The antiquated office reminds me of a somber scene in a movie about Mary, Queen of Scots. The only light in the room comes from an abundance of candles set in silver candelabras and in sconces on the stone walls. The windows are covered with heavy curtains and a fire blazes inside the fireplace, filling the air with the scent of woodsmoke.

A tall, thin woman stands behind a seemingly ancient desk. Her brown hair is pulled into a high bun so tight that it gives me a headache just looking at it. She’s probably around Dad’s age, but her severity makes her seem older.

She does a poor impression of a smile. “Welcome to Academy Absconditi. I’m Headmaster Blackwood. I trust your trip was agreeable?” Her voice and demeanor command obedience.

“I don’t remember my trip,” I say, feeling uneasy under her gaze as I pull a piece of fuzz off my jeans. The rant I was working up downstairs feels inappropriate in this formal setting. “I passed out on the plane and woke up on a couch in the…To be honest, I’m confused how—”

“Teachers’ lounge,” she says, and gestures for me to sit in an armchair in front of her desk. The frills of a white blouse spill out from the edges of her black blazer. The contradiction makes me wonder which one she is—uptight and trying to appear approachable, or soft and trying to look stern. “You were out for some time.”

“I was locked up down there,” I say, expecting shock, but it doesn’t come. I turn and look behind me. Both guards are still with us, one on either side of the now-closed door. Whether they’re protecting her or preventing me from leaving is unclear. Maybe both.

Blackwood nods as though she understands my unspoken question. “Guards aren’t permitted to speak to students; they only speak to faculty and staff. Now, considering the lateness of the hour, I think we should dispense with the small talk, don’t you?” She glances at a dark metal clock on the wall that resembles a small Gothic tower with exposed gears.

It reads 1:30, and judging by her “lateness of the hour” comment and the empty hallways, I’m guessing it’s a.m., not p.m. “Hang on…that can’t be right.” I look between her and the clock like someone is playing a joke on me. It was after midnight when Dad dropped me at the airport. And about two hours after that when I fell asleep. “Have I been out for a full day? How is that possible? And why didn’t I wake up when I was being brought in here? Or when the plane landed?”

“I understand that you’re disoriented, an unfortunate side effect of getting you here smoothly—”

“Side effect?” My stomach knots up as I narrow the possibilities as to why I was asleep for twenty-four hours. “Did…did someone drug me?” My voice has risen in pitch, and I fight off a sense of panic.

I file back through the sequence of events before I passed out. The last thing I clearly remember was having a lemonade on the plane. Dad must have told me a million times not to eat or drink anything that wasn’t given to me by someone I trust, but refusing a drink from a flight attendant is like refusing something I ordered in a restaurant.