The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1) (14 page)

He holds her there, glaring at us, ensuring we've studied his simple technique, before setting her back down upon her dainty feet.

'Bend your knees and keep your back straight,' He instructs. 'Now you.' He turns to Becca who stares at him blankly, blinking in the afternoon light.

'Me?' She squeaks, her eyes wide. 

'Yes, you lift me.' Alexandrov nods. A splutter of giggles erupts around the room. Becca is no more than five feet tall and weighs around eight stone, possibly less. Alexandrov stands at about six feet four inches and weighs around fifteen stone – almost twice Becca's weight.  

'I... I don't think...' The young girl stammers, her face a picture of terror.

'Don't think, just do – as I showed you.' Alexandrov barks, gripping Becca's wrists and wrapping her arms around his waist.

She hesitates, scanning the crowd, searching for support and instead, staring into a sea of blank faces. She bends her knees, interlocking her fingers and takes a deep breath, tightening her bicep muscles.

Once positioned – her feet apart, her shoulders wide – she lifts, straining her muscles and holding her breath. Her arms barely reach around Alexandrov's waist, she is dwarfed by his frame, buried beneath his rippling muscles. But sure enough, his feet begin to hover above the floor.

She lifts him as high as her own height will allow – which is only around a foot off the ground – and I watch as her expression changes from one of fear and embarrassment to amazement and disbelief.

'You see? Easy.' Alexandrov nods, patting her shoulder proudly. She sets him down gently and totters back to her Mentor – a third year girl whose name I don't know – who greets her with congratulations.

Practical gives everybody a sense of new-found strength and we positively marvel at our speed. The fastest student was Logan Marshall who managed to travel at eighty miles per hour within the boundaries of the hall. Tia seems in even higher spirits than usual as we leave the Practical hall and I can't help but think it may have something to do with Richard's presence.

'Now, I need your opinion,' She whispers secretively as she closes the door to our room and heads to her wardrobe. She reaches inside and pulls out a hanger, draped in a startling, floor length dress. Pale cream silk with a plunging neckline, she holds it up against herself and I try not to laugh. She almost disappears, the cream dress and her pale white skin merging as one. 

'My opinion is to burn it.' I state honestly. Tia considers my suggestion.

'Yeah, I didn't think so,' She sighs, carelessly throwing the folds of silk onto her bed. 'I got it a year ago and I've been waiting for an occasion to wear it. But it just doesn't suit me.' She admits, staring tragically out of the window to the darkening grounds below.

'Okay, so what about this?' She chirrups, pulling out another dress – still floor length, still silk – but instead of looking washed out and barely visible in it, she looks vibrant and vivid in the shocking plum purple. She adds a sheer scarf and I nod my approval, watching her twirl, her legs lean and graceful.

'And what about you?' She asks, hanging the dress back up in her wardrobe and crossing the rug to mine.

'What about me?' I frown, sensing danger, like a bloodhound on a scent trail.

'Honestly, Eve, the First Year Ball is a week tomorrow and you still don't know what you're wearing?!' Tia sighs.

'Tia,' I roll my eyes, bored of the conversation already. 'I'm not going to the stupid ball.'

'Don't say that!' She hisses, placing a hand over her heart, the other on my dresser to steady herself. 'Don't be stupid, Eve. It's mandatory.'

'Mandatory?!' I let my voice rise a few octaves. 'How can a
ball
be mandatory?'

'It's the
First Year Ball
, dummy. Of course every first year is required to attend – as well as Mentors.' Tia yanks open my wardrobe doors, rummaging around amidst my shirts and trousers.

'We must find you something to wear, you've left it so late!' She cries, her voice muffled from inside the cupboard. 'We don't even have time to think of a date for you to go with...'

'No, no date.' I insist loudly, stamping my foot on the floor.  

'I just said; we don't have time,' She huffs, throwing random garments out of the wardrobe, yacking in distaste. 'I haven't even been asked yet.' She sighs, pulling her head out of the wardrobe to shoot me a morose look before disappearing back inside.

'You have no dressy dresses in here.' She observes, climbing out of the wardrobe and surveying the scene as a lost cause.

'Tia, I don't do 'dressy dresses.'' I remind her, to which she scoffs as if the idea isn't even worth contemplating.

