The Unexpected Enlightenment of Rachel Griffin: Chapter One–Part Two
The peachy dawn light peeked through the purple curtains. Rachel opened her eyes and stretched. A cold breeze blew in from outside. Rising, she padded across the room. The stone slabs were cold beneath her bare feet. Pushing back the curtains, she closed the window and pressed her nose against the pane. Her breath made little puffs of mist against the cool glass. Gazing about, she took in her surroundings: the paper birches with their curling parchment-like bark, the gravel paths leading toward the green lawns of the Campus Commons that ran between the many dormitories and buildings, the myriad towers and spires of Roanoke Hall rising above the trees in the distance. A few early risers flew down the path that led to the main hall. They flew on bristleless brooms—flying devices that had about as much in common with a sweeping implement as a mundane automobile had with a horse-drawn carriage.
Her roommates were still asleep. Normally, Rachel would have gone back to bed at this hour. But not today. Today, she was so excited, she could hardly keep her feet from dancing. Her heart raced with anticipation. She could no more return to sleep than she could walk to the moon.