6

Dominique beams at you, and Beaumont snorts. "You'll change your mind when you see how often Dominique loses his things," he warns. "Anyway, come along."

Next

The interior of Vercher House is forbidding, all somber-colored wallpaper and dark, expensive paneling. A series of portraits of Archambault luminaries lines the staircase.

"Goodnight!" Dominique chirps before disappearing down the landing to the left-hand suite; Beaumont glances after him darkly.

"We're sharing this year," he says. "I don't know how I'll cope. Here's your suite."

He turns on his heel without another word, leaving you and Asher to your own devices. Asher's shoulders relax, but they eye the door with faint suspicion.

"I'll check it over before you go in," they say.

Asher puts an ear to the door, then nudges it open with their shoulder. They briskly check through the rooms before calling, "All clear."

What exactly they think will be of risk to you in a place like this, you have little idea. Perhaps concern over the events at the other school. No doubt your mother had some choice words warning Asher what would happen if anything were to happen to you.

Heading into the suite, you take in your surroundings.

You have five rooms at your disposal: one bedroom for you, a smaller one for Asher, a bathroom, a sitting room with a circle of plush couches and armchairs surrounding an ornate, green-tiled fireplace, and a study with a desk and deep ceiling-to-floor bookshelves. In accordance with your request when applying to the Academy, the rooms include:

Inside the mosaic-tiled bathroom is a vast claw-foot bathtub, deep enough to sit in comfortably; deep enough to lie and float. The whole bathroom smells of sweet, heavy lotions and oils; you can picture spending long hours soaking in here.

Emerging into the study, you find Asher unpacking your trunks, placing books carefully upon the shelves. They look up and smile.

"I hope Lord Beaumont and the Honorable Dominique have as much space as this," they say. "Or they might fight like cats."

Asher pauses, their stack of books in their hands, with a considering expression. "I hope so," they say. "When Oliver and Josiane were fighting, they did sort it out in the end. Didn't they?"

Mostly, you suspect, from your intervention.

Oliver is your younger brother, now twelve. He was a baby when your father Georges, a blurry figure you hardly remember, passed away. Oliver and your older sister Josiane were less than cordial for a long time, though they have settled down in recent years. She called him a brat and a hanger-on, while he called her a bully. Both were in the right. Or the wrong.

You'll never forget the looks on their faces. It was as though they were both small children, and you were a severe schoolteacher. Even Josiane, five years your elder, looked like she might cry.

"I have my ways," you say.

With Asher's assistance, you unpack your trunk. Your clothes and belongings look small in these surroundings, and you're accustomed to having more around you. Still, the rooms are beautiful, and you have plenty of space to place something personal.

You rummage through your trunk, alighting upon…

The candles were a gift from Fabien, your mother's old friend from university and the Westerlind Seneschal, when he returned from a diplomatic trip to Zaledo. They're three cylinders a foot high each, in ornate glass candlesticks. They've never been lit, but even the wax smells gorgeous, putting you in mind of drifting honeysuckle on a warm evening.

You place them on your windowsill. A piece of home.

Asher smiles in their direction and shucks off their jacket, smoothing its sleeves absently. "Do you want to talk before you sleep?" they say.

Your bedroom sports a wonderfully large bed, with four posters and an intricately embroidered canopy. You get changed for bed, pull the covers over you, and wait for Asher to come in. They knock, of course, and venture in, still wearing their pants and shirt, but with a thin, dark pullover on top.

They hesitate a second before sitting cross-legged on the parquet floor.

It's absolutely fine," Asher says, leaning their head comfortably against the bed. You can see the top of their head, and their pale hair, from your angle.

They run a hand over the thick embroidery on the coverlet.

"I'm looking forward to being here," they say. "It feels like a nice place. And it'll be good being with you."

They're quiet for a few moments.

"How do you feel about getting engaged while you're here?" they ask, all of a sudden. "Sorry. That came out wrong. I meant to say it more delicately. But I was curious."

You're certain that no one would pressure you into a physical relationship if you didn't want one.

"I'll figure it out," you say.

Asher nods, their expression resolute. "I understand," they say, "and no matter what, you'll have me around."

Your eyes are beginning to drag closed; the flight and all the space and people has caught up with you. Asher stands, and pats your coverlet.

"You should rest," they say. "I'll check over the building, and then turn in."

The door closes, leaving you alone. You're between one thought and the next when sleep takes over.

Next

You wake uncertain of where you are for a moment, then the memories of yesterday surface. Your blankets are warm, soft, and cozy, and the bed is a most comfortable size—though not quite as large as the one in your palace bedroom.

Birds are singing outside the window, and the fall sunlight is golden and gentle. Someone's moving around in the next room; Asher, most likely.

You bounce out of bed, shaking residual sleepiness from your mind, and turn your attention to your wardrobe.

The Archambault winter uniform is made of luxurious dove-gray wool, and includes a satin tie striped with delicate sky-blue. Before arriving, you ordered a set of uniforms handmade to fit your measurements and your style preference. The fine ivory-colored shirt and tie are mandatory, but there are other areas of choice. You chose:

The gray pants skim close to your skin, grazing your ankles. Once your shirt and tie are fixed, you pull your gray jacket over the ensemble. The picture of an Archambault Academy student: you could have stepped straight out of the prospectus.

When you emerge, Asher is, of course, up and about. Since they're not a real student here, they are wearing their usual nondescript gear of a well-tailored black suit; they greet you cheerfully.

"I need to be off early," they say. "I'm to have a tour of the estate with Emile, the groundskeeper."

Asher ducks their head with a bashful smile. "You'll have the Honorable Dominique around, and you know him," they say. "And the teachers will be there to keep you safe."

From somewhere downstairs, a gong rings, and then again. It's breakfast time. You head down, and bump into Beaumont and Dominique leaving the building. In daylight, Beaumont's eyes are shadowed with tiredness, but he moves quickly. He nods to you briskly, then leads you outside.

Dominique trails behind him, yawning. Unlike Beaumont, who looks the picture of neatness in his carefully put-together shirt and pants, Dominique's shirt is only partially tucked into his gray culottes.

You step into the cool open air and follow the chattering crowd of students to a vast hall. Some students are as young as your brother Oliver; they're uncertain and wide-eyed, looking like they wouldn't say boo to a goose. The eighteen-year-old final-years like you stride around with an air of familiar certainty. While Beaumont and Dominique argue over who woke up whom in the morning, you file in.

Next