Fiona rolled her eyes at Mariana, who mouthed the words “No thanks” behind her hand. Neither of them had any interest in becoming a part of Munroe’s blood-drinking cult.
“Some of you, like me, barely made it out of the school building alive.” Munroe’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows creased together. “We had to climb down the trellises and run through the streets. We almost died. But I promise you that we’ll all be safe within the gates of Winderbellow. There are guards all over the house, and we have our own ways of dealing with witches.” She arched an eyebrow at Mariana. “There are new laws in place since the attacks, and anyone suspected of witchcraft may be interrogated by whatever means necessary.”
Fiona stiffened. Maybe Tobias is onto something with his charm offensive.
CHAPTER SIX
Fiona
The van bumped along a gravel path through imposing rows of ash trees, their leaves ablaze with sunlight. To the left, beyond the trees, lay a vast expanse of tobacco fields.
As they rolled forward, an enormous redbrick mansion came into view, and Fiona’s eyes widened at its grandeur. The main building was the width of an entire city block, and a wing extended from either side. White gabled windows crowned the structure on the third floor. Munroe’s home was at least as big as Mather Academy had once been.
Fiona caught a glimpse of Alan’s wide-eyed reaction as they approached. She couldn’t imagine her friends staring with awe as they pulled up the yellowed vinyl siding on her South Boston triple-decker.
The van stopped in front of the rows of white zinnia that blossomed in front of the house. A red family crest hung above the door. Lux in tenebris lucet. It was the Purgator motto: Light shines through the darkness.
“Whoa,” whispered Mariana, staring through the windshield.
Alan turned to Fiona, mouthing the words, Holy shit.
In the passenger seat, Munroe unbuckled her belt, smiling. “We’re here, everyone! My mom will be waiting for us, and someone will take your bags. Just leave them in the van.” She opened her door, her smooth hair bouncing behind her as she stepped out.
Fiona’s muscles ached. She stretched her arms above her head and watched as Tobias glided out of the van, silent as a cat. Rising, she shuffled after him, crossing the lawn to the multi-paned glass doors.
Before she slipped through the entryway, she glanced at an aged gardener crouched over the zinnias, a wispy white beard covering his chin. A tall, red-flowered weed grew among the white flowers. He yanked it out with a grunt, crushing the buds in his fingers.
As they followed Munroe into the entrance hall, a high domed ceiling dwarfed the students. Portraits lined maroon walls, and a chandelier hung from a long brass chain. Dark, curved staircases swooped upward on either side of the hall to a balcony high above. Fiona pulled back her curls into a ponytail. I feel like I should be wearing a ballgown and fanning myself.
Munroe beamed. “Welcome to Winderbellow. Someone will come for us.”
Fiona’s classmate Sadie pushed to the front, staring at the entrance hall. She scratched a freckled cheek. “This place is beautiful,” she whispered. For once, she wasn’t prattling on about what kind of bagel to eat or what kind of socks to wear. Her blond hair swelled in the heat, and her lips looked pale without her usual makeup.
“Thank you, Sadie,” chirped Munroe. “It has an impressive history, too. It was home to one of the Founding Fathers.”
As they milled around the imposing vestibule, a young woman entered the hall from the opposite door. Her platinum hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore the same chalice pendant that always adorned Munroe’s neckline. “Ms. Ranulf? Your mother has asked that everyone join her in the green drawing room.” She gave a curt nod and then strode off through the doorway again.
Munroe beckoned her schoolmates forward. “Follow me, everyone.”
She hurried through a rounded door opposite the entryway, and the remnants of Mather Academy’s junior class shuffled one by one through the door. Fiona pressed in after them to an expansive room lined with tall, arched windows. On the far side, glass doors led to a grassy field. Above the doors, afternoon light illuminated a stained-glass chalice insignia. Mahogany chairs with tall backs and faded, embroidered cushions were strewn around the room. A portrait of an obscure Founding Father in a powdered wig hung above the fireplace.
Fiona’s eye was most drawn to the woman with the strawberry blond ringlets blazing from her head. She reclined on a mustard-yellow sofa near a marble fireplace. She stood, smiling, her porcelain skin gleaming. With a blue dress draping her elegant figure, she looked like she could have been a beauty queen years ago. And there was that chalice again, on her neck. This must be Munroe’s mother.