Frosty Beginnings

"You have the week, Miss Mallory, to get acquainted with the school and the island. I suggest you return to the garbage bin in which you dispatched those informative brochures you were given so you can best learn about your new...residence before you begin classes, which will be assigned..." Spencer Mallory had long stopped being a part of the conversation with the assistant. The woman walking her along, with her diplomatic language and blue suit complete with a pearl necklace and a pencil skirt, was just another jailor to her at that point.

It was close to lunchtime. With most of the students in classes, the halls of the girl's dormitory were almost empty. Mallory did not look at the few other girls she saw, though they seemed normal enough in her peripheral vision. She could hear the occasional door creak open behind her. How irritating. Because she was on an island, the air outside was moist, and her cold skin caused it to condense on her. The walk from the administration building had been long enough that her face and hair were damp from dew. It was frustrating her to imagine the other girls watching her being marched through the halls and up the stairs. She probably looked like some sort of sweating criminal. It did not help any that she was being marched to higher floors...

The dormitory was a large, tall building of half a dozen floors. Its red-brick facade went straight up towards the steep, dark-grey shingled roof without curvature. However, the windows in the building, which were indented into the brick, had bright white frames, and the bricks would also indent above the windows to form arch shapes about half a meter high at the tip before coming back out to join the building's overall shape. The building's roof stuck out in a series of chimneys which were also in the red brick of the building's facade. The building had a lawn with benches of wood and legitimately tarnished bronze. The lawn stretched out about 10 meters in all directions before meeting the thickets of trees that seemed to cover much of the island, the exception being the paths that connected the building to various parts of campus. The appearance of the building was what Mallory considered Victorian. Inside, the halls were just wide enough for two to walk side-by-side comfortably. The walls were painted a dark cheery-wood brown to match the thin cherry-wood pillars integrated with the wall. The floor was a also a dark hardwood, but a scarlet rug ran the length of the halls, just inches narrow enough at either side to show the wood underneath. The lighting consisted of half-globe lights in the ceiling made of thick, tan glass, glowing a dim, brown-yellow light. Mallory saw the sophistication in the building, but she disregarded all the fine details as bars in a gilded cage.

The higher floors, she had been told, were where the higher years resided. This was not without exception, however; these were also the floors where trouble students could end up so that the older (and presumably more powerful) students could watch over them. After six floors of halls, stairs, and stares, the two stopped in front of room number 634. Mallory nodded through the assistant's quick reminders of laundry handling procedures, dorm rules, and key locations, and let Mallory into the room, giving her a key to the room and leaving her alone.

The "room" was no typical dorm room. Immediately to the left was the bathroom. It featured a double sink with marble surfaces and bordered, gilded mirrors and fixtures with an expansive combination bath and shower in the style of the sinks. After the bathroom, the room was split. Against the right wall were two queen-size beds with headboards and footboards in the expected dark red wood motif. To the left were two sets of desks and dressers across the hardwood floor's path from the beds' footboards. The path of the floor extended beyond to a set of comfortable looking leather and rivet chairs that sat in front of a wooden table and bookcase. On the table sat a china set for tea and an electric kettle. Beyond, at the far wall, was a curtained glass door with a whitewashed frame that led to a balcony that overlooked the small courtyard enclosed in the center of the building. The balcony featured a set of whitewashed chairs at a simple round table.

Mallory took off her worn, wet sneakers at the door and dropped her duffel bag, still smelling of the sea, on the far bed. She walked around the room. While nothing in the room was terribly grand to her, nothing about it seemed cheap; nothing about it screamed "prisoner." She soon found a clockwork dial on the wall near where she left her shoes; it was the climate control. She turned it left until it would not go anymore, and soon she heard a breeze creep out of the vent settled over the first bed. It was cool air, though that was not what interested her. Inside of a few minutes, the room's temperature would be doomed to fall to the freezing temperature of water thanks to her presence in it. If the room retained humidity, ice would form all over. While she had no interest in a prospective roommate's comfort, the last thing she wanted to do was wake up to a floor covered in ice. Thanks to the dew on her hand, she could feel the difference; the building's air conditioner was legitimate, removing the moisture from the room with the heat.

