Read an extract from Unhallowed Halls by Lili Wilkinson.
We're so excited for Lili Wilkinson's next amazing YA fantasy, this time described as being Dark Academia... but with Demons!
To get you all as excited as we are, here's a super sneaky look at the ENTIRE first chapter for you to enjoy.
ONE
15 September
‘What did you do?’
Streaks of rain glitter on the windows as the train races through unending bleak moorland. I didn’t think the journey would take so long – night has fallen and all I can see past the raindrops are shadows, deep and full of secrets.
The carriage is nearly empty – a woman bent over a laptop, fingers tapping a staccato counterpoint to the steady rhythm of the train. A man asleep, his head against the window. Three teenage girls, their feet on the seats. One of them stares at me from under false eyelashes, her question hanging in the air.
‘What did you do?’
I always imagined British people would have posh accents, but this girl is proving me wrong. I can smell hairspray and spearmint and cherry lip gloss.
Since they got on a few stops ago, the girls have filled the carriage with their presence. Their shrieks of laughter, their cursing, the snap of their gum. I feel a stab of jealousy at their ease with each other, with the world. They inhabit their bodies so comfortably, propelling themselves through time and space with such confidence. I can’t imagine how it must feel.
The girl is still waiting for an answer, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I did.
She stands and approaches me, swaying with the movement of the train.
She’s wearing an outfit that is simultaneously casual yet completely over- the-top – camo-print tracksuit bottoms and a lurid green tube top. Her makeup is thick and applied with painterly precision, her skin unnaturally orange, her brows like perfectly sculpted punctuation marks.
She nods down at the brochure poking out of my battered copy of Middlemarch. I’ve been using it as a bookmark.
‘That school is for posh fuckups,’ she says. ‘So why are you going? Drugs? Stealing? Did you get into fights?’
I follow her gaze back down to the Agathion College brochure. Images of arched windows and turreted spires surrounded by romantic moorland grace the glossy pages. Blue- grey stone walls, wreathed in creeping ivy. Serious- looking students in wool kilts and tweed blazers bent over ancient books. When the brochure arrived in the mail, along with a full scholarship offer, it seemed too good to be true. It still does. I imagine myself there, surrounded by books and know-ledge and history. I’ll wander the moors like Catherine in Wuthering Heights and curl up in the huge stone castle with a steaming cup of tea to read Dickens and Austen and my beloved Shakespeare.
A life of the mind.
Maybe sometimes I’ll engage with the other students, debating poetry or philosophy. Not friends, because I’m not doing that again. Colleagues, perhaps. Intellectual peers. Previous Agathion students have gone on to become famous politicians, writers and artists, according to the brochure. There’s even one former British prime minister who attended.
‘Bet she killed someone,’ says another of the girls, whose long fingernails are pointed slashes of teal and gold. ‘She looks the type.’
Do I?
I stuff the book and brochure into my backpack. Out of the corner of my eye, I see green Tube Top Girl recoil slightly, and I know she’s noticed my hands.
‘Come on,’ the girl with the long fingernails says. ‘Before she puts a spell on you.’
I let my gaze drift up to meet Tube Top Girl’s, and see the faintest hint of fear there, behind her enormous false lashes and brash confidence. My hands curl in on themselves, obscuring my shiny pink palms.
The girl shrugs and returns to her friends.
My parents offered to come with me, but I insisted on travelling by myself. I wanted to get on board that plane and never look back. I wanted to get as far away from Lakeland, Florida as I possibly could. From the smell of burning flesh and jasmine, and the sound of Cassidy screaming.
Agathion feels like the only way out.
A place where I can learn to control myself.
I can feel the train start to slow. We’re nearly there.
I feel a twinge in my abdomen – an echo of the deep, dragging pain that is so familiar to me, and my pulse quickens.
Not now.
But, I remind myself, I only just had my period. This is nerves. I stand and head down the swaying carriage to the luggage rack.
I have to pass the three girls, who look up at me as I walk.
‘Loosen up a bit, hey?’ the bold girl says. ‘Let your freak flag fly.’ My cheeks feel hot and sweat prickles down my back. I am frozen in place, pinned by the casual, insolent gaze of this girl who I’ve never met before and will never see again. She doesn’t matter, so why can’t I move or speak? The dragging sensation in my belly intensifies.
Someone screams, and I’m back at St Catherine’s, my hands burning and my lungs filling with acrid smoke.
But it isn’t Cassidy screaming. It’s just the squealing of brakes as the train slows. I’m thrown forward against the bold girl as we shudder to a halt.