'Nonsense, you can borrow...' She halts as we both sense it; a presence out in the corridor, nearing our bedroom door. We eye one another, waiting until a light, confident rap on the wood assures us the visitor is destined here.

Tia prances across the floor to answer it, swinging the door open to reveal a smirking Richard leaning up against the door frame.

'What are you doing here?' Tia frowns, faltering as Richard eyes her mischievously.    

'Miss Carey,' he greets her ostentatiously, clasping her hand and pressing his lips to her palm. She pretends to pull back, feigning outrage, but she can't hide the smirk plastered on her pretty face.   

'I was just passing by your room and I wondered if you'd had an invitation to the First Year Ball yet? I imagine some muscular, broad-chested air-head has already asked you but there's no harm in...'

'No!' Tia squeals, interrupting Richard's speech. 'I haven't had an invitation.'

'Oh,' Richard nods, making no attempt to hide his Cheshire cat grin. 'Well, I know it would probably be a drag going with me, given my reputation and all...' He raises an eyebrow sarcastically. 'But I wonder if you might consider it?'  

'Well...' Tia hesitates, catching her breath. 'I had hoped for a better offer,' She smirks, leaning against the door frame. 'But I suppose you'll do.'

'Excellent,' Richard grins, his dark eyes gleaming. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and break quite a few girls' hearts.' He shakes his head, sighing dramatically. Tia rolls her eyes and closes the door in his face.

She stands alone for a moment – gathering her thoughts – before turning to me, a huge grin on her face.

'See?' I smile, trying to ignore the overwhelming affection I feel for Tia at seeing her ecstatic yet shy expression. 'You have a date. Even if it is only Richard.' I grin.

Chapter Twelve

Tia's method of preparation for the First Year Ball is more or less like an athlete preparing for the Olympics. With Meredith as her sidekick, they are unstoppable; a duo of frills, decorations, tuxedos and music. 

With Tia's date already sorted, their main focus is finding someone to accompany Meredith. Naturally, her first choice is Malachy Beighley, but after a gentle reminder from Tia that – as our future Auctorita – it would probably be prudent for him to go with his sister, she relents and allows Tia to brainstorm ideas for a second choice.

They eventually decide on a third year boy named Peter who – according to Tia – has harboured a crush on Meredith since their first year.

Richard is a constant presence in the days leading up to the Ball; where Tia is, so Richard can be found. But his flirtatious banter keeps Tia in a good mood and the atmosphere light and cheery as the pressure of ball gowns and harpists, chaperones and waiters bears down on Meredith and Tia, the dynamic duo – as Richard calls them. 

The morning of the Ball, there is no word to describe Tia better than 'frantic.' Her dress hangs pristinely in its cover on the bathroom door, as it has remained – untouched – for a week. Her Creator, Seamus, has ordered her shoes from Paris; black stilettos with murderous heels and hideous pleated bows.  

At nine o clock she sits beside her bed, waiting impatiently for Seamus to deliver her special make-up, flown in from Italy and made by an Italian designer I've never heard of.

'I specifically told him I needed it early!' She hisses as she towel dries her dark hair. 'I have to sample it before I use it. I wasn't one hundred percent on the foundation tone; I have a terrible feeling it could be too dark. The old man just doesn't understand the importance of these things!' Her tone is harsh, one I've never heard her use, especially not about her clueless but beloved Creator.  

The Ball doesn't begin until seven this evening but Tia has devised an entire day's schedule, dedicated to beauty regimes and preparations.  

My outfit was chosen yesterday afternoon – not by me but by Diana – who heeded to Tia's plea to make me look presentable. It hangs on my wardrobe door, covered by transparent plastic; plain black trousers and a dark green corset which shimmers in the sunlight.  

'I suppose you'll be wearing that with your regulation knee-highs and suit jacket?' Tia asks, pursing her lips in disapproval as she spots me eyeing the outfit. 'One of the great things about the Institute, Eve, is that we don't have to wear a uniform.'

'Ha ha.' I tut sarcastically – even though Tia's guess is correct.

'Let me know if you change your mind and want to borrow a dress.' She smiles, a sickly sweet grin. 

Despite my constant jibes and taunts about Tia's lengthy preparations – she spends two hours in the bathroom flicking her hair with product – the result is indescribable. With Meredith's help and Seamus having eventually delivered her make-up, Tia beams at her reflection, her pearl white teeth gleaming in the lamp light. 

