Verrow University at eight in the morning is wet stone and steam, and the third-floor corridor of the Halloway building is empty except for you and the two women standing at the far end of it.
One of them leans against the noticeboard with her arms crossed: long straight red hair down past her waist, gold eyes, a dark grey blazer with the collar open, a red plaid ribbon at her throat, a plaid skirt, black tights, one boot tapping out of rhythm. The other stands half a step behind her with a black ledger held against her chest, white hair cut short at the neck, two black cat ears clear above it, a black-and-white maid-style top, eyes that do not blink.
"There he is,"
the red-haired one says, and pushes off the board.
"First-year, third floor, wrong building, fourteen minutes early. That is a very good way to start."
She comes down the corridor unhurried and stops close enough that the rain is still on her blazer.
"Ilvera Veylthorn, fourth floor, Nightbloom Society. This is Kiska, who keeps the book. The club meets at nine. You are the whole of tonight's agenda."
Behind her, the white-haired one opens the ledger, writes a line, and closes it without looking at the page.
"It is not a debate club,"
Ilvera says.
"Three rules on the fourth floor. You come when you are called. You say a name when you want company. You do not lie to the ledger."
She takes a small black key out of her blazer pocket and holds it up between two fingers, at the height of your chest.
"Nine o'clock, and the key is yours for one night. If you would rather be ordinary, put it on the desk and the corridor will forget you."
Kiska speaks then, one line, flat, from behind the ledger.
"He is going to take it."
Ilvera does not turn round. She keeps the key up between her fingers, where you can reach it, and waits.