The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

11:00am One-To-One

Chamber 1

Miss A Morelli

Warily, I settle in the chair nearest the exit and place my bag on the stone floor. I sit patiently, fiddling with the strap of my boot, trying to fight off my anxiety as I await my tutor. 

After what feels like an age, the panelled door swings open and a petite, red-haired woman steps inside. With piercing green eyes she throws me a brief glance – making no introduction – before sliding onto the chair opposite mine, laying out a clipboard on the table. 

Her attire is bizarre; a long crimson cloak made of sheer material with a deep, lowered hood.

'Eve Ryder?' She barks, keeping her eyes on the clipboard as she removes sheets of paper.

'Yes.' I reply hoarsely, trying not to let my intimidation show. Her body age is young – in her mid to late twenties – and she's pretty in her own way with curly, postbox red hair reaching down to her waist.

'My name is Miss Morelli and I will be your One-To-One tutor,' She informs me in a thick, Eastern European accent. She studies a sheet of paper, spattered with italic handwriting, and rubs her chin thoughtfully.

'I understand that your gift is the ability to assess innocence – or lack of it – within humans and Immortals?' She raises an interested eyebrow, flickering her bright eyes to rest on mine. 

'Yes.' I nod, wondering whether to tell her that I have no idea how my gift actually works, in case she's expecting too much.

'It is a difficult power both to explain and to harness,' She acknowledges. '
Presuda
.'

'I beg your pardon?' I frown after a long pause, not sure if the foreign comment was made to me or about me.

'My father was Croatian,' She states idly, flicking through her A4 pages. ''
Presuda
' means '
judgement
';

'
The ability to judge, make a decision, or form an opinion objectively, authoritatively and wisely
.' She quotes, nodding her head briskly with each word. '
Presuda
is your gift, and a very useful one too.'

'I don't know how to use it.' I admit shamefully.

'That's why I'm here,' She shrugs, shuffling her papers before laying them flat on the table.

'Have you noticed your gift at all since the transformation?' She asks, studying me carefully. 'Is it something you can see? Or simply a feeling? Intuition?' 

Sir Alec's eyes spring to mind, their grey irises piercing, the ball of green light dancing within his black pupils. I suddenly remember the flash of green in the dark haired boy's eyes as he glanced from me to Will Kearns.

'It's both,' I reply confidently. 'I can both see it and feel it, like intuition.' I explain. 

'Go on..?' Miss Morelli leans forward, offering me her full attention. She seems intrigued and almost excited; the first ounce of feeling she's shown since entering the room.

'It's their eyes,' I explain, feeling embarrassed to be talking about little balls of green light. 'An emerald light – like a little fire ball – deep within their pupils. Some have it strongly, others not at all.' I study her eyes for a moment, noting for the first time that they bear no trace of the green light. 

'It sounds to me as though this green light – the little fireball – represents guilt. The extent of the guilt is, of course, judged by you. You are essentially judge, jury and executioner.
Presuda
.' She repeats, smiling.

'Whatever atrocities this individual has committed, you judge without knowing them. For example; if I had committed murder, you would not necessarily know instantly, with one glance, whom I had killed or where and why. You would simply know the level of malice within the act; whether I enjoyed it, whether it was vicious and pre-meditated, or an accident.

You will know, with one glance, whether you deem that individual to be guilty or innocent.'

'Their innocence or guilt depends entirely on what I deem to be a good or bad person?' I ask. Miss Morelli nods, pleased.

'Exactly. Though, based on my experience, no-one is entirely pure and innocent whilst no-one is entirely bad and guilty. I imagine the green light comes in all shades and contrasts, you are simply too untrained to see them.

Once you are trained; you will see green light in your friends' eyes where there was none before. You will be able to make
Presuda
quickly and efficiently. You will master your gift.' She smiles, a passion igniting her eyes.

'I think the best place to start is to concentrate on your new eyesight as a whole. You're still not properly accustomed to it and aren't able to use it to its full potential. There would be little sense in focusing on your gift before you have mastered your basic abilities, it would be like... what's the expression? Running before you can walk?' She queries, and I nod. 

'Your brain has sub-consciously rejected most of your new powers in a state of disbelief,' She continues, holding my gaze. 'In order to be better acquainted with them, you need to give in to your transformation. Allow yourself to completely accept your transition, stop clinging to your old beliefs and mind-set and open up to the new powers and skills your body now possesses.

I will train you to use your eyesight to its fullest potential, though over time it will develop naturally – as will your other senses. Then we will work up to the green ball of light and eventually develop a strategy to determine the different shades and depths.'

Miss Morelli leans back in her chair, regaining some distance, and her expression closes off, becoming business-like and solemn again.

'It has been debated – by human and Immortal scientists alike – as to the exact percentage of the brain an individual actually uses,' She begins, her tone confident and brisk.

