opened them, he saw that God had not denied his request.
Stepping onto the cobblestone path, Michael could feel the past detach from him and float away on the breeze. As he stood on the uneven walkway, he felt, for the first time in his short life, grounded and as if he had returned home. It was a wonderful, welcoming feeling. And, Michael had to admit, odd. He had never been here before, he had never even heard of Eden or Archangel Academy until his father told him about the school a few days ago, and yet, yet somehow, he knew this was the place he had been dreaming about. This was where he had longed to come when he had longed for something new, something better. He took a deep breath and savored the moment because he had learned, in his short life, that such extraordinary feelings were not ordinary.
He looked around and was awed by the sight of nature at its purest. The grass was so many different shades of green, all of it growing wild and free. Clusters of purple and yellow flowers populated the brush, some large, some small, but all radiant in their color. Trees with thick, gnarled trunks rose high overhead and their branches sprayed out dense with leaves that rustled in the wind, their sound mingled with birdsong. Weeping Water, in comparison, looked like a desert of dry, flat land.
The only artificial element among the scenery was the impressive entrance gate, the top of which had the name Archangel Academy spelled out in an arc made up of twisted pieces of metal. Very tall, but only about thirty yards in length, the gate was decorative and not practical; it wouldn’t keep trespassers out, but simply announced to all the school’s presence. Michael couldn’t believe that beyond the gate the buildings he saw in the distance comprised one of the most elite boarding schools in the world. From where he stood, they looked like the buildings he saw on the sides of the main road, abandoned stone houses belonging to the past and not part of an institution of higher learning. The metal, the stone, even the wild nature created a strong, masculine appearance. But the look was neutralized by the smell of lavender on the wind, wistful and feminine. All boys were welcome here. Michael stood in front of the gate and gave it a push. Archangel separated from Academy and the gate easily opened.
“We can drive to the main office,” the driver said from the car.
“I’d rather walk,” Michael replied.
He followed the cobbled path for a little over half a mile until it stopped at a building that looked as old as it had from the gate. Inside the greeting room, the driver was already waiting for him, standing in a corner, Michael’s bags placed around the driver’s feet. The room’s walls were painted a deep forest green to mimic the surroundings and were barren except for a huge rectangular mirror, wider than it was high, that hung on the wall directly in front of the door. The thick frame was dark brown oak decorated with carvings of angels—not cherubs, but guardians, warriors—the seven archangels that gave the school its name.
On the top of the frame, in the left-hand corner, was the angel Gabriel, foreboding but gentle, making his presence known by holding his celebrated horn to his lips. In the right-hand corner was Raphael in mid-flight, his rippling robes in perfect balance with the strength of his muscular arms. On the side of the frame underneath Gabriel was Uriel, his fiery sword pointing toward the center of the mirror, and below Raphael was Sariel, floating an inch above a crest of bones.
Ramiel lived in the bottom left-hand corner, behind a cloud of thunder, and in the opposite corner was Zachariel, whose face was framed by the sun. Finally, Michael’s eyes rested upon the largest carving, which lay in the bottom center of the frame, the one of his namesake. Michael the archangel was depicted in the traditional image, wings outstretched, sword raised to heaven, his foot pressing down mercilessly on Satan’s neck, his exquisitely carved expression triumphant and a bit vainglorious. Michael knew that feeling. He could feel his own private demons squirming under his feet and so he pressed down firmer to remind them who was in power. He liked it here.
His feeling was revealed by his reflection in the mirror. He noticed that he stood a bit taller. His shoulders weren’t slumped forward and his expression was more relaxed, his brow not so furrowed. He was off to a good start. But then something caught his eye. His reflection, while crisp and certain, was different from the driver’s. Only a portion of the stalwart driver could be seen in the mirror, but in it he appeared smaller, hunched, and a bit hazy. Maybe it was the angle, or all that black. Michael was about to take another look when the door at the far left corner of the room opened and the headmaster, Mr. Hawksbry, emerged. All thoughts of the driver and his distorted reflection instantly disappeared.