'What do you think, Eve?' She asks, raising a painted eyebrow above her smoky eyes. I nod, taking in her appearance as she twirls in her heels. Her short, brown hair stands like a halo around her face and the purple dress hugs her curves, sheer material rippling over her hips and thighs.

'You look beautiful.' I smile, not a trace of sarcasm in my voice but instead; a thick lump in the back of my throat.

Tia insists that I look my best and – after a little protest on my behalf – she sits me down at her vanity table, raking a comb and blow dryer through my wild black hair, trying to tease it into submission. She coats my green eyes in Kohl – like hers – and slicks a dark colour across my lips. I bat her hands away as she feathers my hair and coats on mascara but each time, she pins my arms by my side, refusing to give up on her hopeless mission.

My reflection bears the hallmarks of Tia's tireless work; a flash of emerald in my otherwise dark eye shadow, my eyebrows properly shaped and pencilled, and toner streaked across my cheeks to make the bones more prominent.

'Isn't she a picture!' Tia coos to Meredith, flapping her hands as she steps back to admire her handiwork.

'Gorgeous. Well done, Tia.' Meredith nods, having managed to get ready in the hour Tia left spare for her. She – like Tia – takes pride in her appearance and the floor length golden dress with Egyptian hieroglyphs embroidered on the sleeves was chosen months ago. Her bright orange hair is teased into loose curls and her freckled face appears air-brushed, her skin smooth and flawless. 

A sharp rap on the door sends Tia into another frenzy as she smooths down her dress and squirts herself for the fourth time with a sweet smelling perfume. She swings it open to reveal a dapper looking Richard in a sharp black Tuxedo and bow tie, grinning like a fool. 

'My lady!' He exclaims, flamboyantly kissing her hand before sliding his arm smoothly around her waist. 'You look gorgeous.' He mutters softly, and she giggles, melting to his side.

Peter arrives, dressed in a shirt and tie, and subtly clears his throat. Richard steps aside to allow him access to Meredith. She smiles sweetly at her date – trying to ignore his rabbit-caught-in-headlights expression – and steps to his side, offering him her cheek which he pecks awkwardly.

'So, are we ready for a night of unadulterated fun?' Richard smiles, winking at Peter who hangs his head in embarrassment. Tia slaps Richard's arm playfully, allowing him to lead our small group to the hall.

We make our way to the first floor, listening to Tia and Meredith's excited chatter, and halt abruptly around the corner from the ballroom on Tia's instructions. She looks mortified at Richard's suggestion that we head inside and grips his arm tightly, holding him back.

'Don't be ridiculous!' She hisses. Peter and I frown, baffled. 'We can't go inside now! We have to be fashionably late!' She insists as Meredith nods solemnly in agreement.

'Oh, of course, my little flower!' Richard kisses her cheek. 'We wouldn't dream of being on time, would we, Eve?'

'No, of course not.' I mutter, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. 

Meredith scans the corridor, her blue eyes searching, eyeing the expectant faces of the crowds as they make their way into the ballroom – hunting Malachy. Peter stands dutifully by her side, blissfully unaware that his date simply used him as a last resort and is hell bent on leaving the Ball on another man's arm. 

Finally – after much pleading on Richard's part – Tia allows us to approach the ballroom doors, but only on the premise that she and Richard enter last. The sheer volume of the noise erupting from the ballroom is enough to rock the foundations of the Institute as the music pumps and students screech. The great hall is packed with students and teachers, the only empty space is the dance floor in the centre of the room. 

The ballroom itself is impossibly grand with marble floors and Roman columns, a second tier balcony, velvet curtains draped across the tall glass windows, secured by elegant gold rope. Glass tables are dotted around the edge of the dance floor with black iron-framed chairs and beautiful flower centre pieces, whilst a modern and complex DJ booth booms recent music from the ten foot tall speakers.

The tables on the ground floor are crowded with students, some planted on others' laps in an effort to make room. At the head of the hall is an elevated platform housing seven ornate armchairs placed uniformly side by side behind a grand, mahogany dining table.    

'That's where Sir Alec and the Head of Years will sit.' Tia informs me as we make our way to the second tier via a winding staircase. 