‘Hey,’ she says, laughing. ‘Buy me dinner first!’
Her skin is smooth against mine; the scent of her lip gloss is overpowering.
I scramble up and away to the luggage rack.
I can’t miss my stop.
I can’t.
The doors hiss open, and I am shaking with panic. I grab the handle of my suitcase and yank, but it’s stuck. I pull and pull, but it won’t budge. I try pushing instead, trying to jostle it into a better position, but that only seems to make the problem worse. I kick it.
Outside, the train’s whistle blows.
I’m out of time.
‘Do you need a hand?’ asks the bold girl.
It’s too late. The train is about to leave the station.
And I realise that whatever’s in that suitcase – I don’t need it. I’m coming to Agathion to live a life of the mind.
I have everything I need.
‘Weirdo,’ mutters the girl, turning back to her friends.
I leave my suitcase behind and step off the train.
The platform is sparse and entirely empty. The air is cold – much colder than I expected. I breathe deeply until my lungs ache, and I love the feeling. Icy drizzle caresses my skin, and I turn my face up to it.
I’m here. I’m really here.
A fluorescent light spits and hums next to a weathered sign reading RANNOCH MOOR. The train pulls away behind me, disappearing into the darkness. For a moment I panic again, thinking I’ve gotten off at the wrong station. But I checked a million times. I’ve rehearsed this journey in my head over and over.
There’s a ticket office, but it doesn’t look like it’s been open for years. I step through the gate, and peer into the darkness. I can hear something huffing out there. Some kind of animal – barrel- chested and hulking.
A hazy orange glow emanates from behind the ticket office. I head towards it, past an ancient- looking pay phone and down a set of stone steps, finding myself on a worn dirt road.
Before me is a lamp, burning golden, affixed to, impossibly, a horse and buggy – the kind you might find in a Regency novel. The horse is black and broad, its head bowed, its breath blowing out in steaming clouds. It shifts from one foot to another as I approach, and nickers softly.
Perched in the driver’s seat, reins slack in one leather- gloved hand and the other holding an umbrella, is a tall, thin woman wearing a dark wool coat. Her steel- coloured hair is pulled back in a rather severe bun. Dark eyes turn to me, sharp as struck flint.
‘Page Whittaker?’ She’s Scottish, her accent elegant and polished. I nod.
‘I am Magistra Hewitt. I’ll be your tutor during your time at Agathion.’
According to my internet sleuthing, every student at Agathion is assigned a tutor, who acts as a mentor and guide. There are regular teachers too, but it’s the tutors who live on campus with us and provide the unique experience of Agathion.
I look up at this woman, and I see intelligence in her eyes and the worn lines of her face. She seems a little terrifying, but I’ll take it over the limp sacks of apathy that passed for teachers back home, who could do nothing for me other than shrug and shake their heads.
Magistra Hewitt looks down her strikingly assertive nose at me. Her eyebrows seem permanently raised in a manner that makes me feel like I’m being assessed.
‘You have no luggage? Good.’
She tilts her head at the bench next to her, and I scramble up, feeling awkward and entirely out of place in my jeans and puffer jacket next to her simple elegance. She adjusts her grip on the umbrella so it covers both of us.
‘One of the foundational principles of Agathion is that you come as supplicants, like the akousmatikoi of Pythagoras, who shed their hair, their clothes and their names, and spent five years in total silence as a form of initiation.’
Without thinking, I raise a hand to my ponytail, and she smiles a thin- lipped smile.
‘Fear not, Miss Whittaker. You may keep your hair. And your name, for that matter. And we will not require five years of silence.’ She hesitates, side- eying my puffer. ‘You will be provided with a uniform, of course. You bring no baggage, figurative or literal. No technology. These things link us to the material world, and Agathion is a school for the mind.’
Yes. That’s why I’m here.
‘“ ’Tis the mind that makes the body rich,”’ I quote. ‘“And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honour peereth in the meanest habit.”’
If the magistra is impressed by my knowledge of Shakespeare, she shows no sign of it. Instead, she twitches the reins, and the horse starts to walk forward. I shrug my backpack off and hold it in my lap. My new tutor eyes it with distaste.
The horse pulls us into the darkness as rain patters on the umbrella like a caress. The lantern hanging from the side of the buggy casts a dim golden glow around us, but beyond the horse’s nose is nothing but black. I wonder how it knows to stay on the road. Has it done this trip many times?
