Emily shrugged, then rose. “We’ll check her room,” she said. Taking Caleb along would raise eyebrows, but she had the feeling she’d need a witness. And besides, she trusted his instincts. “And then we’ll decide what to do.”
The corridors felt oddly empty as they walked through them and down the stairs. A number of portraits had been removed for cleaning, leaving blank spaces on the walls. Others had been replaced with older portraits, paintings of magicians who’d lived and died hundreds of years ago. She couldn’t help thinking, as she caught sight of a particularly shifty looking magician, that the portrait had been painted after its subject’s death.
That wouldn’t be a surprise, she thought, bitterly. None of the portraits of me look anything like me.
She heard a number of students playing in the distance as she led the way into the fourth year dorms. Someone—probably Madame Beauregard—had fiddled with the wards, allowing the students to mingle. It was half-term, Emily recalled. The handful of younger students who’d remained in Whitehall could play with their elders, even if their elders wouldn’t be seen dead with their juniors during term-time. True friendships that crossed the year-line were rare. Emily couldn’t help thinking that the age gap between Frieda and herself was actually greater than almost any other friendship in Whitehall.
Her eyes narrowed as she stopped outside Frieda’s door. Someone had stuck a copy of one of the pamphlets outside, fixing it to the wood with a sticking charm. Emily cancelled the charm, glanced at the parchment and then crumpled it in her hand. Another set of lies and libels ... she promised herself, if she ever found out who was carrying them into Whitehall, she would not be gentle.
It has to be someone who stayed over, Emily thought. She tapped on Frieda’s door and waited, counting the seconds under her breath. Frieda had roommates, but Emily couldn’t recall if they’d stayed in Whitehall for half-term. And there aren’t that many suspects.
No one opened the door. Emily motioned for Caleb to stay back, then pushed the door open gently. The wards parted at her touch, allowing her to step inside. She peered forward, half-expecting to be caught by a hex, and looked into the room. It was deserted. Frieda’s bed was a mess, clothes and blankets hurled in all directions; the other two beds looked strikingly neat, as if they’d been made up before their occupants went home. They probably had. Madame Beauregard had been known to carry out surprise inspections, just to make sure the rooms were clean and tidy.
Good thing she didn’t check this room, Emily thought. Being forced to make and remake her bed a hundred times wouldn’t do anything for Frieda’s state of mind.
She took a long look around the room, making sure there wasn’t anything embarrassing in plain sight, then beckoned Caleb inside. It was a risk—Madame Beauregard would not be pleased if she caught them—but there was no choice. Emily touched the rune on her chest, feeling nothing, as Caleb closed the door behind him. There was no subtle magic at all.
“They warded their beds thoroughly,” Caleb said. “That’s not a good sign.”
Emily nodded. All three beds bristled with wards and protective hexes, ready to sting or freeze or transform any unwary intruders. Emily had long-since developed the habit of warding her bed, even in Whitehall, but Frieda and her roommates had been excessively paranoid. There were so many protective hexes that an unwary caster might wind up being caught in his own trap. Emily turned her attention to their trunks and sucked in her breath, tightly. The trunks had been heavily warded too.
And that means they’re fighting all the time, she thought, grimly. She’d never warded her bed so thoroughly, even when she’d had disagreements with her roommates. The implications weren’t good. They don’t trust Frieda to leave their stuff alone while they’re on holiday.
She shivered. Frieda was many things, but she was no thief. God knew a real thief would be beaten to death in the Cairngorms, or mutilated and then sent out to die in the cold. Emily couldn’t imagine Frieda stealing anything ... but she could imagine the younger girl setting a booby-trap on someone’s trunk. A moment of carelessness was all it would take for the trap to spring. And then ...
“We could unlock some of the wards,” Caleb said. “But rebuilding them afterwards would be a challenge.”
“Or impossible,” Emily said. There were so many hexes built into the protective wards that she didn’t think she could rebuild them, not without leaving something out. It would be a great improvement, but it would also be a red flag to whoever had crafted the wards in the first place. “I think they cast far too many spells to protect their bed.”
Caleb snickered. “Getting out of bed in the middle of the night to go to the toilet would pose a challenge.”
Emily nodded. The occupants could use a chamberpot, she supposed, yet they’d still be risking accidental contact with their own wards. An advanced student could key the wards to allow them to pass unmolested—it was what she’d done, back in her suite—but she doubted Frieda was at that level. It only added to her sense that something was badly wrong. No one would make life so inconvenient for themselves without feeling they needed the additional security.
She stepped around the beds, careful not to brush the wards, and walked into the bathroom. It was identical to the rooms she’d used for the last five years: a shower, a toilet, a washbasin and a towel rail. A handful of spells glittered in the air as she entered, but a quick check revealed that they, too, were standard. Frieda would have thought it was heaven, Emily reflected, as she tested for subtle magic. The bathroom was sheer luxury compared to the toilets in her village. And yet, it was the bare minimum as far as Earth was concerned.
Nothing, Emily thought.
She gritted her teeth as she walked back into the bedroom, reaching out with her mind to touch the wards. She’d expected to find that Gordian—or someone—had tampered with them, but there was nothing beyond a basic sensing ward. The staff would know if someone used magic, yet they weren’t supervising the room. Emily couldn’t help finding that ominous. If Frieda was in real trouble, surely the staff would be keeping a closer eye on her.
But they’d have to be careful, she thought. Keeping an eye on the students is one thing, but spying on them in their bedrooms and bathrooms was quite another.