“Oh, yeah, that is nice.”
I wander the space like I’m walking through a dream. Everything smellsfaintly of cedar and clean linen. I run my hand along the cool glass of the window.
There’s a small panel by the door—a sleek intercom system. I press it and a clear, robotic voice chimes:
“Breakfast begins at 7:00 A.M. in the East Wing dining hall.”
“Blackmoore wouldn’t let anyone just be late.” I chuckle.
“Definitely not.” Dakota giggles. “The intercom is nice but it gets annoying quickly.”
“I could see that.”
“Well, I’ll let you finish settling in.” Dakota stands up and crosses over to me hugging me again. “I’m so glad you’re here!” She squeals.
“Me too.” I smile, hugging her back. “Thanks for walking me.”
“Of course, what are sisters for?” Dakota squeezes my arms once more before unlocking the door and slipping out.
The intercom buzzes to life,crisp and cold.
“Good morning, students. Breakfast begins in thirty minutes.”
I jolt upright in bed, momentarily disoriented. It takes a minute to get my breathing under control when it finally clicks in my brain that it’s the intercom. I can see why Dakota says that gets annoying.
The soft sheets tangle around my legs. For a second, I think I’m still dreaming. Then I remember. I’m at Blackmoore. No yelling. No doors being kicked open. No footsteps outside my door.
Just quiet. I let myself breathe that in before I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The closet is already stocked with uniforms. Dark green tailored blazers with the gold Blackmoore crest, gray pleated skirts or slacks, crisp white shirts. I pick a skirt and shirt and slide them on with careful, mechanical movements.
Everything fits perfectly. Like it was made for me.
Imove to the bathroom. My toothbrush is already in a glass. The soap smells like vanilla and honey from the night before.
I tie my ash-brown hair back in a loose half-up knot, and for once, it behaves. It falls in soft waves down my back.
Back in the bedroom, I slip on the blazer and pull the tablet from the desk to check the map and schedule again.
My bag’s already packed with school supplies that Lucian had delivered last night. Notebooks, mechanical pencils, smooth pens, different colored highlighters, everything brand new and expensive feeling.
It makes me nervous to touch any of it.
At the last minute, I glance at the mirror. My reflection looks… strange. Not in a bad way. Just different.
I grab my keys and head for the door.
Click. The lock slides open.
I leave the broken girl from high school behind. I’m determined to fill this role, to be Isobel Grace Ashthorne.
Time to find out what kind of school Blackmoore really is.
The air isbrisk in the stairwell as I make my way down from the third floor, the scent of fresh coffee and something sweet—maybe cinnamon—guiding me toward the dining hall.
My boots echo softly on the polished stone. A few other students move past me in pressed uniforms, talking quietly.
I keep my head high.
