The headmaster cuts him off. “I know that you worry you are too young and that the guildmasters will question your authority, but none of the guildmasters have worked as my direct apprentice. I know I can trust you, and that is more important than your colleagues’ professional jealousy. You have proven yourself time and again, and those who haven’t seen it yet will soon.” He takes a large, ornate key from his pocket and hands it to Michael. “Now, if you would please direct Apprentice Castle to her apartment.”

“Yes, Master Bloche.” Michael sighs.

Before we exit, I take one last look at the painting that might be a priceless, stolen Rembrandt. I want to ask Michael about it, but I don’t know how to without sounding accusatory. I need to appear excited to be here, not suspicious. So I paste on a smile and follow him out.

On the way to my room, Michael provides a mini tour of the institute. The entrance hall is called the Equinox, and it branches into a sunburst of five peripheral wings. One wing is the library, the heart of the school. The Autumn and Spring wings have classrooms, offices, and communal facilities, and the Summer and Winter wings are mostly for residence. My room is in the Winter wing.

I know we’ve entered the Winter wing when the rich warm hues of the wallpaper and window hangings change to cool blues, deep evergreens, and snowy whites. There are ornaments and light fixtures of crystal and glass, reminiscent of ice, and even the scenes in the paintings on the wall have shifted in season and tone.

We turn into a hallway with walls that somehow manage to be the exact color of twilight after fresh snowfall, and we stop at an arched door. There’s a brass knocker in the shape of tree branches and a small hole where the knob should be.

“Your fingerprint is linked with the lock,” Michael says, indicating the small hole and wiggling his pointer finger. I had submitted a full set of fingerprints during my application process. I stick my pointer into the groove, and the door swings open to a common area.

The room has the feel of a winter cabin with walls of aged wood full of grooves and knots and a floor of plush rugs in deep reds and soft ochers. Numerous glass spheres hang from the exposed beams of the ceiling, illuminating the space with the glow of Edison coils. A large window looks out onto the mists, and a fire crackles in a woodburning stove. My tower of bags is already here, stacked neatly outside one of the two closed doors, and a third door opens to a small bathroom.

“Hello?” Michael calls out, but no one responds.