‘Ms Hewitt?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Magistra Hewitt,’ she corrects, but not unkindly.
‘Magistra Hewitt. Does everyone get picked up in a horse and buggy?’
She hesitates again before replying. ‘We have learned that keeping a car on campus overnight can be rather more temptation than some of our students are able to resist.’
I think of the girl on the train.
That school is for posh fuckups.
‘Of course the day teachers bring their own vehicles,’ she adds as an afterthought, like she forgot there were day teachers. ‘But they leave midafternoon, and the rest of the staff depart after dinner.’
‘But not the magisters?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘We are your mentors,’ she says. ‘We live here alongside you, to guide you at all times.’
I hope she doesn’t mean literally alongside us. I don’t want to share a bedroom with a teacher.
‘Agathion College is located on the Great Moor of Rannoch,’ Magistra Hewitt continues. ‘There is evidence that it has been a home for unwanted or troubled children for more than a thousand years. However, it was in the eighteenth century that we transformed the school into an exclusive haven for gifted young people. A sanctuary for those who live in the realm of the mind, who seek to see past the shadows and distractions of base feelings, and glimpse the true secrets of the universe.’
There’s a note of pride in her voice, like she was personally respon-sible for this shift in educational philosophy.
I breathe in the rich scent of the moor, earthy and botanical. There’s a faint edge of woodsmoke as well, sweet as incense. It smells glorious.
‘You’re lucky to be here, Miss Whittaker,’ Magistra Hewitt says. ‘We don’t often offer scholarships.’
I want to ask why me? How did they even know about me? Did they hear about what happened at St Catherine’s?
‘Try not to feel intimidated by the backgrounds of the other students. At Agathion, all are equal. Bloodline, wealth, class – these things cease to exist when you cross the threshold. I’m sure you’ll make friends.’
Unlikely, but that’s not why I’m here.
‘You’ll have questions, I’m sure,’ Magistra Hewitt continues. ‘I ask that you save them for our first meeting.’
I nod again.
‘You’ve missed dinner,’ Magistra Hewitt goes on. ‘But a tray has been sent up to your room. We’ll meet in a few days, after you’ve settled in.’
I know from my obsessive googling that Agathion doesn’t have set terms or holidays – students arrive and stay until they graduate. I’m still not really sure what that means – is there an exam or test that has to be passed, or is it something the magisters decide? Some alumni seem to graduate after only six months, but I’ve read about others who stay for three or four years – like superstar violinist Ryu Yasuda who was an Agathion student in the 2000s.
The horse speeds up a little as the lantern’s dim yellow light falls upon a huge set of gates, black iron wrought in heavy bars, topped with a row of wickedly sharp- looking spikes. The gates are open, and the horse’s gait seems to lighten, as if it is anticipating a nice dry stable and a bucket of oats.
The scent of woodsmoke grows suddenly strong and pungent as I get my first glimpse of Agathion, looming magnificent and haughty from the darkness like a castle from a fairytale.
My extensive research means I already know that Agathion has been a school since the mid- 1700s. The hill where the school sits has been inhabited since before the Romans invaded Britain, according to archeological records. I know that there is a small farm that raises pigs, ducks and chickens, as well as growing many fruits and vegetables.
But the facts I’ve ingested from brochures and websites don’t come close to actually being here. Now I really see the exceptional grandeur of Agathion. The embellished mouldings and plasterwork. The turrets and spires, thrusting sharply into the night sky. The grotesquerie of the gargoyles that spout inky rainwater from where they crouch on the edge of the slate- tiled roof. The central tower, tall and proud. Wet stone glistens darkly, and shadows gather at the edges of the building where golden light that spills from the narrow, arched windows cannot reach. The air is cold and rarefied, scented with smoke and damp earth.
I feel like Catherine Morland arriving at Northanger Abbey. Or Jane Eyre approaching Thornfield Hall.
It feels right.
Magistra Hewitt gets down from the buggy, every movement controlled and graceful.
It’s only been twenty minutes or so, but I already worship her. I swing my backpack over my shoulder and stand to dismount.
‘Leave it,’ says Magistra Hewitt without looking over her shoulder.
I hesitate. My phone is in that bag. I promised I’d call my mother once I arrived safely. My copy of Middlemarch. A notebook. Pens. My shower caddy, containing a toothbrush, deodorant, moisturiser and several packets of the little white pills that are the only thing that can take the edge off my period pain. The magistra doesn’t look back as she strides across the courtyard to the main door of Agathion.
