My Ranking Points
Lyra was still unsure with regards to whether the “School for Good and Evil” was a legitimate parallel dimension, an extremely elaborate cosplay, or some American religious cult. By the time she saw her pair of roommates, she was so sick of trying to make sense of this insanity that she forced herself to lock away any observations she might make and question as little as she possibly could.
But seriously, what a pair they were. The first, around 18, her olive skin perfectly toned, her soot-black lashes perfectly groomed, and her hair wafting like ebony curtains around her hips. Lyra observed that they were nice hips. She was dressed in a style most probably of the 60s or 70s, all Italian labels and lace that clung to her sylphlike limbs and glimmered through the mottled half-light of the room’s lamp. She was attractive in the extreme and dangerously aware of it.
Lydia was dangerously aware of it too.
And then there was the second girl. Dressed in the grimy attire of a Medieval peasant, most likely from western Europe. Oddly proportioned physique, corpse-coloured skin, hair plastered limply to her scalp by blotches of grease. She did not look happy. Nor did she look like she had been happy in a long time; her face was knotted fiercely by a scowl blacker than the shadows she was slumped in.
Overanalysing. Lyra needed to stop doing that. After all, she was not exactly in the best mood either. Often, those obsessed with their appearance tended to be vain and shallow. Those who weren’t may be the opposite. She did not know who these girls were and, quite frankly, she had very little desire to find out. But, since her phone was not working and she had absolutely no idea how to get home…
“Hello,” she tried, aggressively calm. “My name is Lyra.”
“Hello,” the first girl responded. Her voice seemed to be naturally husky, though trimmed and stiffened in order to appear as curt as possible. “Valencia. Are you Scandinavian, by any chance?”
“Danish and 2020s,” nodded Lyra. “Italian? 1960s?”
“I see.” She turned to the second girl. “And you are?”
“I believe a wolf called her Caroline,” sniffed Valencia.
Caroline’s glare poured into Lyra like boiling tar. She muttered something. Her voice was almost as charred as her lips.
“I…I think that’s Old French.” frowned Lyra. “I know a few words from some manuscripts I recovered.”
Valencia crossed her arms. “You can understand her?”
“I can understand her well enough to know that she has doubts about the legitimacy of our lineage.”
“What do you mean?”
Lyra sighed, slipping down onto the mattress furthest away from Caroline. “Now, I could be wrong, but I believe that she just called our mothers gluttonous prostitutes.”
“Oh,” said Valencia.
Lyra had the feeling that this was going to be a long day.