“And second, I ask you to carry around some sort of protection at all times. A small shovel is preferable, as it can be used as both a blunt weapon and a burial tool; but a box of matches, a roll of gauze—any of these things will suffice. It is our job to start training you to act and think like Monitors.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out something wrapped in a cloth. He unfolded it and held up a small trowel and a pair of gloves. “As you can see, we professors take the same precautions as you.”
The room was completely silent as he wrapped up his tools and slid them back into his pocket.
“Finally, I’d like to name this year’s top rank. For those of you who are new to St. Clément, the top rank is the student who scored the highest in the placement exam, which the entire school takes. That student is thus the best Monitor at our academy.”
He looked down at a piece of paper. “Renée Winters.”
It took me a few moments to realize he had said my name. When I did, I was so surprised that I dropped my fork into my lap. I picked it up and brushed myself off, feeling my cheeks flush as all heads turned in my direction. How could I have gotten first rank when I hadn’t even finished the exam?
“Renée, would you come to the front?” the headmaster said, gazing around the crowd, unsure of who I was.
I stood up and walked to the podium, my shoes loud against the wooden floor. People whispered as I approached the front of the room. The headmaster beamed and took out a small brooch in the shape of a cat.
“The cat is the mascot of St. Clément, and the symbol of Monitors all across the world,” he said as he pinned it to the collar of my shirt. “Now you and the cat are one.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to blush.
“Congratulations,” he said. “And welcome to St. Clément.” Under the noise of everyone clapping, the headmaster added, “Could you meet me in my office Monday afternoon after your classes?”
“Sure,” I said, giving him a curious look. But he only smiled. I was about to return to my seat when he stopped me.
“And now Renée will lead us in the recital of the Cartesian Oath.”
I felt a wave of nausea pass over me as the entire dining hall rose, their benches scraping against the floor.
“Drafted by our ancestors in the spirit of René Descartes, the Cartesian Oath is the sole pledge all Monitors must take in their training. It is our constitution, our ethical standard, our déclaration des droits.”
Ethical standard? I was the last person who should be reading this aloud. I shook my head at him, but he merely smiled and handed me a roll of paper. “If you would please repeat after Renée.”
I could feel the girls from my floor glaring at me. Trying to will my hands to stop shaking, I unrolled the paper.
“Go on,” the headmaster said softly.
I cleared my throat. “‘As a Monitor, I swear by O-Osiris’” —my voice cracked—“‘god of judgment and the afterlife, that, to the best of my ability, I shall bury all deceased humans within ten days of death, to prevent reanimation, even if the deceased is my son, daughter, sibling, friend, or—or…or lover,’” I said finally, apologizing to Dante in my head as I listened to the drone of my classmates repeating my words.
“‘If I should sense the presence of an Undead, I shall seek him out and evaluate his rate of decay,’” I continued. My eyes rested on Brett’s as I watched him mouth my words and give me an encouraging smile.
“‘Should he be desperate, dangerous, or close to complete putrefaction, I shall endeavor to capture him and bring him to the High Monitor Court for examination and trial.’”
Clementine stared at me from the center of the room, her face wrought with jealousy.
“‘I shall never bury an Undead until he has proven himself guilty of murder or has—has—’” The headmaster nodded at me to continue. “‘Has threatened my life.’”
When the voices stopped, I unrolled the paper even more and continued. “‘When I do bury an Undead, I shall do so promptly, painlessly, and in accordance with Monitor ritual, with no vengeance or brutality.
“‘I shall never announce myself to Plebeians or Undead. And finally, I understand that every being on earth has the capacity to cause pain, even Monitors, and that I will use my power and training with the caution and consideration given to my own life.’”
There was a lull in the room as we uttered the last phrase. Without a word, Headmaster LaGuerre gave me a slight bow indicating that I could sit down, and the hum of conversations recommenced.
After dinner, everyone parted around me as we filed out of the dining hall. I tried to blend in, covering the pin on my collar with my scarf. The lobby was crowded with girls, all clamoring to look at something on the bulletin board.
“What’s going on?” I asked a girl standing near the perimeter. She started when she saw me, as if I’d frightened her. “It’s the class rank list. They just posted it, along with our class schedules.”
