The Arrival
The carriage jolted as its wheels struck a loose stone, and Amber Ashford pressed her hand to the window to steady herself. The rain-streaked glass blurred the sight of Grimrose Academy rising out of the autumn mist, a fortress of spires and shadow framed by the skeletal branches of ancient oaks.
Her mother, Lady Catherine Ashford, adjusted her gloves with quick, impatient movements.
"You will behave this time, Amber," she said crisply, her voice a blade dressed in velvet. "This school has an impeccable reputation. They will not tolerate... evasions."
Her father, Lord Edmund Ashford, did not look away from the window. His jaw was set, profile stern as the stone gargoyles they passed beneath.
"This is the last chance, Amber. You cannot live in silence forever. Grimrose will make something of you—if you let it."
Amber kept her gaze on the school gates. The wrought iron twisted into a design of roses, but the thorns were sharper than any bloom. She wondered, faintly, if they had been forged to keep intruders out—or to keep the students in.
The carriage slowed. A figure swept across the gravel drive: a woman in dark green silk, posture severe enough to rival any general. She carried a register tucked beneath one arm, and her hair—iron-gray, scraped into a tight knot—reflected no softness.
The driver opened the carriage door. Rain kissed Amber's cheek as she stepped down, her boots crunching on the wet gravel. Her parents followed, and immediately the woman in green intercepted them.
"Lord and Lady Ashford." She dipped her head, precise but not warm. "I am Mrs. Whitmore, receptionist and keeper of the Academy's records. We do not often receive daughters of such… pedigree. Rest assured, Grimrose will refine her."
Her sharp eyes flicked to Amber, studying her as though she were an entry already half-written in the ledger.
"Your quarters have been prepared," Mrs. Whitmore continued, voice clipped with efficiency. "Miss Ashford's dormitory is on the east wing, third floor. Morning assembly begins at six sharp. Rules are simple: punctuality, discretion, obedience." She snapped the register shut with a crack like a gavel. "Violations are not tolerated."
Amber's mother gave a thin smile. "You see, Edmund? She will be looked after properly."
But her father's eyes remained on Amber. "Do not waste this," he said lowly, almost as if the words themselves weighed him down.
Amber wanted to reply, but her tongue remained still, tied by years of being told her silence was her greatest flaw.
Mrs. Whitmore gestured toward the steps, a sweep of her hand as commanding as any royal summons. "Come along, Miss Ashford. We do not loiter in the rain."
Amber gathered her trunk and began the climb. She paused only once, halfway up the stone stairs. There, in the corner of the courtyard, stood an old woman hunched over a broom. Her silver hair clung damply to her face, and her hands—thin as bones—pushed aside fallen yellow leaves.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met. A gaze so steady, so impossibly ancient, that Amber's breath faltered.
But then the woman lowered her head, sweeping again as though Amber were no more than another leaf to ignore.
"Keep moving, Miss Ashford," Mrs. Whitmore barked sharply from the top step.
Amber obeyed. Yet the image clung to her like the mist: the leaves, the broom, and eyes that seemed to see far deeper than they should.
Inside, the air was heavy with polish and candle wax. The great hall rose in arches of dark wood and stone, lined with portraits whose painted eyes followed every step. Mrs. Whitmore's heels clicked against the floor as she delivered Amber to the dormitory staircase.
"You will find the Academy both rigorous and… enlightening," the receptionist said, her lips tightening as though the last word carried some hidden meaning. "Remember, Miss Ashford—Grimrose does not forget."
She turned sharply, skirts whispering, leaving Amber with the creak of the staircase and her own heartbeat for company.
Amber climbed alone, dragging her trunk, her parents' carriage wheels already fading into the rain outside. She did not know what waited in these halls, nor why the old woman's eyes still burned in her mind.
But somewhere deep inside, Amber felt it—the beginning of something that would not let her remain silent for long.