'The most commonly quoted figure is around forty percent, although, estimates as high as one hundred and as low as ten percent have also been suggested.

When we are transformed, the process essentially 'unlocks' the remainder of our brain's percentage, allowing us to use it to its full potential.

Hence our heightened senses, our ability to gain knowledge instantaneously and retain it – it even affects our biology; we can move quicker, we are more agile, we can jump higher, run faster, be stronger.

Of course, in order for any new Immortal to train their abilities to reach their highest potential; dedication, commitment and time are required. Achieving your goal can take years of strenuous practice. Some Immortals spend hundreds of years training inexhaustibly to reach their fullest potential – others settle for only the skill they need to get by.

Soon enough, you will decide for yourself which category you fall into.'

I nod, wondering whether I'll become the type of Immortal who dedicates her time to pursuing her biological potential, or simply settles for the basics.

'Shall we make a start, Miss Ryder?' She asks, a glint in her eyes beneath the wavering firelight. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward once more, carefully selecting four sheets of paper from the pile and placing them on the table in front of me.

I blink, staring at them, trying to hide my confusion. Three are blank, and one has a single black circle faintly outlined in the centre of the otherwise bare page.

'What do you see?' Miss Morelli asks. I study her face, deciding whether or not she's the type to ask trick questions.

I tell her of the circle and of the blank three pages and she tells me to look closer, urging me with hissing tones to pick out the patterns. I squint my eyes, I widen them, I block my peripheral vision with the palms of my hands, but no matter what angle I approach the page from – in what way I look at it – I still see nothing but bare, empty paper.

For an entire hour this process continues. Each time Miss Morelli's hand jerks, I sigh with relief, anticipating the next task. But each time, she slams the same pages back down in front of me. My only hope of gaining Miss Morelli's approval and the key to a new – more interesting – lesson is to discover the patterns.

She grows frustrated as I grow bored. She hisses at me to '
Look closer!
' but my eyes are starting to play tricks on me, the faint lines of the pages wriggling and writhing into and amongst one another until I'm not sure what I see.

By the end of the lesson, Miss Morelli is exasperated and I feel close to tears, but as soon as the clock strikes midday, she leans back in her seat and offers me a polite smile.

'You did well today, Miss Ryder,' She nods, gathering up the ghastly pieces of paper. I scoff, raising an eyebrow.

'Truly,' She assures me, rising from her seat. 'You didn't see anything, but I didn't expect that you would, certainly not during your first lesson. You will see blank pages for many more lessons to come, I assure you, Miss Ryder,' She smirks as I groan inwardly, unable to bear the thought of another minute glaring at blank sheets of paper, let alone hours.

'But the day will come when you'll see something; a faint pattern in the corner of your eye – and from there you will flourish.'

'I hope so.' I sigh, feeling inexplicably exhausted. With a formal handshake, I rise from my seat, grab my bag and bid goodbye to Miss Morelli; safe in the knowledge that my next One-To-One lesson is at least twenty four hours away. 

Chapter Nine

Languages class is a lot like being back in secondary school; faced with a mundane, common subject, the majority of the class lose focus, joking and laughing as the minority attempt – in vain – to listen.

The first language on our curriculum is Mandarin, with our tutor – Mademoiselle Chaffet – insisting it the most commonly spoken language in the world, much to the protests of the English and Spanish students. Unfortunately, it's one of the most difficult languages for a western speaker to learn. Similar in written and spoken word to Chinese and Japanese – not only a very different language to English – but also an entirely different alphabet.

Mademoiselle Chaffet has a body age of at least seventy, but what disadvantages her age brings her, she makes up for in both character and knowledge. She speaks over thirty languages fluently and can hold a conversation in at least twenty more. She tells us that we'll be learning them in order of common usage, to aid us when we leave the Institute and travel through the world.

Despite our natural abilities to absorb information like a sea sponge, over the course of a five year period we'll only learn around ten languages fluently. But the subject itself and the origins of language have always fascinated me and – whereas before I had no flair for retaining foreign tongues – I'm now able to remember whole sentences after repeating them just once.

My first day of classes is long and exhaustive and at 6:30, wrapped in my bedsheets, I will myself to drift into a sound, dreamless sleep. The hardest part of Immortality – so far – is the lack of sleep. Such an unnatural thing to remain awake constantly with no intervals of nothingness and no need to rest. It's almost impossible to fill the night time hours with activities and as the years go by, I can only assume it'll get harder.

It's mid-October and the nights draw in early, the sky already an ebony black with twinkling stars beyond heavy, grey clouds. Tia hums tunelessly from inside the bathroom before drifting past my bed – a wave of powder and perfume – and hovers in the moonlight, her figure an eerie silhouette in her white silk gown. She stares inquisitively down at me, cocking her head to one side, studying my still outline beneath the duvet.

