Isabelle opened the door to Allie’s room. ‘I thought you might feel better living closer to Rachel.’
The plainly furnished room smelled of the sticky-clean, chemical scent of fresh paint. Allie stood in the doorway as Isabelle fussed with the arched, shutter-style window, pushing it open to let the watery grey light flood in.
The tall bookcase was lined with the familiar spines of her small collection of books. The bed was covered in a fluffy white duvet, and a dark blue blanket was folded neatly over the footboard – just as it had been in her previous room. Everything was exactly the same.
Isabelle was already heading out of the door. ‘Your parents sent some of your things over; I’ve put them in the wardrobe. Once you’re all settled in, come and find me. Let’s have a chat.’
As the door closed Allie’s heart gave a happy flutter. She was back where she belonged.
This homecoming was so different from last term, when she first arrived at Cimmeria. Back then it had seemed intimidating and hateful. Most of the students had treated her like a gatecrasher at an exclusive party. Her parents had been so angry with her at the time – she’d just been arrested – they told her nothing about the school. They just drove her here and dropped her off. When Jules, the perfect, blonde prefect, showed her around on her first day she’d felt like an idiot. It was only then that she discovered its bizarre rules – all electronic devices were banned, and nobody could leave the school grounds – and the elite group known as Night School, which gathered secretly after curfew and took part in strange training rituals other students were forbidden even to watch.
But despite all of that weirdness, only two months later, this felt like her real home.
She opened the wardrobe and lugged out the small suitcase her parents had sent. She’d been quite specific about what they were to include. Several books, all her notebooks, a few changes of clothes and …
She smiled.
There they are. Right on top.
Her red, knee-high Doc Martins.
She caressed the scuffed, dark red leather with one hand; with the other she held the note her mother had put in the case.
‘Cimmeria provides your shoes, so I don’t know why you need these …’ it began.
‘I know you don’t, Mum,’ Allie muttered with mild irritation. She scanned the rest of the note – it said nothing about what had happened in London that night. Nothing about Isabelle or Nathaniel. Nothing that mattered.
So they were back to pretending again, then.
Sometimes Allie felt as if she’d been accidentally scooped up from her rubbish, ordinary world and dropped into the middle of somebody else’s life. A life in which everyone was at war. Now she was in the line of fire but had no idea who was doing the shooting. Although she was beginning to learn who to trust.
She hurried to empty the rest of the suitcase but it all seemed to take too long, and the case was still open on the floor when she ran out of the room. Rapping her knuckles with impatient force on Rachel’s door, she walked in without waiting for an answer to find Rachel sitting on the floor surrounded by stacks of books, with an open text in her lap.
During the few days Allie had spent with Rachel’s family, she’d felt as if she had the sister she’d always secretly wanted. As they’d splashed in the pool and wandered the family’s well-guarded horse pastures, they’d talked about everything: Carter, Nathaniel, Allie’s mother, Rachel’s father. Allie felt that she could tell Rachel everything and not be judged. And she could tell her anything and know that she could trust her.
‘Let’s unpack later.’ Allie hopped from one foot to another. ‘Don’t you want to see the library?’
‘You mean, don’t I want to go with you to find Carter?’ As she closed her book and climbed to her feet, Rachel’s smile was indulgent. ‘Of course I do.’
On the ground floor, things were bustling. A clatter of hammering emanated from the classroom wing, and through the open door they could see workers tearing out damaged plaster. Blackened panelling leaned against a wall awaiting removal; a scorched desk was discarded nearby. Workers hustled in and out in a busy stream. Scaffolding scaled the walls in silvery mesh.
Elsewhere, though, things looked better. The dining room was undamaged, and the common room looked just as it had before the fire.
Stepping into the great hall, they saw that it was in good shape but so filled with furniture they could only just squeeze inside. Clearly furniture was being stored here from rooms being repaired.
Rachel made her way gingerly past the legs of a chair which rested on its side under a desk. ‘I wonder where …’
At that moment, the door flew open and Sylvain rushed in carrying an Oriental rug rolled into a long, heavy tube. He was so focused on getting his awkwardly shaped cargo through the doorway that for a second he didn’t see them. Then he glanced up and his vivid blue eyes met Allie’s. Startled, he lost his footing and the rug swung wildly. Allie and Rachel ducked out of the way as he struggled to regain control, finally dropping the rug on to the floor with a dusty thud.
In the silence that followed, Allie noticed how his dark wavy hair had tumbled over his forehead. His tawny skin glistened from exertion. Then she wondered why she’d noticed that.
She nearly jumped when Rachel spoke. ‘Hi, Sylvain. We didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Hello, Rachel. Welcome back.’
Hearing his familiar voice with its elegant French accent, Allie felt an indefinable surge of emotion. As if she’d moved, he turned back to her.