Nightshade (Sorrowsong University #1)

2. Ophelia

2

OPHELIA

T he planks of the drawbridge sound unnervingly hollow as I hurry across them, like something is rotting beneath their smooth facade, eager to drag me under. No time to dwell; I haul my aching limbs and over-filled bag into the impressive Grand Hall.

It’s odd to think I’ve never set foot inside, given I lived nearby for most of my childhood. My parents never crawled their way out of our council estate, but despite a decade of working here and an offer of a staff cottage on the grounds, they never took me here. My father went to great lengths to make sure that not one single day of my childhood was spent between these walls, even if it meant nights apart and long commutes.

I never understood why. There’s drama here, but mostly between the children of rival families. They’d leave an outsider alone. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.

The hall is empty, but there’s a diminishing buzz in the air like it was full of life just moments before. Overhead, a chandelier sways slightly, the polished crystals tinkling quietly as the wind slips through gaps between roof tiles. The mosaic under my feet depicts the school’s crest in subdued shades of white and brown, but my focus is snatched by the centerpiece of the room.

The painting opposite me must be fifteen feet tall, occupying a vast panel of wall between two spiral staircases. The woman in the artwork is dirty and dusty, slumped over on a rock in a desolate landscape. Tears and fresh blood glisten on her hollow cheeks, yet beneath greasy strands of blonde hair, her lips form a manic smile. The colors are dull, as if the painting itself is suffering under years of neglect, but the four objects in her hand are as vibrant as if they were painted this morning. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what they are; they’re plastered on all the banners hanging from the turrets.

Hemlock, Nightshade, Cortinar, and Snakeroot. Four deadly plants. The four houses of Sorrowsong University. What university has houses? It’s straight out of a creepy fantasy book.

My eyes flick back up to the chilling smile on her face as I become aware of another presence beside me.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The older gentleman who appears to my left exudes a classic sort of handsomeness that defies his years. Dressed immaculately in a tailcoat, the shade of red so dark that it sucks the glow from the rest of his graying skin, he seems like a memory from a past era; a ghost trapped in the castle that might’ve accidentally stumbled upon the wrong century. The handlebar mustache on his top lip should look ridiculous, but it only adds to the whole Victorian undertaker look he has going on.

The vast expanse of the Grand Hall doesn’t seem so spacious now, his presence so large that I half wonder if there will be enough air for both of us to keep breathing.

Unsettled, I cast my eyes back to the painting. Truthfully, I’m not sure that it is beautiful. I can’t fathom why one would hang such a haunting painting over a room where people are supposed to dance, eat, study, and socialize.

“I suppose, if you like that sort of thing,” I murmur, worried for some reason that the woman in the painting will hear me.

He sharpens his mustache between his middle finger and thumb, lost in his own reverie. “It’s Achlys.”

I meet his strangely dark eyes and shrug. “I’ve not heard of her.”

“She’s thought to be the personification of sorrow. When Lord MacArtain built this castle, his wife fell terribly ill before it was completed. Day by day, he watched the pink flush of life drain out of her until she was muted in shades of green and gray. Driven mad by his anticipatory grief, he claimed his wife was Achlys reborn.” He lets out a weary sigh. “Such a sad soul she had, even in life. He swore he could hear her mournful wails tangled up in the wind, sweeping through the valleys when he could not sleep at night. He even said he could hear her quiet sobs underwater in the tarn. It’s said she haunts the castle even today.”

“Oh, excellent.” I’ve probably already pissed off a ghost.

Sorrowsong . I suppose that name makes sense now. The story sends a chill into my bones that settles down and makes itself comfortable like it’s here to stay a while. Love makes a fool of us all in the end. I’ve accepted a life alone. I want a life alone. If I’d hated my parents rather than loved them so fiercely that it burnt, my life would be a lot easier now.

I feel Achlys’s stare on my cheek and turn to face her once more. She doesn’t look sorrowful—perhaps in body, but not in spirit. She looks evil . “If she is supposed to represent sadness, why is she smiling?”