'I don't know what you're getting so comfy for, we're going out.' She states, flicking on my bedside lamp and swiping a can of hairspray from the cluttered shelf.

'
You're
going out,' I correct her, shifting comfortably onto my side, sinking further into the divine mattress. 'I'm staying right here.'

'Oh no, Miss Ryder, no room mate of mine is staying home like a boring old recluse. We're going to socialise – there are people you simply must meet. Think how rude you'll seem staying in on your first night.'

'I don't care how rude I seem, I'm mentally exhausted from classes. It was my first day today, in case you'd forgotten,' I roll my eyes though Tia can't see me as she sheds her dressing gown and pulls open her wardrobe. 'Besides,' I continue. 'We can't go anywhere. We're not allowed off the grounds and I'm not breaking the rules on my first day.'

'Don't be so ridiculous, Eve,' She tuts, stripping off her nightgown to peer at her naked reflection in the full length mirror. Her clothed figure is deceiving; giving the impression of a too-skinny torso and bony hips, but beneath the material lies beautiful curves and supple skin. I try not to stare, pulling the bedsheets up over my head.

'We're going to the common room, everyone will be there.' 

'Look, there's one thing I'm definitely not up to and that's socialising.' I shake my head, refusing to budge from my warm and cosy nest.

'Oh, come on!' Tia whines, abandoning her reflection and crossing to my bed, taking hold of the duvet and yanking hard. The covers fly off me as I scrabble around for them and Tia poses – hands on her hips – completely unashamed of her nakedness.

'Don't be like Mathilde.' She pouts, widening her orange eyes and jutting out her chin.

'Who's Mathilde?'

'My old room mate. Boring as hell, never went anywhere or did anything – it was like rooming with Kate Bush.' She sighs, hanging her head and peering up at me through thick lashes. Though I know this sorrowful face is a show just for me, I can't help but soften at the sight of her. I groan loudly.

'Oh, fine,' I snap, deliberately ignoring Tia's celebratory dance as I stumble to my wardrobe, hastily hunting through to find a suitable outfit. 'But I'm not staying out late.' I warn her, grabbing some black jeans and a low-cut black shirt.

*

Tia's favourite common room is the biggest of the four and – come 7:30 – teaming with students of every year. The warm, orange glow of the fireplace is comforting and inviting. Candles flicker atop intricately carved tables and the chatter of friendly voices and low, hushed laughter fills the room.

The various sofas are large and mostly taken but Tia spots an empty one, adjacent to the fireplace. There are no televisions – no blaring screens and tinny voices – so everyone is forced to use good old-fashioned conversation for stimulation.

I sink into the worn leather Chesterfield as Tia scans the room for Meredith; beckoning her over with a dramatic wave. Meredith weaves her way through the tight crowd, her bright orange hair shimmering in the firelight. She's closely followed by two strangers, identical in both appearance and the beauty of it.

As they reach us, Meredith pecks Tia's cheek and smiles warmly at me; her two stunning companions with dark hair and tanned skin wait patiently – clad in their tight, designer clothes – to be introduced.

Tia stands and envelopes them both in turn, giving them flamboyant kisses and squealing over their Louis Vuitton hand bags.

'Eve, you've already met Meredith,' Tia states, remembering my presence and tugging on my hand. 'This is Ursula and Arlinda Bermudez.' She gestures at both in turn and they smile graciously, revealing rows of perfect white teeth. They study me with their large brown eyes as they teeter on the top of six inch high heels.

'Lovely to meet you, Eve,' Ursula – I think – addresses me in a thick Spanish accent. 'How are you finding your first day at the Institute?' They sit down on the big cushions by my feet as Meredith joins Tia and I on the three-seater sofa.

'Exhausting.' I reply, shifting awkwardly in my seat. It's always made me uncomfortable to be around beautiful women. I can't shake a sense of intimidation and unworthiness even as I speak to the perfectly polite and friendly Bermudez sisters. On the outside, I may look like an exquisite and ethereal Immortal; but on the inside, I still feel like an East End tramp.

'It's so much to take in, isn't it?' Meredith touches my hand, just a little too much sympathy in her navy blue eyes. 'I remember too well what it was like. Still, you seem to be coping well. And you've been lucky scoring Tia as your Mentor.' She grins, elbowing Tia who feigns embarrassment.

'Well, we simply can't wait for the First Year Ball,' Arlinda squeals, twitching with excitement. 'We remember ours; such a spectacle. It will be nice to enjoy it without the anxiety of actually being a first year!' She laughs, tossing her shiny dark hair over her shoulder before being elbowed by her sister, who nods subtly at me.

'Not that it won't be enjoyable for you, of course. I'm sure it will be beneficial... meeting everyone and – ' Arlinda stammers, embarrassed.

