THIRTEEN SLEEPING ANGELS.

CHAPTER 1.

On the thirteenth day of November, thirteen strangers signed away the next thirteen months of their lives to a man dressed in brown.

On the thirteenth day of December the following year, one of these strangers would walk away with their heart's truest desire cupped in their scarred palms. One wish fished from the deepest waters of their mind, granted.

Just one wish, granted to just one player.

The other twelve, as the man in brown explained, would be compensated for the fraction of their lives that they sold to this game. They would be given all-encompassing scholarships for Holloway Institution – on the grounds of which this competition was being held – as a nod towards the talent that had earned them their place here, fall, as they might, just short of the win.

"For thirteen months," said the man, "you will be gods."

He could have said, You will be monsters. It would have been the same thing.

Though if this were strictly true, Bishop Butler had been born a god.

There was something inexplicably humbling about being surrounded by other young scholars. No longer was Bishop the most intelligent in the room; his morbid and academic sense of fashion was no longer unique; his ambitions were echoed in the eyes of his every companion. They were this group of tragic young beauties, with fine faces and starlit eyes, wide and wondrous. A group of thirteen well-dressed dolls, all iterations of one another, heads full of stories and dreams.

Bishop knew every single person here, just because he knew himself.

The room that they were standing in felt itself like a familiar friend, with vaulted, intricate ceilings; tapestries and bookshelves spilling over the walls; velvet armchairs of man-eating softness and enormity positioned in places people were amusingly unlikely to sit. Meticulously carved busts of ancient religious figures eyed Bishop from corners, and pinned butterflies from glass cases propped on shelves. The gilded titles of hardcovers peeked over the figures of small taxidermised creatures. It was a library, and a museum, and a gallery. It could have been plucked right from Bishop's head.

The others were looking around with the same acute wonder that he was, experiencing the same sense of rightness. The rest of campus was yet to reveal itself, and yet Bishop felt already that he could have been dreaming.

"For the next thirteen months," the man repeated, ensnaring their attention once more as he sauntered towards the door, "you will be confined to campus like typical students." Bishop did not know if 'typical students' would consider themselves confined. "You will be granted leave for holidays alone, though lessons will continue in your absence. You will be rooming with each other and dining with the rest of the school."

"We have to share rooms?" This was from a tall, brown-skinned girl behind Bishop.

The man in brown allowed himself a thin, toothless smile. "Indeed, with one other contender."

That was what they called the thirteen. Contenders. Like they were all competing in something so mundane as a game show or a round of Monopoly.

But there were thirteen in this group, and two contenders to a room meant somebody would have the privilege of rooming alone. What constituted this honour, Bishop supposed the group was wondering? Bishop knew the answer, and knew that it was not really an honour at all.

The man continued, "You are, from this day forward, students of this Institution." Holloway Institution of Arts and Historical studies. "Most of you have come from art degrees at other schools, so you should have no difficulty familiarising yourselves with your new curriculum. You'll have full access to the amenities of this campus and all of the daytime classes you enrol in." His face seemed to darken then. "But you are not here to earn a regular degree."