The man chuckles as if I made a joke, the gold chain of his pocket watch slithering through his pale fingers. “Why indeed. And why did she provide Hera with poisonous flowers? Sad people are not always as deserving of our pity as they seem. Everyone has a limit at which they abandon their own morality, Ophelia Winters, even you.”

My mind reels, scrambling to remember if I ever told this man my name. I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t. His eerie words linger in the stale air between us, sinking into the back of my mind unbidden and unwelcome.

He claps his hands together abruptly and steps in front of me, watching me intently for a few seconds like he’s reading a journal of my darkest thoughts and deepest desires. Does he see my rotting heart? Does he see the unfathomable rage that keeps it beating? I wonder if he finds it interesting, or if mine pales in comparison to the other monsters here.

“Jolly good. I have other endeavors to attend to. I hope you understand how very unheard of it is for the university to allow someone in out of charity, Ms. Winters. Don’t fall behind the pack. It makes you easy prey.”

“You’d expel me?” I choose to believe that’s what he meant, rather than something more sinister. That’s not an option. Not if I want to escape the eternal cycle of hopelessness I’ve been stuck in since I was seventeen.

A disconcerting smile wrinkles the translucent skin around his eyes as he backs away from me a few steps and tips his flat cap in my direction. He spins on the heel of his burgundy loafers and opens a door embedded in the painting that I would never have noticed before. “Worse things dwell in Sorrowsong than expulsion. Take the right staircase, second door on your left.”

And with that, he is gone, leaving me stranded in the suffocating gloom of the hall. The hammering of my heart pounds in my ears, muffling the sound of ravens fluttering high above me in the rafters. A crow’s cry echoes inside the gaping fireplace at the other end, spurring me faster toward the right set of stairs.

I don’t like this room. Something about it feels ominous, making me keen to spend as little time here as possible. This place, that man, the painting—they all give me the creeps.

The offer of a paid-for course at Sorrowsong seemed an impossible stroke of good fortune, much too generous to turn down. Yet, as I hurry into yet another cobweb-ridden, barely lit corridor, a shiver runs down my spine and I wonder if I will pay a price far greater than money for my time here. But I have no other option, this is my last chance at life, my final resort.

The man in Achlys’s Hall made one thing clear: one minor misstep and I’m done for.

If I’m to stay here, I need to excel.

The first door on the left is a huge double door, the gold sign illuminated by candlelight and the occasional flash of lighting as the storm rages on outside. The Cortinar Halls .

Between nervously staring out the window and daydreaming about any other life than my own, I did a little reading on the train. Your assignment to one of the houses, pointless as it may seem, hinges on the five-thousand-word essay you submit as part of your application. Cortinar House is renowned for its ruthless, logical approach to everything, molding clever creatives into society’s most cutthroat businessmen and women. Many of the law and economics students end up there.

Hemlock House is for the strong and driven, those built with endurance who excel at physical challenges and tests of their sanity. It comprises an even blend of courses, but most are on the sports teams.

Snakeroot House has spat out a long lineage of the world’s finest surgeons. Many medical students find themselves there. It’s just a shame most of them abandon patient care for a career exploiting the high demand for medicine by the time they turn thirty.

And then there’s Nightshade. It boasts an endless list of famous alumni: CEOs, property tycoons, and investment bankers, alongside notorious serial killers, Mafia heirs, and famous hitmen. There is a reason the Nightshade Halls are the only dormitories excluded from the castle’s central court of buildings. If the university’s seventy-thousand-pound-per-year fee doesn’t scare you off, its twisted reputation might. It seems students go missing or end up dead every year, and it’s usually Nightshade to blame. If a degree from Sorrowsong wasn’t like a golden ticket to Wall Street, I doubt anyone would dare set foot beyond the drawbridge.

I’m glad you’ll never go to Sorrowsong, O. They live life by another rule book entirely.