'There he is!' Meredith hisses – interrupting Arlinda's awkward monologue – as her body suddenly stiffens, her eyes wide as saucers. I turn – as do we all – to follow Meredith's line of sight and an unpleasant feeling settles in my stomach as I clap eyes on Malachy Beighley. He stands by the common room door, alone, as a group of second years eye him in both wonder and intimidation.

'Ah yes, dear Señor Beighley,' Ursula drawls, her pretty mouth drawn up in a knowing smirk. 

'The object of our poor Meredith's affections.' Arlinda chimes in, joining her sister in a conspiring expression.

'What?!' I speak a little louder than intended as I round on Meredith, her eyes now filled with defensive confusion. 'You
like
him?' I scoff, losing the art of subtlety. Meredith glances at Tia in confusion before fixing me with a steely stare.

'Yes,' She spits defensively. 'Why?'

I suddenly feel embarrassed and out of my depth as all four girls stare at me, awaiting my explanation. I mutter something non-committal about 'types' to a less than discouraged Meredith whose attention is far from my hasty, awkward explanation. Her blue eyes are fixed on Malachy as he greets a fair haired boy.

Continuing conversation proves extremely difficult as we speak over Meredith's unmoving head. She ignores us completely, making no attempt to be subtle in her silent advances towards Malachy – whose eyes flicker towards her on more than one occasion, just a hint of panic in their icy blue irises.

'So...' I clear my throat as the conversation lapses once more into awkward silence. 'Where are you girls from?' I direct most of my questions at the Bermudez sisters as Tia is perched just beyond Meredith's head, out of my sight.

'Brazil,' Arlinda replies, beaming proudly. 'Our father had investments in coffee, very good trade. Before he died, of course.'

'And you are from England, yes?' Ursula questions and I nod, opening my mouth to reply before being sharply cut off by Meredith, who leaps into action; arranging her limbs with precision on the sofa.

'He's coming this way!' She hisses, smoothing her pale yellow dress and licking her lips in a frenzy of motion. Ursula and Arlinda mutter quietly, assuring Meredith she looks '
fantastic
.' Malachy nears us, greeting third and fourth years as he makes his way through the crowd, a leather jacket slung lazily over his shoulder.

'Hi, Malachy,' Ursula greets him before he's even reached us, possibly in an attempt to ensure he stops to chat.

'Ladies,' He nods in an unusual, awkward fashion. His smile is brief and doesn't reach his eyes. 'Meredith,' He singles her out for some reason and Meredith almost chokes on thin air. She opens her mouth to speak but no sound comes out. Malachy lingers for a moment, hovering. I cringe inwardly, pleading silently with Meredith to pull herself together. Tia comes to her rescue, launching herself forward and smiling a little too broadly as she pats her friend's knee.

'How are you keeping, Malachy?' She asks, throwing a quick glance at the Bermudez sisters who appear equally embarrassed for Meredith.

'Very well, thank you. Yourself?' Malachy replies, adjusting his stance. Strangely, he doesn't seem his usual, egotistical self; but the conversation feels forced, wrapped in an air of hesitation as both Tia and the Bermudez sisters battle to keep Malachy where he is, giving Meredith time to compose herself.

'How is Lucrezia tonight?' Tia asks, her tone perfectly polite but with an underlying disapproval barely hidden in her voice.

'She's well.' Malachy nods stiffly, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. The air has become stuffy – the awkwardness hard to bear – and I start to contemplate excuses to make a quick escape. Before I can interject, Ursula hooks her ankle on a spare wooden chair and pulls it closer to Malachy, gesturing for him to sit.

'Why don't you join us?' She asks, shooting a pointed look at Meredith. Though I understand entirely her reasons for her invitation – who wouldn't try to help out their love-stricken friend? –  I simply wish that I wasn't caught in the middle of this embarrassing exchange.

Malachy himself is hesitant as his eyes flicker to mine briefly, seeming to gauge my reaction before he sits. A long silence pans out, with each woman racking her brains for a means of conversational topic. Even Tia appears at a loss to salvage the situation and – just as the awkwardness becomes too much to bear – a tall, curly-haired boy appears from nowhere, slinging an arm casually around Malachy's shoulders.

'How is it that you get to hang out with all the pretty girls, eh, Mal?' He raises a dark eyebrow, speaking loudly in a broad Scottish accent. I feel a sharp pang near my heart as I remember my mother's Glaswegian lilt.

'Save some for the rest of us, won't you?' The boy, thankfully, breaks the uncomfortable silence as both Tia and the Bermudez sisters burst into relieved grins.

'Ah, Richard,' Ursula and Arlinda stand simultaneously to embrace the scruffy but handsome boy with particular fondness. He greets them warmly, winking at Malachy as he pinches Ursula's behind and she giggles like a school girl.