The car eventually comes to a stop, and I glance up from the papers to find we’re idling in front of a closed gate. Tall, spindly wrought iron poles brace the name of the school stretched in an arc in fancy script, the letters rising toward the cloudy sky, gleaming wet from the drizzling rain.
The gates slowly open with a groan, and the driver accelerates, heading down the long drive. I sit up straighter, staring at the landscape, hating how … charming it is. Like something out of a movie or book.
Cobblestone paths wind their way through the sweeping, lush green lawns toward what I assume is the main building on campus. It appears ancient, as if it’s stood here for centuries. A gothic monolith of crumbling brick, stained glass, and climbing ivy. Turrets crown each corner of the towering structure, the lead mullioned windows reminding me of watchful eyes that never sleep.
Behind the building looms a massive, brick bell tower, a tall black column against the darkening sky. I roll the window down and take a deep breath, savoring the cool breeze. The air is sharp with the scent of wet leaves and something I can’t place. Dirt, maybe? The steady drizzle splats my face, and I immediately close the window, reaching for the door when the car comes to a stop. I’m conflicted. I want to both get this started and run away at the same time. I’m nervous. Scared. What if I mess this up?
“Hold on, miss. Let me help you.”
I wait for the driver to open the door but bolt out the moment he does and run up the stone steps to large wooden double doors to get out of the rain. Under the relative shelter at the top of the stairs, I look back to find the driver still standing next to the car, holding an umbrella big enough to keep us and our five closest friends dry.
Oops.
The campus is eerily quiet, and I pause, checking my phone. It’s almost noon. My hair appointment made me late, and I’m glad I can take in the school without hundreds of interested eyes watching me.
I slip into the building, glancing around until I find a door with a brass sign above it that says ADMINISTRATION. I slowly open the door to find a matronly receptionist sitting behind a desk, a reserved smile on her face.
“Hello. You must be Belinda,” the woman says.
I blink at her, surprised she already knows my name. That she’s expecting me. But then remember they had to open the gates for me. “Um, yes. I am.”
“Right. A little late, aren’t you? Never mind.” The womanshakes her head, shuffling through some papers on her desk. “You’re here now, and that’s what’s important. Mrs. Vale has been waiting for you.”
I frown. The only Mrs. Vale I know is in New York in a rehab facility. Which means—
“Belinda. Darling.” A door swings open, and a slender, raven-haired woman with the most precise bob haircut I’ve ever seen in my life sweeps in, a cloud of expensive perfume filling the room and making my nose twitch. “There you are. We’resodelighted you’ve chosen to attend Wickham. Please step into my office so we can discuss a few things before Mrs. Brown gives you your room assignment and class schedule.”
I’m as stiff as a board when Whitney Ashbourne-Vale pulls me in for a hug, her hands barely touching me when she presses her soft, acacia-brown cheek to mine. She pulls away quickly, a bright smile curling her perfectly pink lips, and she waves me toward an open doorway, which I assume is her office.
I look back over my shoulder to see the driver rolling my bags into the reception area as I follow her. I jump when she slams the door shut. When I turn to face her, all remnants of the overly friendly woman are gone, replaced by a sour expression and a narrowed gaze.
“You’re late.”
“Thanks for the reminder,Mom.” My stepmother is the worst. I don’t actually know her at all, but I’ve heard stories. Isla regularly complained about Whitney and her constant demands for perfection.
She “works” at Wickham, according to my father andthe brochure I read in the limo. She is head of the board of trustees and is deeply connected to the administration and Headmaster Harrington. Isla told me Mommy Dearest rarely comes into the office for a regular nine-to-five, but I guess she’s here today to greet me.
I’m so lucky.
Whitney glances around the room as if she expects to find someone lurking in a corner before she stalks toward me. She comes way too close, but I refuse to take a step back as she thrusts her finger in my face. “Don’t ever call me that. No one is supposed to know we’re … related.”
I press my lips together so I don’t say something I’ll regret, staring at the finger in my face like it’s a snake about to bite me. She eventually drops it, resting her hands on her hips, showcasing the elegant cut of her simple navy dress. It looks expensive. As do the giant diamond earrings she’s wearing and the thin gold bangles on her wrist.
She studies me for a moment, something almost tender flickering in her eyes. “You look like your mother.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, forcing a thin smile. What she really means is that I don’t have Isla’s classic good looks. I’m no troll, but I’m not the piping hot slice of all-American apple pie that Isla’s always been with her blond hair, big blue eyes, straight white teeth, and natural pink blush. “Looking nothing like my sister will be an asset here. No one will suspect we’re related.”
She blinks, and the iciness is back.
“At least your hair looks decent,” she finally says with a sniff. “My stylist let me know it was quite the botched job.”
“I didn’t have much to work with.” I shrug, purposelytrying to annoy her. From the look on her face, I’d say it’s working.
Ignoring my response, she begins pacing the length of the small room. “Did you look over the dossier we created for you? I hope so. You don’t have much time to learn the information, and you won’t have much privacy, since you’re sharing a room.”
My jaw drops. “Sharing a room? That was never a part of the plan.”
She stops mid-step, turning to face me. “Everyoneshares a room at Wickham. No exceptions.”
