She laughed quietly, already knowing I was lying but loving me enough not to make me say it better. “No, you won’t.”
“I’ll call most days.”
“That sounds more like you.”
Katherine arrived ten minutes later with Mr. Montgomery’s driver and more of my luggage. I looked like I was someone moving into a palace rather than a first-year dorm. She wore sunglasses even though the sky was overcast, and she carried Miss Astoria in her pink carrier because apparently the cat needed to “emotionally supervise” the move.
“She cannot come to the dorm,” I told her.
Katherine looked offended. “I know that.”
Miss Astoria screamed from inside the carrier.
“She doesn’t.”
“She’s expressing an opinion.”
“She sounds like she’s being murdered.”
“She hates transitions.”
“So do you.”
Katherine lowered her sunglasses and glared at me over the frame. “I adapt.”
“You once cried because the dining room chairs were rearranged for a fundraiser.”
“I was eleven.”
“You were sixteen.” I retort.
My mother laughed from the doorway, and for a moment, everything felt almost normal. Katherine rolled her eyes, Miss Astoria screamed again, and my mother zipped the suitcase closed with the careful finality of someone releasing something she could not afford to hold too tightly.
* * *
Bellamont University’s first-year residence hall sat on the west side of campus, closer to the cliffs than the Academy buildings and far enough from the science wing that walking to morning lectures would become a daily punishment. The building was old stone on the outside and renovated luxury on the inside. My suite had three bedrooms, a small living room, a kitchen, and windows facing the grey line of the ocean.
Katherine walked in first and frowned. “It’s smaller than I expected.”
“This is bigger than the cottage.” I stared at her.
She glanced around, then had the grace to look embarrassed.
“Right.”
I pretended not to notice.
A girl stood near one of the bedroom doors, unpacking books from a leather trunk. She had long black hair clipped neatly back from her face, clear skin, and the quiet posture of someone raised in rooms where servants opened doors before she reached them. When she turned, her expression was polite but not warm.
“You must be Céline,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Sophia Kwon.”
Her voice was soft, controlled, and faintly amused, as if she had already decided most of Bellamont would disappoint her but was willing to be entertained.
Before I could answer, another girl appeared from the hallway carrying a box labelled shoes. Except a laptop charger, three novels, and a packet of instant ramen sat on top.
