distinct sense that there is something about this place I should know and don’t. “And what about the student deaths Blackwood mentioned? I know I can’t ask who the students are and all, but can you explain at least a little? Should I be nervous right now?”

For a second she looks confused. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth. Why would our parents send us to an isolated school where all the rules have some imminent-danger theme?” I dislike the disorientation of not knowing where I am, but not as much as I can’t stand the idea that my dad withheld information from me.

“There’s less danger here than anywhere else,” Layla says like I’ve offended her last sensibility.

“Not from where I’m standing.”

She leans toward me and levels her voice. “I told you to stop playing this innocent game.”

“It’s no game.” I hesitate. My instinct is to double down. “I’m sorry you’re annoyed, but since my dad isn’t here to grill—”

“Lower your voice.” Her tone is commanding and fiery. She looks behind her down the empty hall and pushes me back with surprising force into the stairwell we just came out of. “Maybe this isn’t an act. Maybe you really don’t know. But stupidity isn’t the answer.” Her voice is barely above a whisper and is flat-out accusatory.

“Why would you think my questions are an act? What on earth would I gain from it?”

“My answer’s still a resounding no,” she hisses. “By referencing your father, and only your father, you just told me that it’s likely your mother is dead. Now I know something about you, combined with the fact that you were clearly raised in America, based on your vernacular. The clothing you arrived in last night suggests you live in a northern climate, and based on the style of clothing, I’d say a rural area rather than an urban one. Your features suggest you’re originally from western Europe; I would guess southern Italian because of your hair and eyes. That narrows you down to only a handful of Families you could be related to. Should I go on?”

I stare at her. Who, or what, is this girl? “Families? What families?”

Her eyes widen and her hands clench. “You’re loud and you’re reckless and there is absolutely no chance I’m giving you information. Good play, but you’ve lost.” Her words are biting.

“Wait—”

“I’m done with this conversation,” she says. “I can’t believe Headmaster Blackwood matched us as roommates.” She walks away from me at full speed.

Damn. I’m striking out here. Charm doesn’t work; being pushy doesn’t work. I raise my hands in surrender. “Look, I’m really not trying to piss you off. Honest. My best friend always says I push so hard that sometimes I push people right over a cliff. I get that you don’t trust me. I’ll do my best to chill out and stop attacking you with questions. But I’m not playing you and I don’t know what I’ve ‘lost.’ ”

Before she can respond, the doors around us creak open. Students pour into the hallway, all wearing the same clothes and cloaks we are. Did a class just end? I didn’t even hear a bell. Where I’m used to shouts and laughter and pushing between classes, there are only hushed conversations and deliberate movements.

Layla weaves in and out of the creepily quiet students. The glances I get are so subtle that if I weren’t looking for them I would assume the other students didn’t even notice me. There’s none of the openmouthed new-kid ogling that goes on at my school.

I shiver. There’s something unsettling about this place, making me further question Dad’s decision to send me here. It feels like a test, a way for him to prove the point he’s always trying to make about me being too trusting. I can almost hear him saying: “Look, look at this place and tell me I’m not wrong—people always have something to hide.” The strange part is, even though we had our disagreements when it came to trusting people, underneath it all I got the sense that he was secretly proud that I looked for the best in everyone. Maybe I was wrong.

“Layla,” says a guy walking toward us, and I snap out of my thoughts. He looks remarkably like her, other than his height. Where she’s three inches shorter than me, he’s three inches taller. But they both have the same regal presence and the same pointed expression. “I’m surprised,” he continues. “I would have thought you’d be at the assessment office by now.” He winks at her.

Judging by his comment, it occurs to me she must have told him I was here early this morning. Either that, or they somehow knew I was coming, which worries me more. There’s no phone or Internet here for communicating, so the only way they could have known was if this was arranged days ahead of time, days before I knew myself.

“Extenuating circumstances.” Layla looks at me like I’m an unidentifiable cafeteria food. “Ash, this is November, my new roommate. November, Ash.”

“Layla with a roommate. Who would have thought this day would ever come?” He looks directly at me and I involuntarily take a step backward. There’s something about his gaze that makes me feel instantly exposed, as though he shined an unforgiving light on the pimple I was hoping no one would notice. Where Layla’s cold, he appears warm, and yet there’s nothing welcoming about his welcome.

“You didn’t have a roommate before me?” I ask. Blackwood did say there were only a hundred students and this school is huge, so it’s not surprising there might be singles. But it does seem like a lonely choice in this gray place.

“We’re not all suited for it,” Layla says, and it feels like a warning as much as an explanation.

“I imagine Layla’s taking good care of you?” Ash says before I can respond. The more he speaks, the more I notice the similarities he shares with Layla—the way they move their eyebrows, their strong cheekbones, and even the curve of their hairline.

“She’s an excellent tour guide,” I say. “But so far I’m a terrible tour-ee. I’m mostly badgering her with questions.” I pause, piecing together what little I know about him. “Is Ash short for…Ashai?”

His smile widens but looks forced. “Exactly. I’m surprised Layla was talking about me; it’s unlike her.”

You can say that again. “She wasn’t. It’s just that Ash by itself isn’t an Egyptian name. And since Layla’s name is Egyptian, I assumed that yours would be, too. I mean, you two are brother and sister, right?” I don’t feel the same thrill I usually do when I do this. Instead, I get the sense that I’ve said something terribly wrong.

Ash looks at Layla and not at me. “You told her we’re Egyptian?”

The we’re tells me I’m also right about them being siblings.

Layla lifts her chin. “Obviously not.”

They look at each other for a few long seconds. They don’t say a word, but even I can tell they’re communicating in some way by the intensity of the looks they share.

Ash shifts his gaze back to me. “I have time this afternoon. Maybe I could join your tour or even take over for Layla if she needs a break?”

My instinct is to say no, apologize to Layla, and promise I’ll stop talking if she just won’t pass me off to him.

Thankfully, Layla shakes her head. “You know she’s my responsibility,” she says, and I’m grateful—not that being called someone’s responsibility is a compliment.

“Well, then, I guess I’ll just see you both at lunch. Oh, and Layla…” He holds up a small braid made of pine needles.

Layla checks the now-empty pocket of her cloak while Ash grins victoriously. “Five, four,” she says with a hint of annoyance. “You win.”

Ash gives us both a small bow as he slips back into the river of students, who behave more like spies than high schoolers. Up close his intensity is almost overwhelming, but as he walks away I find that it’s equally hard not to watch him. I’m not sure if I’m intrigued or intimidated.