I leave the backpack in the buggy and scramble down, hurrying after her.
Gravel crunches under my feet. I can barely feel my hands, and my nose is dripping from the cold. But I don’t care.
I’m here.
Magistra Hewitt’s wool coat flares out behind her as she climbs the broad steps that lead to the door, and I see her leather boots and immaculately tailored black trousers. She pauses so I can catch up.
The door is massive – ancient- looking wood more than double my own height. In the centre is a wooden shield bearing Agathion’s crest – a gold cup with a sword before it, a red ribbon swirling around them both. Beneath this is carved the school’s motto – ANIMUS SUPRA CORPUS.
Mind over body.
It’s exactly what I need.
‘Welcome to Agathion College,’ Magistra Hewitt declares, and pushes the door open with a grand sweep of her arm.
A noise drifts out from inside – the pounding of feet and . . . Screaming.
And I’m back there again, where I always end up. The wilderness behind the gym at St Catherine’s, my hands burning, my lungs full of smoke and jasmine.
Staring at Cassidy, who won’t stop screaming, her gaze fixed on the blackened, scorched earth.
My vision blurs and I’m in the real world once more. I get a glimpse of a grand hall beyond the door – polished marble floors and golden light spilling onto wood- panelled walls. A huge sweep of staircase rising upward, enclosed with a carved wooden banister. Enormous, gilt- edged paintings and hanging tapestries.
And screaming.
I clench my fists to stop myself from clapping my hands over my ears.
Why won’t it stop?
Magistra Hewitt will think I’m broken. She might even send me home. I have to keep it together.
But Magistra Hewitt has frozen in the doorway, her shoulders stiff. The screaming is getting louder, and I contemplate the possibility that it isn’t in my head this time. It’s high and panicked and ragged and . . . not human. It sounds almost metallic, like the grinding of metal on stone.
It’s joined by a kind of shuddering, galloping sound, like an irreg-ular drum underneath the screaming. The stone floor beneath me vibrates.
Magistra Hewitt suddenly leaps to the side as a . . . creature . . . comes charging across the foyer and sweeps me off my feet. It seems huge and monstrous, all lumpen grey flesh and bristles and yellowing, cracked teeth in a wet mouth that is wide and screaming, screaming, screaming. Black, glittering eyes are fixed on me, and I see nothing but rage.
Whatever this thing is, it’s trying to kill me.
I try to roll away from it, but it tangles me up in its filthy legs, its cloven hoofs striking dully on the marble floor. My cheek is pressed against the stone threshold, and dimly I notice the marks carved into it. The script is unfamiliar, runic, the lines worn down over time and black with grit.
‘Get off her, you old fool.’
Hands scoop up under my arms and drag me to the side, sliding over the marble away from the creature, and as it slips and scrambles to the threshold, I finally see it for what it is.
A pig.
It’s a pig.
A huge one – it’d be easily twice my weight or more. Grey and bristled and fleshy, with muddied legs and an ugly face, all thrusting snout and tiny dark eyes.
‘Get out,’ Magistra Hewitt says to the pig. Her voice is calm but firm. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’
The pig lets out another grinding, bloodcurdling scream, and then leaps over the threshold and crunches across the gravel driveway, vanishing into the darkness. I hear the thundering of hooves on turf, then it is gone.
Magistra Hewitt leans down and helps me to my feet. ‘Are you hurt?’
My heart is pounding so fast I’m afraid it is going to burst from my chest. I clench and unclench my shaking hands to try to regain control.
‘Miss Whittaker? Can you hear me?’
‘I – I’m okay.’
Behind Magistra Hewitt, I see a boy appear, skidding around the corner from some unseen corridor, his eyes widening when he sees us.
The boy is absurdly handsome – golden-brown skin, aristocratically hooked nose, gently curling dark hair, and laughing eyes fringed with thick lashes. He’s exactly the right size and shape – like someone was asked to make a perfect human. His Agathion uniform fits him like it’s been tailored – white shirt, dark grey wool trousers, and a brown tweed blazer with brass buttons. His burgundy tie is askew in a deliberately casual manner. He oozes charm in a way that makes me want to crawl under something dark and damp and stay there forever. This boy is a totally different species to me.
He straightens his tie just as Magistra Hewitt turns around.
‘Mister Alimardani,’ she says in a clipped tone. ‘What on earth is going on?’
The boy spreads his hands and shrugs. The gesture is understated, but the boy moves with a fluid grace. I’ve never seen someone so confident in their skin before – he makes those bold girls on the train look like . . . well, like me.