Just then Clementine LaGuerre stormed through, glaring at me as she pushed past my shoulder and up the stairs. I made my way to the front and flipped through a folder of schedules until I found the sheet with my name at the top. It read as follows:
WINTERS, RENÉE: JUNIOR YEAR SCHEDULE
History of Monitors
Strategy and Prediction
Child Psychology
French
Advanced Latin
I scanned the class rank list until I found my name. Winters, Renée. Number one. I stared at it, still incredulous. Out of curiosity, I looked for LaGuerre, Clementine. She was number two.
Chapter 4
IT WAS A BRISK SEPTEMBER MORNING, THE SUN spilling into the halls as I climbed up the three flights of stairs that led to History of Monitors, my first class of the semester. The room had beamed ceilings and pigeons roosting on window ledges, their chests puffing as they slept. I envied them. My weekend had been sleepless, and with no one to talk to, the days had become languid and distorted, like a dream. I took a seat, watching Mr. Pollet fiddle with a projector in the back of the room, his underarms damp with sweat.
There were only nine others around the table, including Anya, Clementine, Brett, and a few boys I didn’t know. When the bell rang, Mr. Pollet straightened himself out and took his place at the blackboard.
“Montreal is a city underground,” he said, dabbing his pink forehead. “It’s the only city built by Monitors, for Monitors, and is therefore the only Monitor safehold in existence, the only Monitor fortress.”
He crossed the room to switch off the lights, and turned on the projector. “Monitors first emigrated here from France, with the dream of designing a place where they could study the Undead in an enclosed environment. Thus, they chose to settle on an island, where they built a network of tunnels underneath the city to keep them safe from the Undead, who cannot go underground.”
He pressed a button on his remote control, and the first slide appeared. It was a photograph of a normal city street. On the sidewalk was a small hut that looked like an outhouse.
“An entrance to the tunnel network,” he said, and clicked to the next slide, a photograph of the stairs inside leading down under the earth.
He clicked ahead. A tunnel entrance beneath a building. A staircase in the back of an alley. A wooden hut on the side of Mont Royal, which marked the center of the city.
“And conveniently, they all connect here.”
He showed a black-and-white illustration of a sprawling gothic building with castle spires and pointed alcoves. “This is the Royal Victoria Hospital, just after it was built by the Monitors. Of course, at the time it was called Hôpital Saint-Laurent.”
Something within me began to throb with anticipation, as if years of effort had led up to this moment. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to know what rested behind its walls. Not the patients or the doctors and nurses, but something else.…
“In the early days, when Monitors ran the city, Royal Victoria was one of the first hospitals in North America to treat Undead children. Later, during the 1890s, the hospital was taken over by the Plebeians, but this sketch was drawn during the time of the Monitors.”
I blinked and the image was in color.
“Tunnels from all across the city led directly to the hospital supply room. That way, if there was ever an Undead attack, the Monitors could easily access supplies like gauze, ointments, and scissors in the hospital.”
I blinked again, and the flags on the building’s spires seemed to move in the wind.
“After the Monitoring community began to die out, we slowly lost control over Montreal.”
I blinked once more, and the classroom around me seemed to collapse into itself.
“Today, Montreal is no longer run by Monitors, nor is the hospital. In fact, most people here are not even aware that we or the Undead exist.”
That was the last thing I heard before everything went black.
The next thing I knew, I was in the image, standing in the grass on the lawn in front of the hospital. It was a crisp autumn day, a slight breeze making the flags on the spires billow. I was holding a bouquet of flowers.
Four ambulances were parked in the driveway outside the hospital as I walked toward the entrance and through the double doors. In the foyer was a reception area lined with nurses sitting behind a counter. Smiling, I leaned over to get their attention.
“May I help you?” a young nurse asked. She was zaftig, with round cheeks and lots of freckles. She wore a white-and-yellow uniform.
“Yes, I’m visiting the patient in room 151,” I said, holding up the flowers.
“Is the patient related to you?”
“My sis—I mean, brother. He’s my brother,” I said quickly.
