Sarah Cavendish sat silently in her carriage, hands folded neatly in her lap just as her governess had taught her. The wheels rumbled beneath her, but her mind was louder. That morning, her mother had warned her ,"Do not cry, do not complain, and do not embarrass me."
Was it truly such a crime for a child to cry? Sarah wondered. After all, she was only twelve.
The carriage gave a soft lurch and then stopped. Outside, the coachman announced, "We've arrived, my lady." Sarah peered out the window. The words painted on the stone archway read:
Rosamere Institute for Young Ladies.
Her mother had said it with reverence, as though the very air around Rosamere was scented with good manners and opportunity. But to Sarah, the school looked cold ,a towering gray building with wide steps and stern windows that seemed to watch her every move.
The coachman helped her down, and a maid fussed with the hem of her pale blue dress. Sarah sighed. She had never been fond of school, and looking at this one only confirmed her suspicions that she never would be. But she would never tell her mother her thoughts. It was like walking to her own death.
Just then, as she reached the entrance, a familiar face caught her eye, a dark-skinned girl in a light blue dress, her curls neatly tied back with a white ribbon. Sarah's heart leapt. Lavender! She hadn't seen her since the tea party,the awful day when every girl, including her mother has ignored her tears.Every girl except this one, who was the only one who noticed her.
Without thinking, Sarah hurried forward, nearly tripping on the last step.
"Lavender!" she called softly, reaching out to tap her arm.
Lavender turned, her expression calm, almost unreadable. Her eyes flicked over Sarah, the bright blonde hair, the expensive clothes, the sparkle of excitement in her gaze, and she remembered. The little girl who'd cried for no reason in particular while her mother pretended not to notice. Lavender had promised herself that she would ignore the girl if she saw her in the future, but now here she was.
Lavender's voice was polite but distant. "Good morning," she said, then turned toward the school.
Sarah blinked, surprised, but decided Lavender was simply shy. So she followed her.
When Lavender entered the grand hall, the noise dimmed to whispers. Girls her age stood in neat little groups, their dresses gleaming with ribbons and lace. They stared openly, whispering behind gloved hands.
"The Black Rose of Windmere," one girl breathed. "She's even darker than they said."
Lavender kept her chin high, pretending not to hear. She'd grown used to the stares. What she wasn't used to, however, was Sarah's shadow still following closely behind her.
Before Lavender could say something, a familiar sharp voice called out, "Sarah!"
Both girls turned. Standing near the staircase was Ella, tall, fair, and smirking.
"What are you doing with her?" Ella sneered. "Do you want to get stained? Come here."
Sarah froze. Her fingers curled in the fabric of her dress as her heart twisted. Ella had been her friend once, sort of. But after the tea party, Ella had made sure to avoid her, much to her mother's delight. Ella's mother hated hers.
"I prefer to stay here," Sarah said softly, but firmly, moving a little closer to Lavender's side.
Ella's lips parted in disbelief. "Sarah, are you.."
"Bonjour, madmoiselles," a rich, smooth voice interrupted.
Every head turned. Lady Antoinette Deveraux stood at the end of the hall, poised and perfect in dark velvet. Her accent was thick, her eyes sharp and knowing. Power radiated from her with every step she took.
"Good morning, Lady Antoinette," the girls chorused, curtsying quickly.
Lady Antoinette's gaze swept the room before pausing on Lavender. So this was Lady Beatrice's adopted daughter. The ton whispered such ugly things,but standing here, Lavender was anything but monstrous. Her skin gleamed like polished mahogany, her expression proud yet soft. And beside her stood a Cavendish girl, her golden hair catching the light. What an unlikely pair.
Lady Antoinette's lips curved faintly. "Welcome to Rosamere," she said. "Here, you will learn grace, art, conversation, music, and all that makes a young lady desirable in society. But above all,you will learn discipline."
The girls nodded in unison, some more eagerly than others.
---
Art Class
Their first class was Art. The scent of paint and turpentine filled the air as the students took their seats before blank canvases.
Their teacher, Madame Fernanda, swept in ,elegant, dark-haired, and clearly related to Lady Antoinette. "Good morning, young ladies," she greeted in her lilting accent. "Today, we paint truth. The truth of beauty, of color, of what you see , not what you are told to see."
The girls exchanged glances. Most of them had no idea what that meant.
Madame Fernanda began to demonstrate, her brush gliding effortlessly across the canvas. "Observe, then imitate," she said, stepping aside.
Around the room, brushes began to move. Sarah's eyes shone with excitement, she loved painting. She dipped her brush into the colors, completely absorbed. But when she turned, she noticed Lavender staring at her blank canvas.
"Do you not know how to draw?" Sarah whispered.
Lavender sighed. "I do not. I hate drawing. I prefer reading."
Sarah giggled. "Reading is dreadfully boring."
Lavender frowned. "Then you've been reading the wrong books." Anyone who hated reading was officially her enemy.
Sarah smiled, but before she could reply, a snide voice rose from across the room.
"It seems some of us don't even know what a paintbrush is," Ella said loudly.
The giggles began almost instantly.
Lavender ignored them. She had learned long ago that silence hurt more than anger.
"Quiet down, ladies," Madame Fernanda said sharply. "Focus on your art."
The giggles died.
Sarah leaned toward Lavender again. "Are you alright?" she asked softly.
Lavender dipped her brush into the paint and said quietly, "Ella is a fool. And I do not care for fools."
Sarah stifled a laugh ,he words sounded so bold coming from someone who looked so composed.
But a girl beside them had heard. She leaned across her easel and whispered the words straight to Ella.
By the time the bell rang, Ella's glare could've set Lavender's easel on fire.