Isle of Night by Verónica Wolff Read Free Book Online

unsettling moment. I looked away, but regretted I did. I was furious with him but impulsively longed to feel that connection we’d had in his car. It made me even surlier.
    He went to the front and whispered something to the attendant. I watched avidly as she unlocked a closet at the front of the plane.
    He retrieved three large satchels, handing one to each of us. They were canvas kit bags in a drab olive color, like we were off to boot camp instead of this whatever-they-called-it school. Getting issued new stuff gave an air of finality to the whole thing. I rubbed my arms, suddenly chilled.
    I was in deep now.
    â€œWhat’s the name of this place, anyway?” I settled the bag between my legs. Private jets offered more than a little legroom, and I was determined to rifle through my satchel as soon as I could. I was desperately curious about what might be inside.
    â€œI told you already,” he said as he sat back down. “Eyja nœturinnar . ”
    â€œThat’s it? But I thought you said that was the name of the island.”
    â€œThere’s naught much else on the isle but the school.”
    Hopefully they didn’t go for any lame Go, fight, WIN, Eyja Tigers! nonsense. I bit my cheek to avoid succumbing to nervous tittering. “Either way, Nœtur . . . Eyjan doesn’t sound like any university I’d ever heard of.”
    â€œEyja nœturinnar . ” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “But you were close.”
    I shrugged. It was pretty simple once you parsed the roots into recognizable bits. “I’ve got a thing for Germanic languages.”
    â€œAye.” Looking distracted, he stared past me out the window, even though the only view was a flat wall of black and two flickering red lights on the wing. “We knew that.”
    â€œWe, we—who’s this we you keep mentioning?”
    He stayed as he was, looking into the blackness, a grave expression on his face. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
    I was determined to drag some sort of information out of him before we landed. I tried a different tack. “But your accent sounds Scottish. If Icelandic is the old tongue , well, your old folks must be pretty old.” It was an attempt at a joke, but he merely frowned.
    Finally, he looked back at me. “Many of our . . . old ones . . . speak the language of the Vikings. We value their culture. And so our island still holds their traditions close.”
    Focusing on my questions was keeping me from freaking out, and so I kept probing, despite the intensity on his face that was gravitating from serious to scowling. “So are you from—”
    â€œThis?” A squeal from behind interrupted us. The shrill tone identified it as Lilac, aka Bunny von Slutling. “You’re replacing my Murakami bag with this ?”
    â€œWhat ever with your origami bag,” I muttered.
    â€œClearly they don’t carry Louis Vuitton at the local Goodwill, do they, Charity ?”
    I cringed. Maybe preternatural hearing was Lilac’s gift. I turned my attention to my own bag nestled between my knees, eager to see what had the girl in such a lather.
    It was jammed full of clothing. On the top of the pile was a sturdy gray tunic and what looked like leggings.
    â€œYou’ve been issued a uniform, standard to all first-year recruits,” Ronan explained to all of us.
    Recruits? The peculiar word stuck in my mind. But I shoved it away, thankful that Lilac would no longer be able to lord the whole Charity thing over me. Uniforms—the great equalizer.
    â€œCool boots.” I wrestled a pair of black, knee-high boots from the kit bag. They were lined with some sort of short fur and had laces running up the front. Kind of like a sexy version of Eskimo mukluks.
    Ronan nodded. “You also have workout clothes and a set of oilskins.”
    â€œYou’re going to make us wear animal skins ?”
    Lilac’s comment was so