Layla leads me through the tapestry-lined foyer I walked through last night on my way to Blackwood’s office. She stops in front of a broad wooden door and a young guard opens it. The guard is dressed in the same leather armbands and leather belt that the guys who escorted me to my room last night wore.

“Thanks,” I say as I pass the guard, but she doesn’t respond. I grumble under my breath.

My upset disappears, though, the moment my boot touches the soft grass in the rectangular courtyard. The temperature instantly drops, but not as harshly as I would expect for December. Of course the inside temperatures are lower than I’m used to, so I might not notice the difference the way I normally would. The humidity feels similar to home, which doesn’t tell me much about where I am, considering that many parts of Europe have winter climates comparable to what I have in Pembrook. And the air is thick with the earthy smell of damp soil and moss that’s reminiscent of being deep in a forest.

The perimeter is lined by ancient oak trees with enormous trunks, which doesn’t give me any clues, since oaks are also common throughout Europe and North America. But despite the lack of info I can glean from them, they are stunning. Their tops have been carefully groomed to create a dense arched canopy over the entire space, dappling the light on the ground. Thick vines hang from the branches at a variety of lengths, making the whole thing a Peter Pan–esque fantasy jungle gym.

I run my hand along one of the vines and give it a tug. “I guess this place isn’t all bad,” I say between dry lips, realizing my mouth has been hanging open as I’ve been taking it all in. Catching flies, as Emily would say.

“This courtyard is used as part of our athletics program, and it’s strictly forbidden to climb the vines without an instructor present,” Layla says, squarely putting the kibosh on my desire to shinny up them. But even she can’t completely dampen this moment for me.

“When is that class?” I ask.

“Tomorrow,” she says.

“For juniors and seniors, or for everyone?” I take a deep breath, enjoying the scent of freshly cut grass and bark.

“We don’t use grade standings like that. Fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds are considered elemental. Seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds are advanced,” she says. “And we don’t share classes with the younger students. Generally, they have a lighter schedule than we do, giving them more time for practice.”

I nod. That fits with everything Conner told me. “Question: If everything here is so secret, how do people apply for college? I’m guessing there are no transcripts from this place.”

Layla looks at me like my question is ridiculous. “If we go to college.”

“Why go to a prep school described as only admitting the best if you don’t plan on going to college?” I ask.

“And why waste four years studying inane subjects in college when you could just say you went and be done with it?” she counters.