The car rumbled to stop right before the towering gate of Gravenmoor Art Academy. Sunlight spilled across the gravel drive, sharp and golden, yet it seemed swallowed by the dark spires of the school rising in this distance.
The air smelled faintly of dew and lilacs from the gardens outside the walls. I stepped out of the car, squinting beneath the sudden glare. My aunt, Harvey, brown chestnut hair, 5 '2 feet tall, green eyes and putting on medicated glasses. She was a librarian, she owned a bookstore in Gravenmoor. I've been with her since I was born, my parents were dead. We only have one thing in common—literature.
Harvey came down from the driver's seat, then moved to the boot, opened in and brought out my luggage. She closed it and rolled the bag to my side.
"Here's your luggage, Lex,'' she said.
"Is this… the school?"
She followed my gaze on the high school appearing like an ancient cathedral: soaring spires, pointed arches, and stone walls weathered with age. Ivy holding on to the facades crawling up like veins. It was nothing like Brimstone high school.
She sighed and held my both hands to face her. She tilted her head, "Of course, Lex. Are you nervous?" she asked.
I forced a smile on my face, shook my head multiple times, "No. I'm not… nervous. I'm just kinda uh…'' she interrupted, "Everything will be, Lex. Don't worry too much." I kept quiet, then turned my eyes back to the school.
"I need to get going now. See ya on visiting day." She kissed my forehead.
I placed a forced smile on my face, and watched her move to the front door.
She waved her hand one time before opening the door, and I waved back. I stood there till she drove out of the school.
I walked to the school entrance, I took a deep breath before the Oak doors groaned open as if they hadn't been touched in centuries. I didn't even touch it before it opened.
The sunlight from outside dimmed instantly, swallowed by the vast entrance hall. The inside view of this school got me overwhelmed. It was nothing like Brimstone High, my former school. Not that I'm a transfer student to this school, I had a scholarship in Literature competition. And this school, they say it's one of the prestigious top high schools in Gravemoor.
My footsteps echoed against the black and white marble floor, each sound bouncing up to the vaulted ceiling where carved gargoyle and faded banners loomed overhead. Dusty chandeliers hung low, dripping candle wax. Ahead, a long wooden desk sat beneath a portrait of a headmaster. It looks like it's from centuries past.
Behind the desk, a narrow hallway led deeper into the school. A woman in a uniform, her gray hair bound into a bun. She rose as I approached. She was the matron of admission, her voice as sharp as the scrape of chalk on a slate. "You must be the scholarship student," she said, sliding open a leather-bound ledger.
"Yes," I replied. "Your name?"
"Lexie Lambert."
She wrote my name in the flowing ink of an old-fashioned quill, then moved to the side of the office. When she returned, she held a thin folder bound with black ribbon. "Here is your dormitory brief," She said, pushing it across the desk.
The folder smelled faintly of ink.
I opened it and saw:
Assignment: Isolde Hall, Room 6B (Female Dormitory Wing) Key: Heavy brass, with the crest of the school engraved on its head. Rules: No wandering the grounds after midnight, no entering the west wing, and under no circumstances should students attempt to access the underground cemetery. Map: Hand-drawn, yellowed around the edges, marking the corridors in careful ink strokes. The matron's pale eyes flicked up once more, cold and assessing.
"You'll find Isolde Hall past the courtyard, through the south corridor. Just ask someone around, and they will show you the way."
"Thanks," I said, gathering my papers and key, the weight of them somehow heavier than expected, and turned toward the corridor. I clutched the leather-bound folder and the heavy brass key, the strap of my suitcase in my palm.
Students strolled in clusters, their shoes clicking confidently against the stone. Their uniforms shine brightly, slik ribbons, polished shoes, and coats that looked freshly tailored, but they whispered as I passed.
"I think she's new here," one voice whispered.
"Look at her luggage. I'm sure it's secondhand," another sneered.
But I kept going, my heads down and my steps steady, when suddenly—Crash.
My suitcase lurched against my knee, my papers slipped, and I collided with someone solid in the middle of the hallway. I stumbled backward, the folder snapping open as sheets fluttered across the floor like fallen feathers.
Laughter rippled around me. Standing over me was a tall girl with honey blonde hair and eyes that gleamed like sharpened glass. Her uniform was tailored perfectly to show off her wealthy background.
"What do we have here?" she drawled, nudging one of the fallen papers with the toe of her polished shoe. "If it isn't our charity case. Next time, watch where you're going or better yet, stay out of my way." She shoved the papers farther, scattering them down the hall. My heart hammered my ribs. I bent to reach for them, but my hand trembled too much to grasp them all. She leaned down, her face inches from mine, her perfume sharp and overwhelming.
"This is your only warning," she hissed. "Cross me again, and you'll regret it."
Then, with a sharp toss of her hair, she strode off, her two followers trailing behind, their laughter echoing through the vaulted corridor.
"Here, let me." A pair of gentle hands scooped up the scattered sheets. When I looked up, I saw a girl kneeling beside me, brown caramel hair and brown eyes with glasses slipping down her nose, calm and steady. Together we gathered the pages quickly, passing them back to me before the bully could kick her also.
"Are you okay?" she whispered firmly. I nodded.
"Yeah," I whispered back, barely audible.
"Melissa Halloway." She stretched out her hand for a handshake.
"Lexie Lambert." I took her hand.
"Are you new here?" she asked.