‘Old Toby must have escaped from the farm, Magistra,’ he says, his voice as smooth and confident as the rest of him. ‘I was studying in the library when I heard the commotion.’
She stares at him for a considerable while, as if she’s waiting for him to confess something. He gazes back, totally unconcerned, his mouth curved in a nonchalant smile.
Magistra Hewitt lets out a small, frustrated sigh. ‘This is Page Whittaker,’ she says curtly, indicating me with a nod of her head. ‘Take her upstairs. Room 207.’
‘Of course, Magistra.’
Magistra Hewitt goes sweeping out the front door and disappears into the darkness. I wonder if she’s going to go and catch the pig with her bare hands. Or if the pig will simply obey her command to return to its sty. She seems pretty persuasive.
The boy reaches out a hand for me to shake, his eyes warm. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Cyrus. Named after Cyrus the Great, and while I’m not a particularly skilled military leader, nor am I the founder of the Achaemenid Empire, I am, like my namesake, pretty great.’
My own hands are still trembling with adrenaline, but I’ve automatically extended one to be shaken before I remember the scars on my palms. I wait for him to flinch, for his eyes to take on that cast of fear and disgust that I saw in Tube Top Girl’s. But his expression doesn’t change. Cyrus looks like he’s been shaking hands his whole life. His grip is firm and confident but not overpowering. He grins at me.
‘Bit of a dramatic start to your first night here,’ he observes. ‘Are you okay?’
I nod. I know I should say something, but I’m out of practice. Not that I was ever particularly good at talking to other young people. Or anyone, really.
Especially not boys like him. Boys who seem like actual princes.
‘Old Toby is our school mascot,’ he explains. ‘He’s a cheeky bugger, but usually pretty harmless. I’ve never seen him like that before. He really went for you.’
Cyrus is gazing thoughtfully at me, as if trying to figure out exactly what it is about me that would cause a giant pig to go into a frenzy. I see the wet mouth again. The cracked tusks and the tiny black eyes. Cyrus sees my shudder and chuckles.
‘I’m sure you’ll come to like him.’
His accent is unfamiliar to me. Posh British but with something else that elongates his vowel sounds and clips his consonants.
He leads me past the grand staircase, outside again, and into a covered walkway that runs around the edge of a central courtyard. Unfamiliar shapes loom in the darkness, glistening with rain. Trees, maybe, or statues.
A faint whisper tickles my ear, and I spin around, but there’s nobody here except me and Cyrus. I shiver. The courtyard is large – the glow from the surrounding windows doesn’t reach the centre of it.
‘This is the forum,’ Cyrus says. ‘Everyone eats lunch here, unless it’s raining. We’ve just come from the South Wing, which is the kitchen and the dining hall. Student dorms are the East Wing, the library and classrooms are to the north. The West Wing is where the magisters have their offices and living quarters.’
He turns without waiting for a response, and we go back the way we came. I follow him up the grand staircase. Up close, I can see that everything isn’t quite as opulent as it first appeared. Or at least, not anymore. There is dust in the corners. The gilt picture frames are tarnished, and there are moth holes and worn patches in the tapestries. But it doesn’t feel neglected. Just comfortably lived- in. The staircase is the same blue-grey stone as the walls, each indented in the middle, where feet have been treading every day for hundreds of years.
And now my feet join them. My sneakers feel very out of place here, and I wonder when I’ll get my own brown leather shoes and tweed blazer.
The grand staircase opens into a wide corridor, carpeted in worn crimson. Windows along one side look out over the courtyard – the forum, Cyrus called it. I can’t wait to see it in the daylight – all this darkness is giving me the creeps. The corridor is unheated and smells damp and old. I hope the bedrooms are warmer. Cyrus leads me past a few closed rooms, and then up another smaller staircase, this one made of dark polished timber that creaks under our footsteps.
‘The main building is four floors, but a lot of it is empty – there’s fewer than a hundred students. Is Hewitt your magistra?’
He doesn’t turn to look back at me when he asks this, so I have to answer with my voice.
‘Yes.’
Great work, Page. Very good talking.
Cyrus pauses and turns to face me. ‘So you do talk. I wondered. Sometimes people don’t, when they get here.’
I feel my cheeks get hot, and I imagine what it must be like to have someone like Cyrus as a friend. He seems kind. Open. He’s probably funny.
But I’m not here to make friends.
‘American?’ he guesses.
