The dining hall of Grimrose Academy was never silent, but to Amber it often felt hollow. The scrape of knives against tin plates, the low hum of conversation, the shuffle of boots against stone—all of it folded into a dull ache that pressed against her thoughts. She clutched her tray carefully, scanning the long rows of tables where students clustered in pairs and groups. Each cluster felt like a wall she dared not breach.
Just as she was preparing to drift toward a quiet corner, a voice cut through the din.
"Amber!"
Her head lifted. Dhani was waving from halfway down the table, her dark braid swinging as she leaned forward. Her smile shone with warmth, as though the morning had been waiting only for this moment. She tapped the space beside her, beckoning.
Amber froze, as she always did when noticed. But Dhani's eyes held no judgment—only invitation. Drawing a steadying breath, she crossed the hall and slipped into the seat.
"You looked as though you'd rather vanish into the floorboards," Dhani teased, her voice carrying that gentle Indian lilt.
Amber's lips tugged into the faintest smile. "Perhaps I would, if the boards were kind enough to swallow me."
Dhani laughed, a light sound that seemed to brighten even the gray-streaked rafters overhead. "Well, they shan't. So you'll have to endure my company instead."
"I suppose I shall," Amber murmured, her voice quiet but tinged with warmth.
They began to eat, their movements measured amid the surrounding chatter. Amber braced herself for silence, but Dhani filled it with ease.
"When I was a child," Dhani began, stirring her porridge absentmindedly, "I climbed the neem trees outside my grandmother's house in Calcutta. Always faster than my cousins."
Amber's gaze lifted, intrigued despite herself. "And never fell?"
"Twice." Dhani's grin widened. "Once into a chicken coop. The poor creatures nearly fainted. My grandmother swore they laid double the eggs afterward."
Amber's laughter slipped free before she could hold it back. "I'd pay to see that."
"And you?" Dhani asked, eyes sharp with curiosity. "What mischief did you manage in England?"
Amber hesitated. Her spoon paused halfway. "Mischief is too strong a word. I… read, mostly. Walked the grounds. Sometimes I would sketch in books when no one was watching. Only little things—a bird, a leaf in the corner."
"Owh! So a secret artist." Dhani leaned closer, her expression delighted. "You must show me some skill of urs."
"They were nothing, just some random things."
"Still fascinating," Dhani replied. "And secrets are lighter when shared with friends."
The word friends lingered between them. For once, Amber didn't shy away from it.
---
The bell rang sharply, scattering students like startled birds. Amber and Dhani joined the current of bodies flowing toward the classrooms.
Etiquette came first. Miss Rosary stood as straight as the candlesticks she lectured beside, her gloved hands never straying from precise gestures. She instructed them on how to lift a cup without disturbing its saucer, how to fold a napkin as though it were a sacred ritual.
Amber obeyed, but her eyes drifted to Dhani, who exaggerated her movements when the teacher's back was turned, making Amber nearly laugh into her hand.
After etiquette came Latin with Mr. Graham. The chalk dust clung to his coat like a second skin, his voice deep and gravelly as he commanded them to repeat amo, amas, amat. Amber dutifully copied, but her attention wavered when she noticed how Mr. Graham leaned toward Miss Rosary during the lesson change. Their words dropped low, not for young ears.
"…not yet…"
"…the rules must be held…"
Amber's quill stilled. Her breath caught. But when their eyes shifted in her direction, she bent quickly to her work, heat rising in her cheeks. Amber's pulse did not slow until the lesson ended.
---
By midday, the academy's air felt heavy. Amber longed for release, for something that wasn't stone and silence. The garden drew her like a breath of relief.
Mist curled around the hedges, softening their edges. Statues of scholars loomed through the haze, their marble faces streaked with age. Ravens perched on the bare branches of an elm, their black forms cutting against the gray sky.
Amber walked slowly along the stone path, fingers brushing against the damp leaves. For once, she let herself imagine she was alone.
"Amber!"
She turned, startled, to see Dhani hurrying toward her, the ends of her braid swinging.
"You did not think I'd let you vanish into the fog, did you?" Dhani asked, falling in step beside her.
"I thought you might prefer… brighter company," Amber said softly.
"Brighter company is overrated." Dhani plucked a damp rosebud from a bush and tucked it behind her ear. "Besides, you are easier to be with than half the girls here. Lara Winslow speaks as though her tongue is woven from gold threads. Tiresome."
Amber chuckled, surprised by her own ease. "And Marianne?"
"Talks too much of horses. I would rather hear of ink and shadows." Dhani gave her a mischievous grin. "So tell me, artist of margins—what else fills Amber Ashford's days?"
Amber looked away, embarrassed yet oddly unburdened. "Not much worth noting. I… never had many to tell things to."
"Then tell them to me." Dhani's voice softened. "That is what friends are for."
Amber's chest tightened with something unfamiliar—gratitude, perhaps. She gave a small nod.
They strolled on, the mist curling around their steps. For a long while, the silence was not sharp but gentle, threaded with comfort.
At last Amber spoke, her voice barely above the rustle of leaves. "Dhani… do you ever find this place strange? Grimrose. The halls, the people, the way it all… watches?"
Dhani's smile faded. She glanced toward the looming towers. "Of course. But it is not wise to question too much. Grimrose is old—older than any of us. Those who keep it see more than they should."
Amber's pulse quickened. She remembered Mrs. Whitmore's piercing eyes, the murmured words between teachers, the unshakable weight of silence. "So I'm not imagining it."
"No," Dhani whispered, her gaze flicking over the garden walls. "You're not."
A raven cawed, sharp and echoing, as though in answer. Amber shivered.
For a time they stood in silence, but it was not the silence Amber had known all her life. This silence felt different—softened, as though the mist itself shielded them. She looked at Dhani, at the rose in her hair, and felt the fragile beginnings of belonging.
Yet as they turned back toward the academy, Amber's eyes caught a flicker of movement near the garden archway. A figure stood half-shadowed, still as stone. The gleam of spectacles
caught the fading light before the figure turned away.
Jonas Whitlock.
He had been watching.