My father’s words linger in the shadows of my mind, where the memories of him and my mother lie. He’d often return from work weary, tired, and laden with stories of whatever heinous sins some of the students had committed that day: cars exploding at night, students left tied up in the woods, poisonous snakes in pillowcases. I’ve never been sure how much was true and how much was his overactive imagination.

Thankfully, I’ll be in Hemlock. I think the only reason the chancellor let me in was my national ranking in swimming. My all-but-guaranteed place in Hemlock is the only reason I’m here.

“Oh good, you’re late too. Is the welcoming talk this way?” A feminine voice, thickly accented, pulls me from my thoughts. A tall, tanned, leggy blonde in an immaculate white shift dress pulls me into a warm hug like we’ve known each other for years. She smells like flowers and banknotes, like she knows what all the different-sized knives and forks are for. “Colette DuPont. So nice to meet you, and so nice to be here!”

“Uhh…” I adjust my bag on my shoulder and awkwardly shake her proffered hand. “Ophelia Winters, and I’m not sure. I’m as lost as you are.”

She air-kisses my cheeks and squeals with delight like I’ve just said something incredible. Terrifying. “Such a beautiful name. What are you studying?”

“Psychology.” Of the meager list of eight available courses at Sorrowsong, it was the only one I could stomach. “You?”

“Fine arts. My stepfather said he’ll help me set up my own gallery once I graduate. He’d be so disappointed if he knew I was late on the first day. My driver was overly cautious on the roads.” She picks up her Hermès bag, chatting away at me in an animated blend of English and French as we approach the second door on the left.

“Was it you I saw in the Rolls-Royce with Alex Corbeau-Green earlier? Would you introduce me?”

My feet skid to a halt outside the door. Colette’s cheery anecdote about how Alex has a quarter of a million more Instagram followers than her is drowned out by a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

The world around me crumbles until I’m no longer standing in the corridor. I’m on my knees in front of the television in my parents’ tiny kitchen, watching black smoke rise from damaged trees. I’m watching the hundredth call to my father go to voice mail and hitting the Call button all the same. I’m pulling the emergency cash from his safe and begging the taxi driver to drive faster.

And then I’m standing on the edge of it all, crawling under a yellow cordon and weaving through a sea of investigators, engineers, reporters, and firefighters. I’m staring at a sickening tangle of metal wrapped around a tree trunk, choking on black smoke, asking a god I never believed in why it was them and not me.

My memory of that day is messy, but one detail has been burned into the back of my retinas for four years. Amid the rubble, two words sat atop a charred splinter of metal buried in the earth: Green Aviation.

Perfectly manicured fingers click in front of my face. “Earth to Ophelia! I asked where your boots are from?”

I shake my head, casting the sound of my own screaming from my mind. Nausea churns my breakfast as I try to come to terms with the fact that one of them is here. Alex is the one person I never wanted to get friendly with, and I failed in the first hour. Never again. I let out a shaky exhale to quell the panic in my chest and pretend the world isn’t swimming around me. “Um…I don’t remember. Second hand, I think.”

Another giggle as we come to a halt in the hallway. “Cute and sustainable. I really need to do less shopping. This is the correct door, yes?”

I pause with bated breath, a mixture of nice, normal nerves and crippling existential dread washing over me. This is it. Run away or go inside. Be a regular person or be a Sorrowsong graduate. Play it safe, or…

Colette thrusts open the double doors and strides in with dazzling confidence and a titanium-white smile. The tap-tap of her heels echoes around the huge velvet banners hanging from the lofty ceiling. The room is almost as grand as Achlys’s Hall, with rows of benches on either side and a long aisle leading up to a podium at the end. The impressive architecture suggests it was built as a chapel, but somehow I doubt it gets much use as one now.

“Sorry we’re late!”

