The taxi driver kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
I understood why. Most kids arrived at Nevermore Academy with tearful parents, trunks of belongings, and dramatic goodbyes. Probably some tears. Maybe a few promises to write. I had a single duffel bag and exact change.
"You sure someone's meeting you?" He pulled up to the main entrance, Gothic towers stretching into Vermont's gray September sky.
"Quite sure." I handed him the fare, grabbed my bag, and stepped out before he could probe further.
The architecture hadn't changed much since 1891. I'd seen the original blueprints in a Vienna archive once. The architect had been obsessed with medieval monasteries and modern prison design. Apparently no one told him schools were supposed to be welcoming.
Principal Weems's office occupied the same tower it always had. Through the heavy oak door, I caught muffled voices. One sounded professionally warm. That would be the principal. The others carried that particular theatrical quality I associated with old money and bad parenting.
"Wednesday will thrive here," a woman's voice insisted. Slightly accented. Definitely dramatic.
"She belongs here with her own kind," a man added. Deep voice. Probably wore a suit to breakfast.
Rich families. They treated their children like exotic pets that needed special habitats. Though considering this was Nevermore, maybe they had a point.
The door burst open.
A man in a pinstripe suit emerged first. Called it. Behind him, a woman in a floor-length black dress that belonged in a different century. Between them, a girl.
Pale. Dark braided hair. Expression like she'd rather be literally anywhere else.
Something tugged at my memory. That nagging feeling when you see someone who looks like an actor from something you watched once. The braids. The Gothic aesthetic. The complete disdain for existence itself. Where had I seen this before?
The girl's eyes swept past me. No interest. No acknowledgment. Just a brief cataloging before dismissing me as background noise.
Then they were gone, leaving behind the faint scent of grave dirt and what had to be the world's most expensive perfume.
"Mr. Blackthorne?" Principal Weems stood in the doorway, immaculate in cream-colored professional wear. "Please, come in."
Her office screamed institutional authority. Diplomas. Awards. Photos with important people who probably weren't as important as they thought. I sat in the leather chair still warm from its previous occupant.
"Welcome to Nevermore Academy." She settled behind her desk with practiced grace. "I trust your journey was comfortable?"
"Thrilling. Nothing says excitement like three hours of highway and a driver who thinks air freshener is a food group."
Her smile didn't waver. Professional through and through. "Your guardian's letter was quite thorough about your requirements."
My guardian. We both knew that signature belonged to a lawyer who'd been dead for thirty years. But the paperwork was flawless, the bank transfers real, and Larissa Weems knew which questions not to ask.
"The medical documentation was particularly detailed." She flipped through pages we both knew were creative fiction. "Severe photosensitivity. Dietary restrictions. Chronic insomnia requiring flexible attendance."
"I'm a delicate flower."
"Indeed." Her pen moved across fresh forms. "Single room, as requested. North-facing windows. Permission to miss morning classes when necessary. Access to specialized meal options."
She paused, looking up with eyes that saw more than most principals would. "We've had students with similar needs over the years. Nevermore prides itself on accommodating the unusual."
"How progressive."
"You're not our only new arrival today." She set down her pen. "Ms. Wednesday Addams just enrolled. Quite the memorable entrance, actually. Something involving piranhas at her previous institution."
"Piranhas." I kept my voice neutral. "When I was young, we just pulled fire alarms."
"Times change." Her smile turned knowing. "Though I suspect your youth was quite some time ago."
Longer than she could imagine. But that wasn't a conversation for today.
"Try to remember that you're meant to be seventeen," she added. "At least in public."
"I'll do my best. Maybe complain about homework. Use words incorrectly. Whatever teenagers do these days."
"I'm sure you'll manage." She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Let me show you to your dormitory. You'll be in Thisbe Hall with the other male students."
We walked through corridors buzzing with first-day energy. Students clustered in doorways, their excited whispers following our progress.
"Did you see what she did to Rowan?"
"I heard she doesn't even blink. Like, ever."
"Bianca's already calling her a psycho."
Modern teenage drama. So much gentler than the duels and poisonings of previous centuries. Now they used words and social media instead of swords and arsenic. Progress, supposedly.
"Your dorm supervisor is Mr. Kellerman," Larissa said as we approached a stone archway marked THISBIE HALL. "He's discrete and won't ask uncomfortable questions."
The common room smelled exactly like every male dormitory in history. Teenage boys, old leather, and something vaguely fungal that no amount of cleaning could eliminate. A few students looked up as we passed. A gorgon adjusting his beanie over his snakes. A psychic staring at empty air like it owed him money. Standard Nevermore demographic.
"Mr. Kellerman?" Larissa called to a middle-aged man sorting mail. "This is Adrian Blackthorne, our new transfer student."
Kellerman looked at my single bag with raised eyebrows. "Travel light, don't you?"
"I'm a minimalist."
"Third floor, end of the hall." He handed me a key. "Room 3F. Private bathroom. Lucky you."
Lucky me. Because nothing said luxury like not sharing a bathroom with teenage boys who thought body spray was a shower substitute.
Larissa waited while I signed the necessary forms. "Your class schedule will be delivered tomorrow. I've arranged for you to have study periods during the more sunlight-intensive activities."
"Thoughtful."
She left me at the stairs with a final meaningful look. Remember to be seventeen. Right. Time to channel my inner adolescent. Whatever that meant after all these years.
My room was exactly what I'd requested. Small. Anonymous. North-facing windows that avoided direct sunlight. A bed I wouldn't use. A desk for appearances. Everything a fake student needed.
I unpacked in minutes. Three shirts. Two pairs of pants. The leather jacket I'd bought in Prague in 1987. Some books to make the shelves look occupied. After centuries of relocating, I'd learned to pack light. Possessions were just things you'd eventually leave behind anyway.
Through my window, I could see Ophelia Hall where the female students lived. More clusters. More gossip about the new girl. The Addams girl. That nagging familiarity scratched at my brain again. Dark-haired girl in a Gothic boarding school. Why did that feel like something I should remember?
The afternoon passed in careful observation. I walked the grounds, noting exits out of habit. The other students gave me curious looks but kept their distance. New kid protocol. They'd approach eventually, when curiosity beat caution.
By evening, I'd cataloged most of the student body. Werewolves who thought pack mentality was a personality. Vampires pretending their dietary restrictions made them special. Psychics acting mysterious about their glorified hunches. Teenagers with superpowers were still just teenagers. Hormonal, dramatic, and convinced their problems were unique.
I stood on my small balcony, breathing September air that tasted of dying leaves and bad cafeteria food. The frustration still gnawed at me. Wednesday Addams. Where had I heard that name?
That's when I heard it.
A cello. Playing Bach's Suite No. 1, but wrong. Deliberately, skillfully wrong. Every note perfect but rearranged to create dissonance where there should be harmony.
The music came from Ophelia Hall. From a balcony where a figure in white sat with perfect posture, bow moving with surgical precision. Even from this distance, I recognized the dark braids.
For once, my sarcasm failed me. The music was genuinely, hauntingly beautiful in its wrongness. Like someone had translated perfection into darkness without losing any of the skill.
The almost-memory slammed harder. Cello. Dark girl. Gothic school. I'd definitely seen this somewhere. Some show? A movie? The more I reached for it, the more it slipped away. Centuries of perfect recall, and now my memory chose to fail me. Typical.
She played for twenty minutes. When she finally stood and turned, she paused. For a moment, she seemed to look directly at my balcony.
Then she vanished inside, leaving only the echo of twisted Bach.
I knew her from somewhere. But where? And why couldn't I remember?
This term was going to be far more complicated than I'd planned.