The carriage rumbled beneath me as we approached the imposing stone walls of Westfield Academy. I sat stiffly, watching raindrops race down the window, each one like another nail in my coffin. Mother hadn't even bothered to accompany me. Instead, she'd sent Thomas, our coachman, to deliver me like an unwanted package.
"Almost there, Master Alaric," Thomas called from the driver's seat, his voice muffled by the rain.
I didn't respond, my fingers tightening around the small folded note Alistair had pressed into my palm before I left. "Read it when you're alone," he'd whispered, his eyes conveying more than his words.
The carriage slowed to a stop in the circular drive. I could see other boys being escorted inside by their parents, most looking as miserable as I felt. A thin man with a permanent scowl stood at the entrance, checking names against a list. Headmaster Blackwood, the very same who had written to my mother that I was "difficult" and "antisocial."