The nurse gave me a sad smile. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she typed something into her computer and directed me toward the pediatrics wing.
The hallways were sterile and fluorescent. I looked through the window of the door before opening it, to make sure no other visitors were inside, and then turned the knob.
The room was completely silent as he wrapped up his tools and slid them back into his pocket.
“Finally, I’d like to name this year’s top rank. For those of you who are new to St. Clément, the top rank is the student who scored the highest in the placement exam, which the entire school takes. That student is thus the best Monitor at our academy.”
He looked down at a piece of paper. “Renée Winters.”
It took me a few moments to realize he had said my name. When I did, I was so surprised that I dropped my fork into my lap. I picked it up and brushed myself off, feeling my cheeks flush as all heads turned in my direction. How could I have gotten first rank when I hadn’t even finished the exam?
“Renée, would you come to the front?” the headmaster said, gazing around the crowd, unsure of who I was.
I stood up and walked to the podium, my shoes loud against the wooden floor. People whispered as I approached the front of the room. The headmaster beamed and took out a small brooch in the shape of a cat.
“The cat is the mascot of St. Clément, and the symbol of Monitors all across the world,” he said as he pinned it to the collar of my shirt. “Now you and the cat are one.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to blush.
“Congratulations,” he said. “And welcome to St. Clément.” Under the noise of everyone clapping, the headmaster added, “Could you meet me in my office Monday afternoon after your classes?”
“Sure,” I said, giving him a curious look. But he only smiled. I was about to return to my seat when he stopped me.
“And now Renée will lead us in the recital of the Cartesian Oath.”
I felt a wave of nausea pass over me as the entire dining hall rose, their benches scraping against the floor.
“Drafted by our ancestors in the spirit of René Descartes, the Cartesian Oath is the sole pledge all Monitors must take in their training. It is our constitution, our ethical standard, our déclaration des droits.”
Ethical standard? I was the last person who should be reading this aloud. I shook my head at him, but he merely smiled and handed me a roll of paper. “If you would please repeat after Renée.”
I could feel the girls from my floor glaring at me. Trying to will my hands to stop shaking, I unrolled the paper.
“Go on,” the headmaster said softly.
I cleared my throat. “‘As a Monitor, I swear by O-Osiris’” —my voice cracked—“‘god of judgment and the afterlife, that, to the best of my ability, I shall bury all deceased humans within ten days of death, to prevent reanimation, even if the deceased is my son, daughter, sibling, friend, or—or…or lover,’” I said finally, apologizing to Dante in my head as I listened to the drone of my classmates repeating my words.
“‘If I should sense the presence of an Undead, I shall seek him out and evaluate his rate of decay,’” I continued. My eyes rested on Brett’s as I watched him mouth my words and give me an encouraging smile.
“‘Should he be desperate, dangerous, or close to complete putrefaction, I shall endeavor to capture him and bring him to the High Monitor Court for examination and trial.’”
Clementine stared at me from the center of the room, her face wrought with jealousy.
“‘I shall never bury an Undead until he has proven himself guilty of murder or has—has—’” The headmaster nodded at me to continue. “‘Has threatened my life.’”
When the voices stopped, I unrolled the paper even more and continued. “‘When I do bury an Undead, I shall do so promptly, painlessly, and in accordance with Monitor ritual, with no vengeance or brutality.
“‘I shall never announce myself to Plebeians or Undead. And finally, I understand that every being on earth has the capacity to cause pain, even Monitors, and that I will use my power and training with the caution and consideration given to my own life.’”
There was a lull in the room as we uttered the last phrase. Without a word, Headmaster LaGuerre gave me a slight bow indicating that I could sit down, and the hum of conversations recommenced.
After dinner, everyone parted around me as we filed out of the dining hall. I tried to blend in, covering the pin on my collar with my scarf. The lobby was crowded with girls, all clamoring to look at something on the bulletin board.
“What’s going on?” I asked a girl standing near the perimeter. She started when she saw me, as if I’d frightened her. “It’s the class rank list. They just posted it, along with our class schedules.”
