“How do you spell Layla?” I ask, my thoughts turning to one way I can get information without asking for it.

Blackwood hesitates and gives me an odd look. I would tell her that her own name in Old English means “black wood,” but there’s clearly no point.

“L-A-Y-L-A,” Blackwood says, then closes the journal and stands up.

I stand up, too. I want to ask more questions, but it’s obvious from her expression that she has no interest in continuing our conversation.

“Thanks, Headmaster Blackwood. Sleep well.”

She gives a perfunctory nod and I head for the door. The guard with the torch lifts the latch and I follow him into the hallway. He towers over me, and I’m almost five foot nine. And once again, the guards orchestrate it so that I’m walking between them.

The only sound is my boots on the floor. Their footsteps are conspicuously quiet as we make our way down a flight of stairs and into a hallway lined with arched wooden doors marked by wrought-iron accents. There are no numbers or names to distinguish them. The guard in front of me stops and knocks on the third door on the left. Only a second passes before there’s the muffled sound of a metal latch and the door swings open.

The girl behind it has long black hair to her waist, so straight and shiny that it reflects the torch flame. She has dark brown eyes and full red lips. She scans me head to toe and her eyebrows push together, reminiscent of Blackwood’s sour pucker.

Even though she’s in nothing more than a white nightgown, my boots, shabby and mud-stained from my usual outdoor antics, and my oversized cable-knit sweater suddenly make me feel underdressed.

“Layla, right?” I say, stepping in and breaking the silence with a smile. “I hear we’re roommates. I’m November.” I reach out my hand to shake hers, but she doesn’t take it. Instead she does a quick curtsy. A surprised laugh escapes before I can consider it. Her gaze hardens and she latches the door behind me with a rough click.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. Really. Your curtsy just caught me off guard. Can we start over?” I can hear my best friend, Emily, scolding me for my poorly timed laughs.

“It’s forgotten,” she says like she’s being forced to be polite to me.

The suite of rooms she shows me only reinforces my initial impression that we’re in an old castle somewhere in Europe. And now that I’m not locked in, I can better appreciate the medieval decor. The stone walls have candle sconces that look like they could be a thousand years old. There is a large fireplace, a light gray velvet couch and love seat, and a breakfast table in front of an arched window that’s entirely covered by heavy maroon curtains. The gray and maroon remind me of the colors of the crest in Blackwood’s office. “Daang,” I whisper.

“Your bedroom’s there,” Layla says flatly, gesturing to my right. Her face shows no emotion whatsoever.