Ophelia
My sister’s gaze moves over my face. For the briefest moment I see a flicker of surprise, but it disappears almost at once, replaced by concern. She says nothing at first. Only when her eyes fix on the blood at my forehead does she speak.
“You’re bleeding,” she remarks. Stepping inside as the door clicks shut behind her, one hand half raised as though to reach out.
I step back before she can touch me and shake my head. “It’s nothing. Only a small cut,” I dismiss her worry.
Her brows draw together. “That needs to be seen by the doctor. It’s worse than you realise.”
“That’s precisely where I was headed,” I reply.
I barely get the words out before she turns without comment and walks back toward the door. “Okay, let’s have you looked at first. Then we’ll talk.”
“No.” I stop her, my words sharper than I intend. “It’s fine. I’m fine. What I need is an explanation. Someone has to tell me what’s happening, because I’m beginning to think I’ve gone mad.”
She pauses, though she doesn’t turn to face me. There’s a stiffness to her stance I struggle to describe, as though she’s restraining herself. Even in this small exchange I sense her holding back, retreating, creating a distance between us. She seems… detached.
And that’s not us.
At least, it wasn’t. Not as I remember it.
Then again, I’m not certain of anything anymore. Even with the sudden glimpse I’ve recovered from last night, I still don’t have the answer to how I ended up hurt, or why I was covered in blood at all.
I turn away and head back toward the sitting room, forcing her to follow. I hear her footsteps behind me, and I can feel her eyes on me the whole way, watching, noting every shift in my posture.
When I falter, only slightly, because this damned headache refuses to ease and the dizziness will not let me go, she closes the space between us so quickly it takes me a moment to register. Suddenly she is there, guiding me down onto the sofa with a gentle touch.
She reaches for the glucose meter on the table and takes her place beside me, lifting my hand, just as she’s done countless times.
Her hands are cold as she pricks my fingertip and waits for the monitor to flicker to life. We both watch the screen.
Seconds later she’s already on her feet, moving towards the kitchen. She returns with a granola bar and presses it into my palm.
“You’re low,” she says, her tone edged with annoyance.
“Thank you,” I reply, unwrapping it slowly. I begin to eat, though the taste barely registers.
Her gaze shifts back to my forehead. “How did it happen?” she asks.
I blink at her. “I was hoping you’d be the one to tell me.”
Her brows draw together, and she parts her lips to speak, but the words slip from me first.
“What happened to your hair? I do love it, it suits you beautifully. But last night it was blonde. When did you even find the time to dye it?”
She blinks, visibly thrown, genuine confusion flickers in her eyes. “Last night?” she echoes, her voice tentative.
Then she shakes her head. “What are you talking about Ophelia? I dyed it years ago.”
I stare at her, unable to move, certain even my heart has stalled for a beat. I hear the words, I understand them, and yet I can’t seem to process them.
“Years ago?” My voice catches. “What… I—what?
It’s too much.
Too strange.
I had hoped, naively, that she might offer clarity. Even a single thread I could follow back to sense. Instead, from the very first sentence, I feel myself slipping further out of place. Further from anything familiar.
“Ophelia,” she says softly, that tone she reserves for me alone. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“The party,” I answer after a pause.
She inclines her head. “The one given by the Ferrum Syndicate. Yes.”
“Ferrum… what?”
“You know,” she replies evenly. “The faction that rules Velmark Academy.”
My brows crease. “Velmark Academy? Don’t be absurd. I’ve never set foot in that place.”
We attend St. Monarché Institute. The academy was built by the four founding families, and one of them is ours. Velmark may be the same, a creation of their own founding families, five instead of four, but they have always been our rivals.
At these two academies attend only heirs of powerful families. And by powerful, I mean mafia syndicates and elite businesses. You don’t simply stumble into a place like this. You must belong to the right bloodlines, entry is never granted to outsiders.
