The morning bells tolled with a metallic sharpness, echoing across the damp courtyards of Grimrose Academy. Amber Ashford stirred from the narrow bed in her dormitory, the gray dawn spilling weakly through the high window. Rain still streaked the panes, but now it came soft and steady, a persistent whisper against stone.
She dressed carefully, fingers stiff against the buttons of the uniform laid out upon the chair. The wool blazer, dark as ravens' wings, carried the academy's crest embroidered in gold thread: a single rose caught in a lattice of thorns. The blouse beneath was starched stiff, the skirt falling just below her knees, stockings pale against the black polish of her shoes. She smoothed her hair, tied back in a simple ribbon. Nothing extravagant, nothing to draw notice.
The corridors smelled faintly of wax and damp. Girls streamed from their rooms, the shuffle of shoes against wood and stone mingling with quickened chatter. Amber followed silently in their wake, her satchel clutched against her side, until the hallway opened into the dining hall.
The dining hall stretched cavernous and long, lit by rows of hanging chandeliers that swayed gently in the draft. Portraits of long-dead headmistresses and patrons frowned from the walls, their eyes sharp as the silver cutlery gleaming on the tables.
Amber slipped into a seat at the end of one bench. Bowls of porridge steamed upon the table, alongside baskets of bread and small dishes of stewed apples. The smell was plain but comforting, though the room buzzed with voices too quick and bright for her to join.
A girl with a crown of dark braids leaned toward her friends, whispering something that made them all laugh behind raised hands. Amber kept her eyes on the porridge, spoon steady, pretending she hadn't noticed.
At the head table, instructors sat in sober rows. Latin masters in dark robes, the mathematics tutor with wire spectacles glinting, the history mistress in severe black. Their presence loomed more than the food itself, their watchfulness pressing down like the carved ceiling beams above.
No one spoke to Amber. She didn't mind. Silence was familiar. Silence was safe.
_____
After the meal, the students filed into their classes. Amber's first lesson was Latin, the classroom smelling of chalk and damp parchment. She copied declensions onto her slate as the tutor recited in sonorous tones, the scrape of chalk and the shuffle of pages filling the air.
Mathematics followed — long rows of figures inked onto the board, cold logic threaded through the numbers. Then history, where maps of Europe unfurled across the walls, battle lines of wars traced with steady hands.
The subjects were familiar, yet Grimrose twisted them with its own severity. No leniency for errors, no room for hesitation. Questions were directed suddenly, and those who faltered met the sharp sting of correction. Amber kept her head bowed, grateful she was spared attention.
By the time the bell released them for the midday break, her fingers ached from writing, her throat dry from never using her voice.
Amber drifted with no clear destination, her satchel heavy at her side. She passed through the cloistered arches, their stone damp and cool, until she found herself at the heavy oak doors of the library.
She pushed them open, catching her breath.
The library was a cathedral of books. Tall shelves soared toward vaulted ceilings, ladders standing like sentinels at their sides. Dust motes floated in slanting beams of light, the air thick with the smell of paper, leather, and ink. It was quiet here, hushed, though the silence hummed with thought.
Amber moved between shelves, her fingers brushing the spines. Titles in Latin, histories bound in cracked leather, novels smuggled in among the academia. She let her hand rest on one volume, not pulling it free, simply feeling the weight of age against her palm.
Then — voices. Low, steady. She froze.
Through a gap between shelves, she glimpsed him: a boy seated at one of the long tables, pen moving across parchment with deliberate precision. His dark hair fell into his eyes, but his posture was taut, his focus sharp. Jonas Whitlock. She had heard the name in whispers since morning — a quiet boy, often alone, always writing.
He did not look up, but the sound of his pen filled the stillness, each stroke purposeful, as if every word carried weight. Amber lingered a moment, then pulled back before he might sense her watching.
Footsteps approached. Amber turned sharply, and two girls entered the aisle. They paused when they saw her, faces softening with polite curiosity.
The taller of the two, Beatrice Hale, carried herself with composure. Her auburn curls were pinned back neatly, though a few strands framed her oval face. Her blazer bore a small silver brooch in the shape of a lark.
"Miss Ashford, isn't it?" Beatrice's voice was warm but measured, the kind of tone used by someone accustomed to introductions.
Beside her, Lydia Rowe adjusted the round spectacles perched on her nose. Her pale hair was pinned simply at the nape of her neck, her blue eyes hesitant but kind. "You've only just arrived, haven't you?"
Amber opened her mouth. No sound came. She nodded instead, clutching the strap of her satchel tighter.
Beatrice offered a gentle smile. "We only meant to welcome you. It can be… daunting, your first days here. But the library is a good refuge."
"Yes," Lydia added softly. "It's quieter here. Easier to think."
Amber managed, after a pause, a small murmur. "Quiet… suits me."
Her voice was barely more than breath. She felt heat rise to her cheeks, the words too fragile in the air.
The two girls exchanged a quick glance — not unkind, but touched with uncertainty.
"Well," Beatrice said after a moment, smoothing her skirt, "we won't keep you. If you ever need guidance, Miss Ashford, you will find us about. Come, Lydia."
With polite nods, they turned and walked away, their footsteps soft against the polished floor. Amber watched them disappear among the shelves, a hollow ache pressing against her chest.
She had not done poorly. They had not mocked her. Yet still, the weight of unspoken words lingered heavy, as though silence had bound her tighter than any chain.
Amber sank onto one of the benches, her hands folded in her lap. The rain tapped faintly against the high windows, a steady rhythm. Somewhere deeper in the library, Jonas's pen scratched still, relentless.
For a moment, she let herself listen to it — steady, unyielding, a rhythm as sure as the rain. She wondered what truths he recorded, what thoughts filled the quiet boy's mind.
The library was vast, yet in that silence, Amber felt the first faint thread of connection — thin as spider's silk, fragile as a breath, but present nonetheless.