'It'll have to be upstairs my sweet, due to your fashionably late arrival.' Richard smirks, stepping aside to allow Tia to climb the stairs first.

The upper tier is almost as crowded with the odd empty table here and there. We head for one nearest the edge of the balcony overlooking the ground floor. Waiters in waistcoats carry silver platters holding ornately carved goblets, stopping now and then to take an empty glass or hand out refreshers.

Tia accepts a goblet for Richard and herself, prompting Peter to do the same who clumsily hands Meredith her drink. I accept my own goblet, pressing the cool metal to my lips and greedily glugging the thick red liquid, relishing the sensation as it flows down my throat.  

At seven-thirty, two waiters heave the ballroom doors shut, encasing the ground floor in an overcrowded mass. Meredith, whose eyes have been sweeping the ballroom incessantly, finally spots Malachy amongst the throng and her body stiffens. Peter frowns, trying to follow her line of sight.

Malachy stands amongst a group of well-dressed third years, clad in an expensive, fitted white shirt, a vibrant purple tie fastened around his neck. His blond hair is silky and feathered and his ice blue eyes are ringed in a thin Kohl coating.

Lucrezia stands firmly at his side in a figure-hugging black dress, a less-than-discreet slit from her thigh to the floor revealing her long and toned legs. She hangs loosely from Malachy's arm, pursing her rouged lips as three third year boys sidle up to her, vying for her attention. She is untouchable – as is her brother. They both exude an air of VIP about them and I'm reminded somewhat uncomfortably of school dances when I was younger; staring enviously at the 'popular crowd' as I huddled amongst my below-average friends in a corner.

A small wooden side door at the far end of the room swings open and a hush falls over the crowd. A familiar figure enters the ballroom, heading straight for the elevated platform and taking the armchair furthest the left. Ms Fall glares out from beneath a thick dark fringe, her eyes sweeping the room.

Four strangers follow in her footsteps, each settling in an armchair; two beside Ms Fall and two at the opposite end of the table. A short, plump woman accompanied by a tall balding man, and a pretty blonde lady with a squat, ferret-faced man. They settle in their seats, nodding at students they recognise.

Two armchairs remain empty in the centre of the platform with two waiters standing either side, ready with silver platters and king-size goblets. 

The door swings open again and another unfamiliar figure enters the room. I had been expecting Sir Alec's recognisable frame to emerge but instead; a low murmur rumbles through the crowd as the sixth entrant takes wary steps up to the platform. Mentors hush their first years as the excitement grows louder and I catch Malachy and Lucrezia looking on in boredom.

It's easy to understand the sudden confusion and vague hostility lingering in the air. Easy to understand why Tomos O'Brien finds it prudent to yell
What the hell?!
at the top of his lungs. Easy to understand why the Mentors – and indeed tutors – fidget sheepishly in their seats, waiting for an end to the upset of order.

The young girl who has become the object of everyone's attention hastily takes her seat, keeping her head lowered so that her chocolate-coloured hair forms a curtain across her face. She is beautiful and pale with long limbs and short, stubby fingernails. She keeps her eyes down, her mouth pressed in a firm line as her shimmering brown dress strains across her chest, moving up and down with her breaths.

She grips the arms of her chair tightly – as if to hold herself in place – as she sits. She glances up briefly, just a flicker, but long enough for me to see that her eyes are green; not emerald – like mine – but a natural, mossy colour.

Aside from her startling beauty, there's nothing particularly odd about the young girl; no abnormalities or especially attention-grabbing features – aside from the fact that she is absolutely and undeniably human.   

The crowd settles quickly as Sir Alec – dressed in a handsome, charcoal grey suit – stoops through the door, making his way to the front of the platform. He stops centre stage and addresses his large audience.

'Ladies and gentleman,' he beams, casting a sweeping glance across both floors. 'Welcome to the First Year Ball!' He grins as his audience applauds obligatorily. 

'On behalf of myself and the faculty, I would like to welcome once again; our first years. This is a lovely occasion to mark the initiation of twenty brand new, bright and beautiful students. May your education be fruitful and your lives both inside and outside of the Institute's walls be safe, skilful and fulfilling,' He applauds himself and the rest of the hall follows suit.

'To the other year groups; I would like to thank you for attending and welcoming our first years. I hope you will continue to be as gracious and kind to our new students as you have been to others.