Free Witch Fire by Laura Powell

out.
    After a mile or so the trees began to thin and they reached a stretch of grassland, sloping up to a hill. It was crowned by a small castle in the Gothic style, its walls high and palely gleaming in the dusk. A place of dreams, and fae-tales. But in the fae-tales, the witches were mostly wicked, putting poor princesses under a bane until a prince came to the rescue.
    The car came to a halt by the steps up to a wide stone terrace. Glory got out stiffly. For a moment, she had the sensation that the mountains, trees and sky were closing in on her. How ridiculous to feel claustrophobic in the countryside! Yet she had a homesick craving for concrete. For fumes and noise. Her nose twitched at the cool green smell of pines and earth.
    ‘Hello, my dear, and welcome to Wildings.’ A dumpy woman in twinset and pearls was coming down the steps. She had a round, cosy face, but Glory watched her warily. She remembered from the files that Mrs Heggie, the school matron, was an ex-inquisitor.
    ‘I do hope your journey wasn’t too tiring. Such a pretty drive, isn’t it? Now, I’m sure you’re longing to take a look around, but before you get settled, Principal Lazovic was hoping to have a quick word. You won’t mind, will you, popping in to say hello? Splendid . Don’t worry about your bags – we’ll have someone take them up to your room.’
    The entrance hall was like the lobby of a posh hotel, with antique rugs over polished flagstones and flower displays so luxuriant they looked fake. The principal’s study was much the same. There were no school trophies, photos or certificates on display, just lots of tasteful watercolours of the local countryside.
    The head of Wildings Academy came to shake Glory’s hand. He was a small man with an alert, pointed face and neat speckled beard. ‘Emil Lazovic. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
    ‘Glory,’ she muttered.
    ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Yes. Of course. Glory . . . for Gloriana. Such an evocative name. So many, er, interesting associations.’
    He smiled at her engagingly. She knew that by ‘evocative’ he meant ‘provocative’ – Gloriana had been the informal title of Elizabeth I, the so-called Fae Queen. Glory wasn’t sure how to react. Her brief at Wildings was to be troublesome enough to attract attention, but not so obnoxious that she’d be thrown out. She settled on a sulky shrug, and put some gum in her mouth to soothe her nerves.
    Principal Lazovic invited her to sit in one of the overstuffed armchairs and perched opposite. ‘Well, Glory, I’m pleased to say you’re not our only new arrival. One of your compatriots will be joining us shortly. Before then, I’d like to take the opportunity to have a little chat. Just the two of us.’ He gave another impish smile. ‘As you know, the students at Wildings are a very select, very specialist group –’
    ‘Right,’ said Glory with a snort. ‘Special Needs.’
    The principal tutted in a way that was humorous as well as disapproving. He held up a copy of the school prospectus and began to read aloud. ‘ By removing troubled young people from the pressures of their home environment and relationships, Wildings Academy provides a safe haven where they can explore the reckless and deviant behaviours arising from their condition. At Wildings, they will learn to accept their place in the wider community, and find positive solutions for the challenges ahead . . . ’ He gave a neat little laugh. ‘ This is the language of Wildings, you see. The vocabulary of your “condition”; the terms of your “trouble”. Do you understand?’
    ‘I understand why I gotta be here,’ Glory said grudgingly, ‘if that’s what you mean. Don’t mean I have to like it.’
    ‘Nobody at Wildings is held against their will. If we fail to meet your needs, you are free to leave.’
    ‘And go where? I ain’t exactly flavour of the month back home.’
    ‘ Then I’m sure you’ll learn to make the most of your stay here.’