DRAWN

DRAWN, Chapter 3

3

I swallow hard. Someone or something is behind me. 

"Welcome to Blanchley Castle!" 

"Ohmygod." I clutch my heart like I'm doing the pledge. 

"I'm Roger and I welcome thee." Roger has stringy blond hair and a sarcastic smile. He's wearing brown leather leggings, knee-high boots, a coarse white shirt and a red hat stabbed through with a feather. He removes his hat and takes a deep bow. 

"Wait, Roger? As in brown rusty truck Roger?" 

"She runs well," he says, a bit defensively as he puts his hat back on. He's tall and his cheeks have an underfed gaunt look. "You're new." He holds out a hand. "And you are..." 

I'm about to shake his hand and introduce myself, but suddenly I say, "I'm the one you ran off the road." 

"Ah." He drops his hand. "Well, I'm paid to welcome all guests to the castle, even if they are crap drivers and practically kill me." He glares. 

"You gave us a flat." I glare back. 

He smirks. I clench my fists. I could so punch him. Instead I give him the finger, march to the nearest building and tug on the door. It's locked. 

"Try the next one," he says and laughs. 

Furious, I stride to that door and my anger ebbs the instant my hand touches the large tarnished handle. Did I really give the finger to somebody I just met? 

Roger watches me, hands on his hips, looking like a very cocky Robin Hood. "Right about now you're probably wondering why you got so angry." He walks over to me. "I should have warned you. It's that spot." He points his thumb over his shoulder. "It's cursed," he says in a dramatic whisper. "It makes people extremely irate. Some people, such as yourself, are more sensitive to the spirit world than others." 

"I'm not sensitive to the spirit world," I practically shout. 

"Whoa. See that? And you're not even close to the spot. Anyhow, legend has it that the third Earl of Blanchley was murdered right there. It was a savage and bloody killing, and his spirit lingers, looking for revenge." 

I hold up a hand. "Save the spooky stories." 

"Hm." He seems disappointed. "Most American tourists eat this stuff right up and beg for seconds." 

"The only stuff I want to eat up is dinner. The banquet's in here?" I point to the rough wooden door. 

He nods. "Down a hallway, then right up the steps." 

"Thanks." I turn to the door. "Look, my name's Michelle and I'm sorry about giving you the finger." 

"Like I said, it's not your fault. Sorry about giving you the puncture. That's all on me. I'm a first-class prat. Just ask anyone." 

I turn back to see his pleasant smile. 

I follow the sound of music and laughter upstairs and enter a giant hall. On one side there's a massive hearth with logs sputtering flames. The head of a roaring bear is mounted above. Stained glass windows make up the opposite wall. It must be beautiful when the sun streams through it, but now the daylight is just about gone. Suits of armor stand guard in the corners. 

The costumed students of Wallingford Academy sit around three rows of long tables covered with white cloths and candelabras. A chubby man who should definitely not be wearing those striped tights strolls past me strumming what I guess is a lute. 

I scan the room for my dad and find him at the head table, chuckling. He's sitting along with the other twenty or so teachers who are dressed as monks, nuns, queens or wizards. It all reminds me a bit too much of Hogwarts. I look at the ceiling half expecting to see clouds flitting overhead but only find rough wooden beams.