‘How can you tell?’ I ask, my accent giving me away.
‘A vibe.’
He says it in a way that makes me unsure if it’s a good vibe.
‘Look,’ Cyrus says, taking a step towards me. I smell sandalwood and a hint of rosewater. ‘It’s scary. I get it. Starting at a new school, especially one like this. But you’ll like it here, I can tell. Just . . .’ He hesitates.
‘Just what?’
‘Be careful about what you tell her. Hewitt. And the other magisters.’
His tone is serious, and I’m imagining all sorts of horrors – there are plenty of online forums about exclusive boarding schools, full of dark stories of abuse and cruelty. I’ve never seen Agathion mentioned on those forums, but that doesn’t mean nothing bad happens here.
I know what teachers are capable of.
For a moment I think Cyrus is going to say something else, but a door slams somewhere down the hallway, and he shakes his head and smiles.
‘You must be tired,’ he says.
We go up another flight of stairs – these ones narrower and creakier still – and emerge in a corridor studded with wooden doors, each one affixed with a brass number.
‘Here’s you,’ he says, opening a door. ‘There are no locks – we don’t really have any possessions, so there’s nothing to steal. But make sure you knock before going into anyone else’s room. Boys are on the next floor up – Agathion talks a lot of talk about being enlightened, but they also love to enforce a binary.’
He ushers me into the room.
‘Bathrooms are down the hall. Breakfast is served between seven and seven- thirty. Someone will give you a copy of your timetable.’
‘Thank you,’ I manage.
‘And, hey.’ Cyrus leans forward conspiratorially. ‘Don’t be like Alexander. But don’t be late for breakfast, either.’
I open my mouth to ask who Alexander is, but Cyrus just taps his nose, then turns with the grace of a dancer and saunters away.
I close the door, noticing more carved runic marks on the doorframe, then turn to look at my room.
It’s small, with a low, heavy- beamed ceiling and a slanting dormer window. Outside all I can see is raindrops and blackness. The damp chill hangs in the air here, too.
Most of the room is taken up by the bed, an impressive carved wooden structure with a velvet- lined canopy that has seen better days. There are moth holes in everything, which explains the strong odour of camphor. At least the bed itself is neatly made, with crisp white sheets and thick wool blankets. I hope they’ll be thick enough. It’s freezing in here.
A narrow door reveals a built- in wardrobe containing my Agathion uniform – tweed blazer, white shirt, burgundy tie, and a choice between wool pants or a pleated skirt. There’s also a knitted sweater and a cardigan in soft scarlet lambswool. Brown leather shoes with brass buckles. A chest of drawers contains underwear, bras, white socks, a white nightgown and soft flannel pyjamas. Two towels are neatly folded on a shelf, and a cloudy, tarnished mirror is attached to the inside of the cupboard door. The scent of camphor in the cupboard is so strong it makes my eyes water.
I have a bedside table with a brass lamp and an old- fashioned alarm clock. I open a drawer to see a small leather case containing a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a selection of toiletries in little glass bottles that make them look like vintage apothecary supplies. I find hair ties and burgundy ribbons, as well as a discreet pouch for pads and tampons.
A small wooden desk sits against one wall with a simple chair. A tray is on the desk, covered with a silver cloche. I lift the cloche and see a bowl of soup, with a pale bread roll and a pat of butter. My stomach growls, but I’m not done exploring.
There’s a stack of blank notebooks on the desk – clothbound in scarlet and burgundy, with thick, textured pages. In a drawer I find pencils and a black fountain pen, its silver nib sharp as a knife. I pick it up and examine it – I’ve never used one before. There are pots of ink in the drawer as well. A leather satchel hangs from a hook on the back of the door.
I imagine myself up here, all wool, tweed and leather, surrounded by great works of literature, scratching notes with my fountain pen. It feels too romantic to be real.
I open the window and breathe in the icy night air until my lungs ache.
The soup has been here for a while and is barely warm. It’s oversalted and has a strange aftertaste, botanical and sharp.
Voices murmur from the room next door to mine, and thumps sound from overhead.
I finish the soup, suddenly overcome with weariness. It’s been a big day.
I pull on the pyjamas and climb into bed, then get up again and add a cardigan and two pairs of socks.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever be warm again.
Extracted from Unhallowed Halls by Lili Wilkinson, releasing 18 February 2025.
Unhallowed Halls
by Lili Wilkinson
A wonderfully captivating dark academia fantasy from the award-winning author of A Hunger of Thorns and Deep is the Fen.
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