Those who stand with us, the four families, whether through business arrangements or marriage alliances, send their heirs to St. Monarché. Civil enough with one another, yes, though never truly friends, no one in this world is untouched by ambition.
Our rivals, our competitors, our sworn enemies, are sent to Velmark. That is how it has always been.
So there is no circumstance in which I would cross that boundary. To have gone there, to a party last night, doesn’t make sense.
Not only because stepping onto their grounds would mean death if we were caught, but because it is highly improbable. Saint Monarché stands on Elaris Isle, a private island in the North Sea, tucked between the coasts of Scotland and Norway.
To leave or arrive you need a helicopter or a ferry across waters so tightly controlled no one slips through unnoticed.
Velmark Academy, by contrast, lies on the mainland, within British territory.
So how could I have been there last night, when I woke here this morning?
And besides, this isn’t even what I remember. The glimpses I have from last night and what my sister is saying are entirely off from each other, completely opposed.
“Yes, you have. We were there last night,” she repeats, blind to the turmoil in my head.
“No,” I answer, shaking my head, repeating the word because once doesn’t feel enough to hold back the unease rising in me.
I still can’t make sense of it, so the denial comes more insistent.
“No. Last night we went into the village, here, on Elaris Isle. We slipped out together. We caught Professor Davis in that dreadful little bar, drunk and being pawed over by a lap dancer…”
Octavia breaks in, the colour draining from her face.
“Ophelia,” she says slowly, as though even her own voice might splinter. “That was about two years ago. Professor Davis hasn’t even taught here in over a year.”
Her words echo through me.
Two years?
What does she mean, two years?
That night was yesterday, was it not?
Two years.
Two years gone.
She is telling me I have lived them, yet I recall nothing. Not a single moment.
Pain tightens behind my eyes. I press a hand to my brow, and when I draw it back my palm is streaked with fresh blood.
I reach for the wipes on the table and dab at the cut automatically, my mind still reeling, unwilling to accept what I’ve just heard.
“Then what happened to me yesterday?” I ask at last, the question that has clawed at me since the moment I opened my eyes.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. But I can see it in her face, she knows more than she is willing to admit.
Not necessarily about me, but about something.
She must. Or it could just be my own desperation, grasping at answers where there are none.
Because no one loses two years of their life without reason.
Octavia rises from the sofa and studies me once more before her expression softens. She relents with a sigh. “I’ll tell you everything I know, I promise you, though it may not amount to much. But first, let’s have your forehead stitched. I can’t bear to look at it any longer, not like this.”
I nod, too numb to argue, and follow her out, pausing only to take my access card, it’s needed for nearly everything here, including my own room. Octavia closes the door behind us, and together we step into the corridor.
This building holds only five private suites, all of them on the upper floor—mine, my sister’s, and three more belonging to the girls I count as my closest friends. Each door bears a gold plated number, glinting softly under the sconces along the corridor.
We make our way to the lift, and Octavia presses the call button. A chime sounds before the doors slide open. We step inside, and she selects the ground floor.
The lift carries us down into a shared lounge, furnished with low cushions scattered across thick rugs, a flat screen mounted above the hearth, and a small bar stocked with drinks and neatly arranged snacks, discreetly set beside the sleek kitchenette.
The lounge feels spacious, even comfortable in its way, but it remains quiet most of the time. We rarely use it, preferring the privacy of our own rooms when we meet.
The glass doors part as we approach, and the cool air greets us the moment we step outside. The sky hangs low and grey, the kind of overcast that could only ever be England. Not raining yet, though it threatens.
We step onto the stone path, bordered by the familiar sweep of the woods. To the left, another residence mirrors ours in design.
Ours belongs to the five of us, daughters of the founding families. The other is reserved for those directly beneath us in the hierarchy.
That’s how it works here. This place runs on power, on bloodlines, on money, and they don’t pretend otherwise. They make the divisions plain, almost proud of it. I’d say take it or leave it, but there isn’t really a choice. You don’t escape what you are born into.