A hundred and fifty pairs of eyes land on us. Closest to me I recognize Mura Sayari, only because the nineteen-year-old supermodel and Japanese technology heiress is on the front cover of the fashion magazine in my bag. I only bought it because they’d run out of crossword books at the bus station. I’ve unlocked ten new insecurities since I got on the coach: What is a hip dip? Why am I worried that I have one? I spent half the journey trying to work out if I have doe eyes or vixen eyes.

Clearly, my four years of wallowing in bed have left me a bit behind on the world.

Colette’s glamorous entrance has well and truly shredded my plan for a subtle entrance. I cling to the hope that it can be recovered, but my legs refuse to move. I’m rooted in place by something—some one— casting a burning gaze that sears into my cheeks. My eyes are drawn upward by some irresistible force, and in the sea of faces, they land immediately on one. Time grinds to a stop, the ticking of the grandfather clock submerged in tar. I feel my face heat with an uncharacteristic rage.

So he’s a new student, too.

A wicked grin appears on the face of Alex Corbeau-Green as he taps his watch twice and shakes his head at me. So bad , he mouths, his lips caressing each syllable in a way far too suggestive for what was once a chapel.

It might’ve been charming half an hour ago, but now I know who he is, it’s sickening. He’s sitting with Nightshade. Of course he’s in Nightshade; he’ll fit right in. I shake my head, attempting to dispel the spell that seems to have woven its way through my brain. My teeth chatter as I drag my eyes away. I have definitely caught a cold.

The clearing of a throat reminds me once more that I am standing in the middle of the aisle, my clothes and bag creating a small puddle at my feet. The man I’d met in Achlys’s Hall taps the podium impatiently with a wrinkled finger, his disapproving glare fixed on the two of us. It’s nice not to be alone, at least. I think most of the male attention in the room is directed somewhere between the top of Colette’s knees and the hem of her minidress. Except Alex’s, but I ignore the way he stares at me.

“Colette DuPont. Your stepfather despises lateness. Take a seat with your classmates in Cortinar House.”

“I know, Chancellor Carmichael, I’m so very sorry,” she says, skipping off to slide onto a bench with a group of laughing girls it seems she already knows.

Did she just say Chancellor ? Did I insult his painting choices to his face? Can I start today again and have another attempt? Preferably one that doesn’t begin with me nearly getting run over by the spawn of Satan himself?

“And you, Ophelia. Go and join the rest of Nightshade.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and flop onto the creaky bench to my left, pulling out my damp notebook to write down any snippets of wisdom I can gather from the welcome talk. Maybe I can get this day back on track.

When I look up and push the copper strands of hair from my eyes, everyone is still staring at me. Alex hooks a muscular arm over the back of the bench, twisting his intimidating form to get a better look at me. Glinting in his eyes is that same unnamed look that I saw in the car. Something between hunger and frustration, I think. It makes my skin prickle.

I look down to confirm that, no, my khaki top is not see-through enough that they can see my nipples, and look back up at the chancellor for a clue.

“Nightshade, Ms. Winters. Not Hemlock.”

My ears ring. The thud of my heartbeat hits a little heavier in my throat. I glance at the sympathetic faces around me. They look…kind. Unassuming. Welcoming. This is where I belong. I’ve already made imaginary friendships with them. “There…there must’ve been a mistake.”

There are a few snickers around the room, punctuated by a sympathetic gasp from Colette. Alex doesn’t laugh, his gaze darkening on me as I sit like a lemon on the pew at the back of the room. The chancellor raps his knuckles on the podium twice. “Nightshade, Ophelia. Now .”

This cannot be happening. This is not happening. Maybe I did get run over by Alex, and this is some cruel punishment in the afterlife. Christ, all I did was steal a few things here and there. And maybe I slashed a tire or two. Or four. My point is, this punishment does not match the crime.

The girl beside me nudges me toward the edge of the bench and I walk to the other side of the hall under the weight of hundreds of eyes. I lower myself onto the farthest bench from Alex, waiting for the moment I wake up and discover this is a dream. A student in Snakeroot leans over and grins at me, popping his bubblegum in my face.

“They’re gonna eat you alive in there.”