Mallory jumped down from the spare bed, and her grimace relaxed. She poured out the duffel bag of clothes her jailers had taken from her dresser back home and stuffed in it, and started to organize them. Her mind still carried with it the bitterness of her capture and the two-week voyage she spent under guard. During that time, she had made it her mission to keep her composure and get under everybody's skin. They would not admit that they were imprisoning her, insisting that it was all for her own good. She indignantly refused to believe them; theirs was all flowery language to justify a quarantine, she argued over and over. By the end of the journey, she had not won her argument, but nobody left the boat in a good mood, which gave her some small measure of pleasure.

As she worked, she felt a small spark of excitement. It was an exotic place and a room that would probably be hers alone for as long as she stayed. She was out of that miserable port town and away from the people she had long ago become bored of. Could this all be a good thing? She snuffed the thought. She was taken, and she confirmed with herself that she would not forget it like she was sure others had.

Thankfully, the brainwashed thugs had grabbed the new black clothes Spencer had her parents buy for her. During the several days she spent in her house after her change, she imagined that she would return to the halls of her high school. She would walk into the halls, a contrast of jet black and snow white, and enjoy the results. At first, maybe people would think she was trying a radical new look, but then the cold would settle in, chilling everybody in their shorts and flip-flops as she walked by. In the classroom, she would not be going anywhere. Drinks would turn to ice on her peers' desks, toes and fingers would go numb, and there she would be, smug and content taking notes. Oh sure, there would be scandal. Sure, people would call her a freak, maybe worse, but they would have to do it all in a ski outfit. After some rough attention from the news, the town would rally around her, maybe after an impassioned interview with her and her parents, and she would become the untouchable special girl, the pride of Newport. With all that acceptance, she would have the ultimate passive-aggressive power trip. Boring school assemblies? Those would get brief real quick. P.E.? She always wanted to try hockey. Prep girls? They had better have hoped Hollister made some really cool parkas.

"Funny." She did not laugh; it was a truly stupid idea.

It took all of a few minutes to deposit everything that had been taken into the dresser, but in that time, the room's air had reached freezing temperature. Spencer tucked the duffel bag underneath the dresser and paused momentarily. Most of the clothes in the dresser were dirty and mildewy from the sea, and the clean ones were probably no good either, being stuffed with the rest. With a terse sigh, she pulled open the drawers, took the laundry bag from the coat closet and stuffed it. The woman who had escorted her up to the room mentioned something. Spencer's memories imagined there was something about a laundry room in the basement, so she tightened the drawstrings of the large canvas bag and made for the front of the room--what a pain in the ass. As she got her sneakers back on, however, it occurred to her that the room would at least have time to dehumidify with her out of it, though another couple of hours of condensation sweat now waited on the other side of the door.

With everything together and the key in hand, she opened the door, and found herself looking at a young man at the other side of the doorway. For an instant, nothing seemed altogether unusual, but a fact squeezed through the haze of the day: this was strictly a girl's dormitory. Her instincts, to be annoyed and suspicious, kicked in at the other side of that instant.

"Hi." The word came out curt and cold. "Is there something I can help you with?"

She stood, silenced. Her eyes narrowed and her heel started to prod at the ground with a ponderous cadence.

Inside of her head, two sides stood on podiums and debated. The normal girl presented her case. There was a young man in the doorway, clearly caught in the act of something unseemly considering his startled slip. Considering also the location, there could only be one reasonable assumption: this guy was up to no good. A creep. Next, the white-haired Practitioner girl made her case. This was an island meant to be populated by people with a supernatural...heritage. That alone meant that personality and norms could not be counted on to be in the same range as in normal human society. He did just use M'lady to address her, after all. Thus, the young man in the doorway could easily be as honest as not. Spencer agreed with her more objective, considerate second thought. She would give the guy the benefit of the doubt...for now.

She broke her seconds-long, silent contemplation, not the least bit awkward for letting such a pause happen. "Excuse me." She edged out into the hall with the laundry bag, closed her door, and locked it. She knew that she was probably going into b***h territory ignoring the question for so long. She looked at the young man with her in the hall and forced her eyebrows to loosen up the pressure they were putting on her eyes. Something about his light expression started to bother her, but he was certainly not being rude, after all.

