Even in my embarrassment, I don’t move. I watch him while he leans back against the building. Black suit pants in a total contrast to the black hoodie on top as rain picks up around us. The water hits him from where he is, soaking through the material covering his face, and I am thankful for the arch of the doorway protecting my carefully curled hair from making me look worse in front of this stranger. Resembling a drowned rat would have been the cherry on top of this disaster.
He takes a final drag of the cigarette, blowing smoke out into the already grey surroundings, then flicks the butt onto the gravel. The tall stranger bends down to grab the backpack by his feet and my heart races as he makes his way over to where I am. I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel them on me, running all over my body. From the roots of my white hair, down to my thigh high boot clad feet. He reaches for the door handle I didn’t manage to get to and pulls. He opens his mouth and I prepare myself to swoon thinking he is going to be a gentleman and hold the door open for me. He does attend Marrowton Academy after all, so he must come from good stock.
“You missed a spot,” Deep like the ocean but smooth like whiskey, his voice catches me off guard. No one I have ever met has a voice that both lights me up but also makes me want to cower with its vicious edge.
I shake my head. “What?”
He smirks but it isn’t playful like Silas’s.
“You missed a spot,” Then he points to my chin with a look of disgust. Before I can say or do anything else, the stranger turns his back on me and heads through the doors where it closes with a slam due to the force he used on it.
I scramble in my bag for my compact mirror, I groan out loud this time at what I find as my cheeks redden and my stomach drops.
“Fuckity fucking fuck,” I have dried come on my chin. DRIED. FUCKING.COME.
I quickly grab a wipe and decide to go without any lipstick today. I take a deep breath and tilt my head to the sky. Please let the rest of the day go smoother than this morning. A stranger literally caught me with dried come on my mouth, it can’t possibly get worse than that. Can it?
I shake away all the thoughts on how this day could get worse and grab the door handle before I change my mind.
I pull it open and the smell of spiced apple and burning wood hits my nostrils along with warmth and a sense of danger. “Here we go,” I whisper.
THREE
RUELLA
“Please keep up Miss Griffith. We have a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of time to do it in,”
The short plump lady wearing a black pant suit grumbled while rolling her eyes when I entered the main building this morning, then proceeded to look me up and down with a frown before introducing herself to me. Mrs. Owens is the head of admissions and informed me that I was annoyingly late which pushed everything in her day back an hour, I also couldn’t join in the first assembly of term, which I am not complaining about, but apparently being late didn’t affect my classes because they don’t start until tomorrow.
That was thirty minutes ago, and what feels like a thousand steps and a dozen staircases back. I thought the building was vast from the outside. I was wrong. It's enormous. A Labyrinthine. Like the Tardis, if it had been designed by a gothic architect with a taste for the theatrical.
The main structure forms a perfect square, its edges guarded by four soaring turrets that vanish into the mist above. At its heart, a vast courtyard stretches out, easily the size of two football fields, wheresmaller stone buildings squat like ancient relics, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow.
Inside, it’s nothing short of magnificent. Vaulted ceilings soar overhead, held up by arches carved with intricate artistry. Dark parquet floors gleam like glass beneath my feet, mirroring the low glow of candelabras that flicker against the stone walls. Tapestries hang like whispers from the past, and oil paintings with cracked eyes track your every move. Every detail feels deliberate, as if the building itself were alive and observing.
It’s beautiful in the way abandoned cathedrals are beautiful. Quiet, echoing, and full of ghosts.
The halls twist and fold back on themselves, each corridor indistinguishable from the next. I remind myself to ask Mrs. Owens if there’s a map, or if the school prefers its students slightly disoriented.
“The building is set in wings,” Mrs. Owens says while click clacking on the floors with her stilettos. She might only be from the admissions department but her perfectly fitted black suit and red bottom heels scream money. If this is how a low-level office worker dresses, then I am excited to see what the professors dress like.
“On each corner is the housing, there is Lancaster house, Ellington house, Devereux House and the one you will be in,” She pauses at a large wooden door in what I think is the west wing of the main building. She turns and lifts her hand gesturing towards the arched doorway. “Hastings House,”
Without another word, Mrs. Owens opens the door, revealing a vast open-plan room that feels like stepping into someone else’s dream. A wave of scent hits me all at once, coffee, lavender, cherry, vanilla, cloves, sweat… and oddly, Pot Noodle?
I pause, scanning the space, and for the first time since arriving, something in me settles. It feels lived in. Comforting. Human.
This must be the shared common room for the house. The bones of the space are clearly as old as the main building, vaulted ceilings, blackwood beams, tall arched windows draped in heavy velvet. The walls, still that deep, shadowy tone, are lined with dim brass sconces that cast a soft amber glow. But it’s the small details that warm it: worn leather sofas with thick cushions and mismatched throws, a low wooden table covered in scattered mugs and an open chessboard, the enormous fireplace crackling beneath a mounted TV and far too much expensive gaming gear.
To my left, the kitchen catches my eye with dark cabinetry, matte black appliances, and aged brass fixtures. Mrs. Owens had already taken me through the formal dining hall, apparently, our meals are prepared by a world-renowned chef, but this, this is what makes me exhale. A place where I can cook toast in silence or drink tea in the middle of the night. I’m used to eating alone anyway.
The breakfast bar is long, lined with six black iron stools, and fitted with two deep sinks. In the far corner, tucked beside one of the mullioned windows, are two towering, industrial-sized fridges. I wander over, tug one open, and blink in surprise. It’s fully stocked. No labelled containers, no colour-coded sections. Just food, untouched, unclaimed, and oddly generous.
“If you have any requests then you can send an email to the house captain, and they will make sure the kitchen is stocked here for you,” Mrs. Owens voice is warm but there is no interest in it. She is just reciting a script to me before she can run away and do her job.
I nod. “Okay,”
She turns and heads for another door next to a small sitting area with a collection of tall bookcases around it. The cozy nook looks so inviting, I can’t wait to curl up with a good book and a Horlicks on a dreary day like this when I am settled in.