Alistair Hawksbry was a man who commanded attention. At six-two and two hundred fifteen pounds, he wasn’t quite as tall or as powerfully built as the driver, but he exuded the type of physical ease that made his bulk seem standard instead of imposing. He was comfortable in his own skin, which at forty-seven wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was his youthful countenance. His face was still unlined, save one deep cleft on his left cheek that developed into a dimple when he smiled.
“Michael Howard,” Mr. Hawksbry said, his accent precise without sounding affected. “I’m Alistair Hawksbry, headmaster. Welcome to Archangel Academy.”
Mr. Hawksbry’s handshake was firm. “Thank you, sir,” Michael replied. “I’m very happy to be here.”
“We’re very pleased that your father has decided to instill us with the care of your education. I know the American public school systems are quite good, but I think you’ll find our curriculum to be, shall we say, greatly varied and our study more intense.” And then he added almost as an afterthought, “And we’re very sorry for your loss.”
What? Oh yes. Michael hadn’t thought about his mother in hours. “Thank you, sir.”
“Why don’t you leave your bags here and the staff will bring them up to your room?”
The driver cleared his throat and announced his departure. “Good luck to you.” Maybe Alistair hadn’t seen him or maybe he was just startled by his sudden pronouncement; whatever the reason, Michael was sure he saw him flinch. The driver touched the brim of his cap with his gloved hand and was about to turn on his heel and leave when Michael instinctively extended his hand to him; already he was adopting a more formal British custom. After a moment’s hesitation, the driver shook Michael’s hand and Michael tried not to wince. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought the driver was trying to crush the bones in his hand, but he didn’t seem to display any effort. Given such a powerful grip, Michael wondered if he doubled as his father’s bodyguard.
When Alistair nodded good-bye to the driver, it was more like a nervous tic. Only when he and Michael were strolling on the grounds of the academy on their way to his dorm room did he resume his relaxed demeanor. Michael just assumed the headmaster had grown more adept at talking to students than to adults. One of the by- products of his job.
The campus was a sprawling hundred acres with twenty-two buildings, all made of stone, all no taller than three stories high, collectively giving the appearance of a small provincial village. And an isolated one. “The front gate doesn’t seem very secure,” Michael said.
“For decoration only,” Mr. Hawksbry replied. “We have an electronic system that surrounds the entire campus. Since we knew you were arriving today, it was turned off, but once your driver is on the other side of the gate, it’ll be turned on again, I assure you.”
The headmaster then pointed out some landmarks, the three libraries, the many halls where classes were taught, each named after a different saint; the theatre, which housed both a traditional proscenium arch stage for mainstage productions and a smaller black box studio space for more experimental theatre; the infirmary; and the several dormitories.
Michael’s dorm, named after St. Peter, was located next to Archangel Cathedral, which was the one architectural exception and towered high above the rest of the campus’s buildings. Erected sometime in the fifteenth century in the Gothic style by a group of monks, it was, Mr. Hawskbry explained, the centerpiece of the academy, which was later built around it. Looking at the church, Michael understood why the academy’s founders would want to build their school around such an amazing structure.
There were no steps leading into the entrance, only wildflowers, dirt, and then an arched doorway about two stories high, adorned with carvings similar to those on the frame of the mirror in the greeting room. Above the door was where more majesty lay. Two flying buttresses flanked the sides of the center pointed arch, which was made up of an intricate lattice of wood in front of a huge circle of yellow stained glass. Even though the sky was cloudy, with only a portion of the sun able to shine through and hit the cathedral, the effect was still magnificent. The yellow glass in the sun’s light glowed radiantly, splintering through the latticework to create beacons of light that sprang out from the face of the church into the air and onto all those who walked by. Again, Michael felt worlds away from Weeping Water.
When Mr. Hawskbry spoke, he startled Michael, who was staring intently at the rays of light. “It’s beautiful,
