Vox Mentis

Does the woman's name ring any bells? Something from a movie or a song, maybe?

Not really. You never did watch many movies or listen to much music, though.

.... okay, still get new clothes. Are any of the drawers and shelves got clothes in them? Or anything else perhaps?

Get cleaned up, for a start. Then let's check out the grounds on the off chance some shit goes down and you want to make a get away that's not through the obvious exits. I mean, it seems a hell of a lot safer than how you've been living, but you don't want to get caught off-guard just because things seem to be getting better.

You use your new bathroom and study yourself in the mirror. Your hair is like straw. You're wearing an outfit that looks worse the fancier your environment becomes and doesn't smell terrific, either. But aside from this, you don't seem completely out of place. You could believe you're a person who regularly pees in bathrooms with twenty-foot ceilings. And then goes out on her horse. "Relax," you tell the mirror, because your eyes are tense.

You shower and re-dress, finding some new jeans and a white T-shirt in the dresser. Where you came from, it was fine to wear the same clothes for days at a time; that meant you were busy following life's opportunities. But you can see that here it's going to be an issue. You pull on your jacket to feel more you, at least, which is furry and has little biker studs you make fun of if anyone mentions them but secretly think are awesome. You brush your hair until most of the knots are gone and clip it out of your face. You have a faint memory of mascara left in your makeup bag and scrape together what you can to give yourself smoky eyes. You've lost your deodorant somewhere. But you soaped up in the shower. The reality is you smell better than you have in a while.

You go to the window in your room and study the mechanism until you figure out how to swing open the glass in two panels. You lean out. A breeze tugs your hair. Woods was right. The trees are like pillars. You could get lost in there. Find a gingerbread house. Meet a witch. Could be a decent hiding place, if shit goes down. Always be prepared, that's what you say.

You give the building a quick once over and find it much as Jane described it. Wandering outside into the cool air, you see green lawn surrounding most of the building, save for the aforementioned East Wood - a tall metal fence surrounds the grounds, probably to prevent the peasants from storming the castle, or something. You might, might, be able to squeeze between the bars if you have to. The driveway leading up to the gates seems to be the only obvious way in or out, and the gates could probably be climbed, if you were desperate. A booth with a uniformed man sits just inside the gates, to further enforce the sanctity of the grounds.

As you head back to your room, you follow sounds of a television to a small room with sofas and cushions and a boy spread across them. He sits up as you enter. His hair is very curly. His clothes are new and bright and his collar is turned up. If you have anything in common with him, you can't see it.

His eyes move over you. He's probably thinking the same thing. "Hey," he says.

"Hi. Who are you?"

"A guy. On a sofa." He smiles. You hate him already. "You're here for the tests?"

"Yeah."

"Just arrived?"

"Yeah."

"From where?"

"San Francisco."

"Right," he says. "And, uh, where in San Francisco?" He smiles again. That upturned collar, what is that?

"Street." He looks blank. "The," you say. "The street. You know. The street."

He shakes his head. "I don't know."

"Yeah, I see that."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to offend. I mean, what is it, you, uh, do?" He twirls a finger, indicating the room. "They don't bring you here for no reason."

"I'm a magician. I entertain."

"Really?" he says. "You don't strike me as the entertaining type."

"You don't strike me as someone who knows jack about shit," you say, because you're starting to get a little intimidated by his wording. "Why are you here?"

He grins. His teeth are really something. "New England Schools Debating Conference. Finals." He waits for a response. "I'm good."

"Are you," you say.

Just crash.

He's boring you now. You make your way back to your room and collapse on the bed, closing your eyes.

~

A bell rings somewhere: and honest to God bell, like a musical instrument. You open your door to faces peering out of doorways. They're all young, mostly female. "Chow time!" says a black girl across the hall, and there are titters.

The dining hall table has twelve places set on a tablecloth the size of a bedsheet but there are still miles of glowing wood stretching away at either end. The curly-haired boy comes in, joking with a girl you haven't met, and sits opposite. You think he might look at you but he doesn't. You try to figure out the cutlery. A girl, no more than ten, climbs onto a chair beside you. You say hi and the girl says hi back, shyly. On your other side, a pretty girl with angel-blond hair slides into a seat. The curly-haired boy looks at the blond girl and away and then back and you think, Yeah, okay.

Jane, who you still vaguely think of as a nun, moves around the table, chatting briefly to each of you. Bread is served. Soup. The ten-year-old stares hopelessly at her spoons and you try to help with educated guesses based on what everyone else is using.

"I love your jacket," says the angelic blond girl. "It's so authentic."

Time to make polite dinner conversation.