IoI: acronym for the Institute of Ingenio

Nozze: the nickname given to Figaro be Amahle, originating from Mozart's famous opera Le Nozze di Figaro

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An excruciating silence stretched out before the group. However, as with every calm, a storm must follow. Figaro risked a glance at his friend. Her eyes were filled with a quite frankly unreadable expression. Same went with the strange way her face had contorted on her ebony skin. Perhaps it was a cross between fear and confusion? His eyes travelled North, landing in the dark cornrows arranged in small buns that went around her head like shining rays of sunlight. Two little braids adorned with small, colourful pearls hung down from the sides of her head, their tips brushing against her soft jaw. As could be expected, her hair had been the subject of a heated debate amongst the teachers at the school: most were clearly against the acceptance of a person of colour at the IoI and thus were quite offended by the way she embraced her culture.

Nonetheless, the rule prohibiting any and all types of discrimination was well enforced, so Amahle could walk the halls wearing the hair style that was so dear to her Zulu heritage.

Finally, after a moment of hesitation, Amahle stood, placing her books and quill in the small leather satchel she always seemed to carry around, and left the classroom without saying a word. Figaro followed close behind, still unsure of what to do. All the while, Professor Evings stood clamouring at the front of the room, desperately trying to convince the few students who hadn't left yet to remain calm and seated.

Having finally caught up to his friend, Figaro grabbed Amahle by the wrist, forcing her to a halt. She turned around and shook her arm free of his firm grasp.

"Are you quite alright, Ama? I can't seem to understand what's going on in that head of yours at the moment..." he said, looking straight into her charcoal eyes to make sure she was listening to him.

"No need to worry, Nozze; I'm doing fine. A bit startled, that's all. Though I must ask, did you see what I saw just then? Did professor Evings truly... come out of existence for a bit?" she replied, running her nails through the seams of her skirt.

"I'm afraid so... There must be an explanation for it though, mustn't there?"

"Well, if there is, we're sure to find it in the library. Have you been yet? I have, and I simply adored it! Why, it's the largest library I've ever seen! Shelves upon shelves filled with a sea of books of every kind imaginable!" She nearly danced in excitement as she said this. It was quite a contrast from the Amahle that stood before Figaro but a few seconds ago.

She looked at him and stopped abruptly, noticing the slight change in his expression.

"What? Have I already said that?"

"Perhaps." He said quietly, this time avoiding to look her in the eye.

"Oh, sorry... I'm afraid I'm still a bit shaken from class..."

"It's alright, let's head to the library then, shall we?" He offered his arm, letting her place her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Together they walked, speaking in hushed tones all the way to the library.

{...}

It took them a while, but they finally reached the ironically small door that led to the library. A gasp of delight escaped from Figaro and Amahle's gaping mouths at the sight.

Mahogany bookshelves spiraled up as far as the eye could see. Long, precarious ladders leaned against them, leading to the many stories on which the library was disposed; the two staircases that stood on either side of the space were filled to the brim with more books. In between each shelf was an astounding array of tomes that almost seemed to call out to the two teenagers as their eyes swept through the room-if you could even call it that. At the very center of the library was a cluster of desks probably designed as a study space for students once the examinations started rolling in. The entirety of the place was illuminated by small, solitary candles that hung from delicate copper chains. These curious yet ingenious light fixtures were unique to the library: chandeliers and candle sconces were in use everywhere else, which added to the overall wonder of the place.

"Wow..." whispered Figaro after a few minutes.
"This is-I can't even begin to put what I'm feeling into words. Wow."

Amahle didn't immediately answer. Even though this wasn't her first visit to the library, the sight of the thousands upon thousands of books that were housed between its walls never ceased to take her breath away. "Well... we should get going, we shan't waste more time than we've already."

"Where to start? We don't even have the slightest clue as to what we're looking for!"

As if on cue, a small, leather-bound volume came tumbling down from one of the highest shelves and fell to the ground. Slowly, Amahle reached down and grabbed a hold of it, studying the gold embossing on the cover.

"The Castle of Otranto, by Horace Walpole," she read under her breath, brushing away a stray cobweb that had stuck to the cover's tan leather.

Soon after, another book fell, this time Melmoth the Wanderer, by Charles Maturin. Then came Sheridan Le Fanu's Uncle Silas, followed by The Italian, by Ann Radcliffe. Finally, The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe came down with a resonating thud. The pair grabbed them all and placed them in a neat pile on the desk nearest to them.

"Well, I think we may have been awarded a place to start! Our work seems to be cut out for us, although I'm not quite sure how these fictional narratives, however good they may be, could ever help in terms of disappearing teachers..." Figaro said, absent-mindedly ruffling through one of the book's pages. Suddenly he stopped, motioning for Amahle to join him. A single word was outlined with pencil: You. Without saying a thing, the latter grabbed another book, furiously flipping through its yellow pages before she, too, stopped. Another word was circled: welcome. One by one, they scoured the pages of the remaining three books. They found three more words similarly surrounded by a circle of graphite, all while a complete and utter silence reigned.

Once done, they jotted down the five words on a scrap of parchment: You, welcome, not, here, are.

"This is absolute mumbo-jumbo! I can't believe we've wasted our time for nothing!" lamented Figaro, annoyed to say the least.

"Wait a moment, it appears as though we have not completely wasted our time..." muttered Amahle before he had the chance to utter another word. She had rearranged the words to form a sentence of a chilling simplicity. You are not welcome here, it read. The two friends shared a concerned stare. It was too clear to be a coincidence, yet as they racked their minds for another explanation, they were left with nothing but questions.

Suddenly, a biting gust of air entered the library, instantly extinguishing the candles, leaving the room in a dense darkness.
"Well," said Figaro with an uncomfortable laugh, "It seems as though our presence isn't quite appreciated here, doesn't it?"

It took a bit, but they managed to leave the dark room and made their way to their respective dorms.