In a way, I don’t mind living here. The fact there are only two of these private residences, set apart from the rest, is almost a blessing.
It affords us privacy, and a welcome distance from the incessant curiosity of the other students, who will seize upon the smallest detail of our lives and twist it into scandal. They’d trade a rumour faster than they’d trade their own dignity.
And what I like best is that my friends are only ever a door away. There’s a certain comfort in being so close to one another, while still keeping a little space of our own.
The only way to our residence is a narrow private road, the one we follow now. Most students live in the larger dormitory beside the main building, but ours is set apart.
It’s a ten minute walk from here to the heart of the grounds where classes are held. Each of us has a vehicle assigned, with drivers on call should we wish it, but I rarely bother. I prefer the walk, especially in the rain. There’s a stillness in it, a kind of calm nothing else quite gives me.
As we continue walking, I catch sight of the academy’s towers through the trees. Had we turned left into the woods instead, following the path deeper, we would have reached the lake, a beautiful stretch of water hidden amongst the trees.
As we near the main building, more students come into view. Some wheel suitcases behind them, likely just arrived and still settling in. Others head for the gates or wander the paths in small groups.
On the surface, everyone looks absorbed in their own affairs, though it’s clear they’re not.
Conversations dip the moment we pass, voices lowered to a murmur.
Others drop their gaze the instant mine lifts, eyes darting aside as if even looking at me might cost them something.
The tension in the air is impossible to ignore.
My brows crease when I notice a cluster of girls watching. One points me out, another pulls a face I can’t read, and a third actually raises her phone to take a picture.
God. The cut on my forehead is still bleeding. That image will be circling social media before the hour’s out, perhaps even plastered across one of those scandal sites.
Father will be livid.
I force myself to let it go, there’s no sense dwelling. I’ve far too much else weighing on me to spend energy on them.
Octavia, however, doesn’t let it go. She veers without warning, plucks the phone straight from the girl’s hand, and hurls it down onto the stone path.
The shatter echoes against the courtyard walls, drawing a ripple of gasps from the onlookers. My sister steps in close, her lips curved into a sharp smile.
“Phones are replaceable. Fingers aren’t. Think carefully about what you want broken next.”
The girl pales, frozen. Octavia turns on her heel, brushing invisible dust from her hands as if the matter were settled, and slips back into step beside me.
I don’t comment. This is Octavia, unpredictable, feral in her protectiveness. And God help anyone who forgets it.
We reach the front of the academy, its scale pressing down on us the closer we stand. The towers cut into the grey sky, carved from dark stone that gleams faintly in the damp light.
Rain beads along the slate roof and iron framed windows, giving the place an austere sheen, as though it were carried forward from another century. Inside are the lecture halls, the library, and the dean’s wing.
If you follow the path to the right, there’s an annex, newer in design, which holds the dining hall, the medical wing, and a few other student facilities. We head straight there, pushing through the glass doors.
The scent of antiseptic greets me immediately. Behind the desk, a nurse looks up, her brows rise, and then her face softens with concern. “Oh, love,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you seen to. You’ve taken quite a knock.”
She rises from her chair and gestures for me to follow. “Come along, the doctor will see you shortly.”
I nod without a word and trail after her, Octavia close at my side. She leads us down a short corridor and opens a door, holding it until we’ve stepped through. The examination room is empty, white and quiet.
“Have a seat there,” she says, tilting her head toward the bed. I cross to it and sit, while my sister lowers herself into the chair nearby. The nurse gives a polite nod.
“I won’t be long,” she assures, and with that she slips out, leaving the door closed behind her.
I part my lips to ask Octavia something, anything, but she gives the smallest shake of her head.
“Not here,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking briefly about the room. My brows knit, but I say nothing.
I sit back, unsettled, the weight of her warning pressing harder than the pain in my skull.