The path to the greenhouse was overgrown and half-forgotten, like Ravencroft itself had tried to erase it. Ivy clung to the archways, and moss crawled up the stone walls, feeding off the damp and the dark. I followed it anyway—hood up, heart quick.
The letter had said after curfew. It hadn't said why.
It also hadn't said who.
But I already knew.
---
I reached the greenhouse just past midnight. It sat tucked behind the West Tower, glass panels streaked with age and mist, candlelight glowing faintly inside like a secret heart. One door was cracked open.
I hesitated—then pushed through.
Warmth hit me first. Then the smell. Sweet and earthy and strange. The place pulsed with life: vines curled across the ceiling beams, moonflowers bloomed in tight spirals, and somewhere, water dripped steadily into a moss-lined basin.
And he was there.
Hands in his pockets.
Back to me.
Silent.
He didn't turn when I stepped inside.
"You came," he said, voice even.
"You asked."
"I wasn't sure you would."
"I wasn't sure I should."
He finally looked over his shoulder. There was something unreadable in his eyes tonight—like the sketch of a storm that hadn't been shaded in yet.
I stepped closer. The door clicked shut behind me.
"What is this place?" I asked.
"The only part of Ravencroft that still breathes." He nodded toward the vines. "They're not supposed to grow this way. No gardener's touched this place in years."
"Then how—?"
"They grow because they're wild. Not despite it."
We stood there, surrounded by green and candlelight, not touching, not talking.
Just... standing.
In the quiet that stretched between us, something tightened and loosened at the same time.
---
"Why did you call me here?" I asked.
He exhaled softly. "Because I needed to see if you would come."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only one I've got."
I waited. He didn't move. Didn't offer anything more.
So I stepped forward.
"I found something in the library," I said.
He didn't flinch, but I saw it in the way his shoulders shifted.
"A letter," I added. "No name. Just a raven seal."
"I know."
"You left it?"
"No."
A pause.
"But I watched."
He stepped toward the center of the greenhouse. Moonlight filtered down through the dusty glass, brushing across his cheekbone, his jaw. He looked… tired. But not weak. Never that.
"You don't know what that letter means," he said.
"I know it was meant for me."
His gaze snapped to mine. "And that doesn't scare you?"
I crossed my arms, though I wasn't cold. "Maybe I'm tired of being scared."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then said quietly, "They'll chew you up. If you let them."
"Who?"
"The ones behind the walls. The ones who never let you see their hands."
He turned then, pacing slowly between pots of herbs and flowering vines. There was a restless energy in him now, like he couldn't hold it in much longer.
I followed with my eyes. "You're talking about the Velvet Order."
He stopped.
"You said not to trust the ones who smile," I added. "Was that about him?"
Another long pause.
He didn't answer.
---
"You know things," I said. "Things no one else does. About the Order. About the school. About…"
I hesitated.
"You were part of something. Weren't you?"
His face didn't change. But a crack formed in the air between us.
"I made mistakes," he said finally. "Ones I can't take back."
I waited, barely breathing.
But he didn't go on.
Instead, he picked up a small clay pot from the table beside him—cradling it in his hands. Inside, a single black orchid bloomed. Fragile. Unnatural.
"They say these only bloom once," he murmured. "And only if you lie to them."
I frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"Neither does Ravencroft."
He set the pot down gently, then looked at me again. Really looked.
"I just wanted to warn you," he said. "Before things get… harder."
"Harder how?"
Another silence.
He took one step closer. Then another.
"Because soon," he said, "you won't know who you're playing for. Or who's playing you."
My breath hitched.
We were only a few feet apart now.
I could see the curve of his jaw, the way his mouth twitched like he wanted to say something else and wouldn't let himself. The candlelight made his eyes darker, but not colder.
"You don't trust me," I whispered.
He looked down.
"I don't trust anyone," he said. "That's how I'm still here."
---
We didn't touch.
But something passed between us anyway.
Not quite a promise.
Not yet a threat.
Just… awareness.
Of how close we were. Of what it might mean.
---
I left the greenhouse before dawn.
He didn't follow.
But when I slipped back into my bed, damp from the morning fog, I found something tucked under my pillow.
Not a note.
A sketch.
Of me.
But not how I was.
How I looked to him.
Wide-eyed. On the edge of something. With shadows behind me and light in my hands.
And scribbled in the corner, in sharp graphite:
> Just because you're seen doesn't mean you're safe