"Yeah, and I'm trying to locate my room. Isolde Hall—" She cut in quickly.
"That's where you are now! What's your room number?"
"Room 6B."
"6B?" She gasped. "That's my room! I finally have a roommate. Come with me, it's this way." She grabbed my arm and pulled me along to follow her.
Our room sat at the far end of a narrow corridor, the heavy oak door marked with a brass plate gone dull with age. Melissa twisted the iron key, and the door opened with a groan. Inside, the room was long and narrow, with a high, arched ceiling.
The stone walls were softened by faded wallpaper patterned with roses long since dulled to gray. A pair of tall, pointed windows faced the courtyard, their panes divided by thin lead lines. Two beds stood opposite each other, framed in dark wood, the carved posts topped with curling designs like vines.
One bed was neatly made, Melissa's side, pillow fluffed, blanket folded with precision, and a small stack of leather-bound books on the nightstand. The other bed, clearly waiting for its new occupant, was bare except for a folded set of sheets at the foot. A wardrobe leaned against the far wall, its mirrored door clouded with age, reflecting faint shapes as though it might hold more than clothing.
"Welcome to Room 6B…" Melissa said, as if she were introducing the audience to a carnival show. "Whoa, it's—"
"Lovely, isn't it?" She finished for me. "I was going to say… old." I laughed awkwardly.
"Yes, Gravenmoor Academy is old, the first high school ever built in the town of Gravenmoor. And it's one of the top schools. That makes it special." She rushed through her words, and I froze, staring at her, unsure if I'd caught everything she said. "You're going to love it here," she added. "Yeah." I nodded and dropped my folder on the other bed.
I pushed my suitcase toward the wardrobe, then moved back to sit and arrange my papers. Melissa crossed one leg over the other on her bed.
"So, tell me about—"
"Brimstone?" I guessed. "Yes, about Brimstone. What's it like?" I shrugged. "Nothing much… just a school for normal kids… like me."
"Oh, that—"A sharp bell rang out from the corridor, followed by the sound of running footsteps. "Is that a fire alarm?" I asked, my eyes wide as I stared at the door. Melissa quickly grabbed my arm. "No, it's the class bell. We have to move before we're late."
Melissa and I rushed through the dormitory, past the school hall, and into the East Wing. It was only the first day of school, and I was already late for class.
What kind of place is this?
When we entered the classroom, students were already settled, listening to the professor as he wrote on the board. He was tall, suited, with sharp glasses, middle aged. "Do I have some latecomers?" he asked without turning, his voice calm but commanding. When he did turn to us, the first face I saw was the bully I'd met earlier. She sat cross-legged at the front of the class, wearing a cruel smirk, clearly expecting the professor to punish Melissa and me.
"I'm sorry, Professor Ashcroft," Melissa said quickly, bowing her head. But my attention was elsewhere, drawn to a boy at the back of the classroom, sweat beading on his pale brow. His presence gripped me so tightly that I barely heard Melissa whisper, "Lexie… Lexie…" as she tugged at my skirt. "And you are?" Professor Ashcroft's voice cut like a blade.
I flinched. "Lexie Lambert. A new student," I answered, startled.
He sighed. "Take your seat. I'm not spending much time here." I slid into a seat beside a boy, not the one who had caught my attention. His skin was porcelain, his hair ebony black, and his eyes, piercing, unreadable. He looked as though the very act of existing weighed heavily on him.
"Miss. Lambert." I turned sharply, heart pounding.
"Yes, Professor Ashcroft?" All eyes turned toward me; heat rushed to my cheeks, and my breath faltered.
"How does Heathcliff's relationship with Catherine shape his actions throughout the novel, and what does it reveal about the destructive nature of love in Wuthering Heights?"
Wuthering Heights? Aunt Harvey owned that novel. She had forced me to read it, though I'd never taken it to heart.
"I… uh… I think Heathcliff is just cruel because Catherine didn't marry him. So it's more about revenge than love. But maybe… maybe he still loved her deep down. That's why he couldn't let go." My voice wavered. I knew I was only half-right.
"I won't take that." Professor Ashcroft's eyes sharpened. "Julian, would you mind showing our newcomer how a proper student of Gravenmoor Art Academy answers?"
The boy beside me rose smoothly to his feet. "Heathcliff's love for Catherine is obsessive rather than healthy. When she marries Edgar, he spends years plotting revenge, not only against Edgar, but against their children as well. It shows how his passion turns destructive, consuming him and everyone around him. The novel suggests that love without balance can be just as ruinous as hate."
"Brilliant. You may sit down, Julian." He sat, and I stared. "Seriously? That's not much different from what I said."
"That," Professor Ashcroft replied coolly, "is how we know the difference between a lame answer and a learned one."
Laughter rippled through the room, whispers buzzing like flies. "I will forever love this professor," a boy behind me murmured, his voice lilting, almost mocking. He sounded like a girl; probably gay. I didn't bother to look at him, I was too furious.
"Miss. Lambert," Professor Ashcroft's voice cracked through the class like a whip, silencing the murmurs. "Since you've found today's lesson so… distracting, you may present your apologies in ink." My stomach tightened. "Sir?"
"You will report to the library this evening. There, you will copy, by hand, a passage from The Meditations of the Damned, beginning with Chapter One. Word for word. No errors, no omissions. I expect your script to be neat." The class tittered again. Heat crawled up my neck. "Yes, Professor," I whispered.