"It's just something that happens." It was immediately strange talking about her condition. She looked around uneasily as she clutched at words, wiping condensation off her forehead. "I can't really control it." She looked towards the door in the hallway with a wrought iron and stained glass window that led to the stairs. She slung her bag over her shoulder and turned to the curious young man. He reminded her of something, but she could not think of it might have been.

"Not trying to be mean or anything, but I need to get this stuff to a laundry machine or whatever acts as one 'round here."

For a moment, she responded easily. "Okay. Since stairs are a bigger pain, I think-" Then she abruptly stopped and reflected. This stranger, who had no business in the building to begin with, knew not only the layout of the building, but also that there had been planning issues involved in it. His ability to estimate walking time was just the icing on what was starting to become a very creepy cake, she thought.

"What I mean is...um...I think-" Most of the girls belonging to the building were still in the middle of their day. Did she have a reputation? Did it precede her here? If so, it would be known she was new. If the people who captured her were any indication, she was probably a weakling around here, and she imagined that could make her out as an easy target. If she was in trouble, help would probably be too far away. Was this more of a prison than she thought? Did she have to win a fight or something? Her mind raced, thinking of possible escape strategies. If her magic responded like it did in the last emergency, she would only be able to pull so much off before she became really helpless. She just then started to get another thought, if only she could stall for time.

"About that third floor, I'm thinking...I'm thinking-" He obviously was not new to the school, yet why was he not in classes with everybody else? Why did he know so much about the building? There was a possible, legitimate reason; he was some higher-up's son! Suddenly, Spencer had to admit the possibility that she could get herself into a situation if she disrespected him. She had no idea what kind of punishments her jailors had at the ready, but she did not want to find out right away. She reasserted her cold confidence. She would keep her cool with him and wait to run into other girls. If they acted normal around him, then she would know that he was an exception to the rules for some reason. If they freaked out, then it would be obvious that she had been in some sort of danger.

"I'm thinking you're right about the third floor. The first sounds good. The recommendation was made well. Um, quality nice." She ended up nodding excessively as she said it. "Please, uh, lead the way, good, um, sir." In her head, she chewed herself out.

...'Quality nice,' Spencer? Really...?!'

She followed Alistair down the straight spiral staircase that led down the height of the building, their footfalls sounding out dull from the wooden stairs. For a brief moment, she heard steps a couple of floors below, but the sound of a hallway door shutting signalled her return to being alone with her guide. She spun thoughts of excuses, anything she could say or do later to cut the encounter short. He seemed nice enough, but nothing about the circumstances was like his upbeat demeanor. He had no affiation to the school in any way. Assuming that also meant that he was not a student, she searched for and failed to find any good reason for him to be in front of her door. With each step, she found herself slowing, plodding down the deeply creaking wood. His words, despite their manner and lightness, became shady as they lingered in her thoughts. Something about it…was it coincidental that he had somewhat described her emotions? And that word: prank. It diminished the reality of what dark acts were possible under the circumstances. She felt as though his words had attempted to pry at her common sense. Other girls would still give her the final indication of things once they made it to the bottom, however, assuming there would be anyone there.

Might as well be ready. She adjusted her hands around the drawstring of the bag, allowed herself a deliberate, deep breath, and she started to imagine the taste of real winter air, the condensed and chilly odor of spruce and fir on one side of Fogarty Street and the sharp scent of fireplace smoke on the other. She still did know exactly why, but that sort of thought, so vividly did she remember it, brought back the unnatural, slight pressure to her eyes and fingertips. The pressure, she had come to think of it, felt like intent, or the anticipation of intent. It had been weeks since she last brought up this feeling; it felt like home as much as her actual home had only during its greatest days. As she partially moved herself to a place she would never see again, her thoughts slowed, but were more useful as they rolled along. Silence would only let her anxiety be more and more obvious; the void needed to be filled.

“So,” she started as they passed the hallway door to the fourth floor. “You’ve got some good manners.” She laced the statement with intellectual playfulness, a curious tone. “Is that sort of thing expected here?”