Murder Your Darlings

three | mountains

Today's supposed to be ski day in the Alps, but I'm not going. The pang of regret is small and definitely temporary. I'm going to have way more fun on the unofficial orientation trip—a few First Years picked from a pool of us by some famous Seconds. 'Zane pushed for us, I think,' Sarah'd said, as she debated whether to wear a lace-necked button-down or a plain black t-shirt. She'd eventually decided on the lace, because it 'made her look interesting.' I couldn't really opine, but I took her word for it. Her mother's a fashion designer, after all. 'I don't think he had to push, though. His presence is usually enough to make everyone listen.'

I woke up a bit earlier than I'd like, and Sarah's still tucked in, so I sit on the hammock by the window and while away the hour and a half to breakfast. We've got to go to the café to get ours if we're not ready to make our own, because we aren't going on the ski trip, and only those who are have their first Great Hall Breakfast today. We videocalled Zane last night and he said it wasn't anything special, first meals at the Great Hall. 'It's better if you skip them, really,' he'd said. 'Everyone thinks much more of you then.'

I sip the strong coffee I'd made myself when I woke, and hug my bare knees. What would my family be doing now? I think they said they were going to Udaipur for a while, because an aunt's getting married for the third time to a guy my father thinks will be useful to keep in contact? Yeah, that's probably it. I could call them, but I wouldn't want my mother worrying about why I'm up so early. She'd know. I saw she'd added a Switzerland time widget to her phone's home screen.

I scroll through Zane's Instagram feed. He'd sent me a follow request the previous night, and I thought it wouldn't be very cool to accept right away, so I waited till morning. It's a perfect feed, just as I thought it would be. Zane on a horse, speeding on a racetrack. Zane impeccably dressed, seated at a grand piano. Zane shirtless on a beach in Hawaii, taken last summer.

You wouldn't think he had time to bother about things like cold murder cases, if his Instagram was all you knew of him. He seemed like the typical boy with rich parents. Fancy, charming, bustling social calendar. Vacations in exotic locations, pictures of food that looked better than it tasted. Sarah's pictures were like the female translation of his—pretty, perfect, popular. They make me grateful I don't have any pictures on my Instagram account — if I did, I wouldn't be able to stop comparing mine to theirs.

I hear a thud somewhere down the hallway. Sarah's probably woken up—or fallen off her bed—and either case means I have to go check on her. I lock my phone and slip my feet into the school-provided soft slippers. They're very beautiful—white faux-fur to match the wonderland Archambault is set in, with its regal crest emblazoned in gold and navy on the top. It's a plus they're so comfortable.

'Sarah?' I call, walking toward the minihall. 'You've fallen or something?'

In seconds, I'm engulfed in Chanel No.5 and warm hands. 'Good morning!' Sarah yells, and then releases me. 'You look wonderful today! When did you wake up?'

'A while ago,' I say. We walk to the sitting room. 'You're in the mood for chocolate chip cookies? Schedule says we're to leave in a shuttle at two, which is three hours from now. That's enough to make a good batch. I'm not in the mood to head to the café.'

'Sure, sure,' she says, throwing herself on the sofa. 'If you want, I'll go get us Pump Streets. More the chocolate, the better.'

'I'd rather you stay in. It's freezing.' I pull the strings of my white, boxy hoodie. 'I have a few drinks in the fridge, if you'd like. Cadbury.'

'The classic.' Sarah smiles. 'Sure. I'll get some ready.'

The cookies look good to eat around ninety minutes later. They're still steaming, and the inside isn't as chewy as I'd hoped it would be, but I figured the difference in taste wouldn't be pronounced at all. I lay out a platter and carry it to our little coffee table, where Sarah's already poured us copious amounts of Cadbury. 'Lovely,' she says, clapping her hands. 'Exactly how I'd want to start my first real day at Archambault.'