APPROXIMATELY ONE HUNDRED students gather in a musty assembly hall. I’m guessing the youngest is thirteen and the oldest is in his late teens. Artemon, the handsome guy who smiled at me the other day, leans against the wall in the back. He glances at me, a slight smirk on his face, and then looks away, disinterested. Otherwise, most of these kids are a motley assortment—glassy-eyed and fidgety. Is it the Diurnal?
However boring and pedestrian this seems, I remind myself I’m in an alternate world hidden behind an unassuming boulder in Central Park. A faerie circle, or as we call them—a slip. But don’t think of this as Hogwarts. Imagine Jane Eyre’s Lowood with less charm.
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