“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.