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“Do you know where the Chancellor’s office is?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll leave you here.”
He abandons me at the staircase, heading back outdoors.
I watch his retreating back, wondering if it’s just my imagination that he doesn’t want to accompany me to the top floor.
Foreboding creeps over me. I wonder if this might possibly have something to do with Cat.
It can’t be—I’m the only person who knows her secret, and I haven’t told a soul. Haven’t written it anywhere. Haven’t even whispered it to myself alone in the dead of night.
I scale five flights of stairs to the topmost floor, my stomach tightening with each step.
I’ve never been inside the Chancellor’s office before. I knock on the doors, hearing the terse response, “Come in,” carry easily across the open space beyond.
I push open the doors, entering an expansive office that, along with the Chancellor’s private quarters, takes up the entire penthouse of the Keep.
Banks of windows on two sides offer views over the cliffs and also across the campus grounds. I’m sure the Chancellor’s intimate knowledge of the goings-on amongst the students comes from his army of staff, but I can’t shake the impression that he’s constantly standing at those windows, watching us from above.
This office is more like an apartment, with a sitting area, a separate writing desk, shelves of books, and a globe big enough to break Atlas’ back. The walls are covered in photographs of the Chancellor with friends and allies from across the globe—some mafia, and others recognizable to any civilian. I’m instantly envious of the shot of Hugo and Mike Tyson on some sunny golf course.
My shoes sink into the thick rug as I make the endless journey toward the Chancellor’s desk.
No room I’ve seen inside the castle matches this one for wealth and luxury. The Hugos are immensely rich, one of the oldest and most successful of the ten founding families who first formed this school. From what I’ve heard, Luther Hugo has only increased his holdings. He’s a brilliant investor. He could teach the finance classes better than Professor Graves, if he cared to do it.
The Chancellor waits for me behind his desk, dressed as usual in a double-breasted suit with a black silk cravat. I always find it difficult to guess his age. His thick mane of hair is still inky black, though threaded with silver. But his face is etched with lines as deep as hatchet marks. His spider-black eyes follow my every movement from the moment I stepped foot through his door.
“Dean Yenin,” he says, in his sonorous voice. “Sit.” He gestures to the ornate chair set opposite his desk.
I take my seat, unnerved and trying not to show it.
I share Cat’s antipathy for Luther Hugo, after what he did to Ozzy’s mother. I know it’s the law at this school. But I don’t care. There’s no justice when the innocent pay for the crimes of the guilty.
“How did you enjoy the Christmas dance?” Hugo asks politely.
“I enjoyed it very much.”
I don’t know why I’m here and I can’t imagine it’s for any positive reason. I don’t want to give anything away.
“I saw you dancing with Catalina Romero,” Hugo says.
My stomach clenches. This is what I was afraid of—that Cat had drawn his attention in some way.
“Yes,” I say stiffly.
“Unfortunate that Zoe Romero and Miles Griffin chose not to complete their education at this school.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I lie, keeping my expression as bland as possible.
“We hate to lose our students. In any manner or for any reason,” the Chancellor says.
I can’t tell if this is some sort of threat. His expression is impossible to read.
“Which brings me to the unfortunate business at hand…”
I keep my palms flat on my thighs, determined not to move or even flinch, no matter what he might ask me.