Just then Clementine LaGuerre stormed through, glaring at me as she pushed past my shoulder and up the stairs. I made my way to the front and flipped through a folder of schedules until I found the sheet with my name at the top. It read as follows:
WINTERS, RENÉE: JUNIOR YEAR SCHEDULE
History of Monitors
Strategy and Prediction
Child Psychology
French
Advanced Latin
I scanned the class rank list until I found my name. Winters, Renée. Number one. I stared at it, still incredulous. Out of curiosity, I looked for LaGuerre, Clementine. She was number two.
Chapter 4
IT WAS A BRISK SEPTEMBER MORNING, THE SUN spilling into the halls as I climbed up the three flights of stairs that led to History of Monitors, my first class of the semester. The room had beamed ceilings and pigeons roosting on window ledges, their chests puffing as they slept. I envied them. My weekend had been sleepless, and with no one to talk to, the days had become languid and distorted, like a dream. I took a seat, watching Mr. Pollet fiddle with a projector in the back of the room, his underarms damp with sweat.
There were only nine others around the table, including Anya, Clementine, Brett, and a few boys I didn’t know. When the bell rang, Mr. Pollet straightened himself out and took his place at the blackboard.
“Montreal is a city underground,” he said, dabbing his pink forehead. “It’s the only city built by Monitors, for Monitors, and is therefore the only Monitor safehold in existence, the only Monitor fortress.”
He crossed the room to switch off the lights, and turned on the projector. “Monitors first emigrated here from France, with the dream of designing a place where they could study the Undead in an enclosed environment. Thus, they chose to settle on an island, where they built a network of tunnels underneath the city to keep them safe from the Undead, who cannot go underground.”
He pressed a button on his remote control, and the first slide appeared. It was a photograph of a normal city street. On the sidewalk was a small hut that looked like an outhouse.
“An entrance to the tunnel network,” he said, and clicked to the next slide, a photograph of the stairs inside leading down under the earth.
He clicked ahead. A tunnel entrance beneath a building. A staircase in the back of an alley. A wooden hut on the side of Mont Royal, which marked the center of the city.
“And conveniently, they all connect here.”
He showed a black-and-white illustration of a sprawling gothic building with castle spires and pointed alcoves. “This is the Royal Victoria Hospital, just after it was built by the Monitors. Of course, at the time it was called Hôpital Saint-Laurent.”
Something within me began to throb with anticipation, as if years of effort had led up to this moment. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to know what rested behind its walls. Not the patients or the doctors and nurses, but something else.…
“In the early days, when Monitors ran the city, Royal Victoria was one of the first hospitals in North America to treat Undead children. Later, during the 1890s, the hospital was taken over by the Plebeians, but this sketch was drawn during the time of the Monitors.”
I blinked and the image was in color.
“Tunnels from all across the city led directly to the hospital supply room. That way, if there was ever an Undead attack, the Monitors could easily access supplies like gauze, ointments, and scissors in the hospital.”
I blinked again, and the flags on the building’s spires seemed to move in the wind.
“After the Monitoring community began to die out, we slowly lost control over Montreal.”
I blinked once more, and the classroom around me seemed to collapse into itself.
“Today, Montreal is no longer run by Monitors, nor is the hospital. In fact, most people here are not even aware that we or the Undead exist.”
That was the last thing I heard before everything went black.
The next thing I knew, I was in the image, standing in the grass on the lawn in front of the hospital. It was a crisp autumn day, a slight breeze making the flags on the spires billow. I was holding a bouquet of flowers.
Four ambulances were parked in the driveway outside the hospital as I walked toward the entrance and through the double doors. In the foyer was a reception area lined with nurses sitting behind a counter. Smiling, I leaned over to get their attention.
“May I help you?” a young nurse asked. She was zaftig, with round cheeks and lots of freckles. She wore a white-and-yellow uniform.
“Yes, I’m visiting the patient in room 151,” I said, holding up the flowers.
“Is the patient related to you?”
“My sis—I mean, brother. He’s my brother,” I said quickly.
The nurse gave me a sad smile. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she typed something into her computer and directed me toward the pediatrics wing.
The hallways were sterile and fluorescent. I looked through the window of the door before opening it, to make sure no other visitors were inside, and then turned the knob.
