I follow her through to the small foyer where my suitcase waits by the door. She presses a small tin into my hand. Dull metal, edges softened with age.
"For the first night," she says. "Grounding blend. Nothing fancy."
I open the lid carefully. The scent rises immediately—juniper leaf, citrus peel, a whisper of chamomile beneath. Simple. Effective. The kind of blend that settles without sedating.
"Juniper for clarity," I sound like grandma now repeating what she taught me. "Citrus to lift. Chamomile to ground."
Her mouth curves faintly. “Elderwood is lucky to have you.”
The car ride is quiet, the kind that doesn't need filling. The academy rises ahead of us as the gravel drive curves through trees, honey-colored stone softened by ivy, tall windows catching the afternoon light. It was once a mansion owned by the Elderwood family, old money, distant relations to the royal family. I picture horse-drawn carriages rolling up outside the entrance, the butler waiting to greet guests with a formal bow, visitors in big puffy dresses carrying a parasol to shield their pale skin from the sunlight. The building doesn't loom, that would be far too vulgar.
It waits.
Mira parks, lifts my suitcase from the trunk, and walks me to the front steps. No lists. No reminders. She smooths an imaginary crease from my sleeve and steps back.
"You don't have to be the same everywhere," she says quietly. "Just be honest where you are."
"I will." Tears sting my eyes, but I won’t let her see me cry. It would be too easy to climb back into the passenger seat, go back to the cottage and immerse myself in the comfort of the warm potting room. “I learned from the best.”
She hugs me, brief and sure. “Remember, you always have a home to come back to.” Then she gets back in the car and drives away, the sound of tires on gravel fading into the trees.
I stand there with the gold-toned bag warm against my side and something steady in my chest.
Then I turn and walk inside.
The front doors open without ceremony. Warm air greets me, scented faintly with old paper and citrus. A sign on the wall readsNEW ARRIVALS →.
I follow it.
"Welcome to Elderwood Academy." The woman behind the desk smiles with deep dimples. "You must be Elowen Rowan. I’m Ms. Hartley."
She slides a folder toward me, and a brass key on a wooden tag carved with a leaf. "You’re in Hawthorn Hall. Second floor. West-facing. The quiet side. My favorite, but don’t tell the other students."
I don’t know what I expected, but it isn’t this casual greeting as if Elderwood Academy and I are old acquaintances.
Ms. Hartley spreads an A4 sized map on her desk and marks Hawthorn Hall with a cross. “You can go through the building, but it’s a maze. Trust me, it’s easier to go out the front door, turn right, and enter through what used to be the servants’ entrance. It’ll give you a chance to view the grounds.You’ll spot the greenhouse on the edge of campus behind the walled garden.” She pauses. “Too much information, sorry. You’ll find your way around in no time.”
“Thank you.” I take the map, my eyes immediately searching for, and locating, the greenhouse. Five minutes, and I’ve already ditched the small kernel of anxiety that accompanied me here in the car. “Can students access the greenhouse?”
Her smile is warm. “Be our guest, although it might not be quite what you expect.”
I go to walk away, and Ms. Hartley stops me.
“Sorry, one last thing, Elowen. We’ve introduced regular health checks for omegas this year.” The smile is tight now, trying not to undermine the serious announcement. “Nothing invasive, and of course, you can opt out if you wish. But I’m sure you’ll understand the reason behind the decision.”
“I understand.” Three omega deaths in one school year. Three lives lost prematurely. Three red crosses on Elderwood’s report.
It casts a grim shadow over my first impressions of the school as I follow her directions.
My room is small, the window facing trees. I dump my suitcase and bag on the single bed and scan the grounds for a glimpse of the greenhouse in the distance. Excitement ignites like a tiny flame somewhere deep inside despite the solemnity of Ms. Hartley’s introduction.
I'm unpacking my suitcase, hanging sweaters and skirts in the narrow closet when a knock sounds at the door.
I cross the room and open it to find an omega, petite, with warm brown skin and black hair piled in a messy bun that's already escaping. She's wearing an oversized forest green sweater that falls past her hands and leggings, and fuzzy socks with tiny foxes on them.
Her smile is immediate and unguarded.
"Hi! I'm Lila. Lila Chen. Room 212, right next door." She gestures vaguely to her left. “I arrived yesterday. Long story involving cancelled trains and very important business meetings that simply couldn’t be rescheduled.” She rolls her eyes, and I find myself smiling.
