St. Văduva's School for Prestigious Girls

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕰𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙

How's your first day at class going?

Temperance's thumb hovered over the message. She could not hide from her sister forever. She grimaced as she clicked open the texts, bombarded with a flood of unanswered messages.

How was the flight?

Are you alright??

Hello???

Temperance? Are you there?

Temperance frowned, seeing the desperate note to Constance's messages. Her guilt won over her need for distancing, and she replied back with a quick:

I'm fine, I'm in class. Signal is still wonky. I'll text when I can.

The battery in the corner of the screen caught her eye, red flashing indicated that Temperance had not dug the charger from her bag before she slept off her fatigue. She grumbled, shoving the phone back into her pocket and tapping her foot. Among the list of things she did not do was not bring the over-the-counter pain meds. They sat nestled in her bag, back in the dorm. And she was nowhere done with her classes for the day.

Four classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and two on Tuesday — Geometry, English, Art History, Painting, Psychology, and Creative Writing. When had she registered for all these classes? She could not even remember. The more she tried to center her mind on that memory, the more it faded like paint in water. It was unattainable, and so she gave up trying. She was stuck with these classes, not feeling the urge to go down to the Student Resource office to change them.

Thankfully the classes were not all in one day, but as the Wednesday afternoon ticked on, she found herself not only zoning out but actively falling asleep. Despite the pain thrumming in the core of her brain, sleep sounded heavenly, and she began daydreaming of being able to go back to her dorm and sleep in that comfortable bed. She bit her lip to keep from yawning for the umpteenth time, turning to look out the window as the teacher droned on about the psyche.

She was shocked to see a familiar figure out on the grass. The day was overcast, but no rain drizzled down from the heavens yet. The man was beneath a tree, sitting on a bench in the shade of a large tree. A book sat perched in his lap. His hair was gelled back; his suit was pressed and immaculate.

Was he real after all? Or was he a familiar figment of a dying woman's mind?

She thought back to the red dripping down his chin, mixing with that night's downpour and diluting it. Was that blood? Or jam? She shook the stupidity from her mind.

Yes because sane men stand out in storms with jam on their faces.

She glanced back to the man, watching as he turned a page. Being on the second level prevented her from seeing much of his details, but he seemed amused if she judged his body language. Lax, content. He looked like some sort of model posing for a shoot, and for a moment, her eyes scanned over the surrounding courtyard, looking for the glint of technology to see if her hunch was right. So far, no photographers. Some girls passed by him, purposefully using the grass to pass by instead of staying on the terrace. They giggled, throwing their hair over their shoulders and waiting for him to notice their flirtatious behavior. But he was entranced in whatever he was reading, and that infuriated a few of the women. Temperance could not help but snicker at the sight.

The bell chime went off soon after, allowing Temperance to slink out the door. There was one last class for today, but she would rather leave them high and dry and go back to bed. As the students crowded the hallways, trying to get to their next destination, Temperance worked hard to shove through the perfumed bodies.

Once she made it from the sea of bodies, a heavy bag accidentally hit her in the back of the knees, sending her flying forward toward the staircase. On instinct, her arms reached out to brace herself from the inevitable fall. But, just as she scrunched her eyes shut, her arm was grabbed and she was yanked away from the staircase.

Bewildered, she spun around to see a blonde woman with a short bob and bright green eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "I'm so sorry, I was trying to bring my wife's cosmetology kit to her before classes started and I didn't mean to knock you over and—"

"It's fine," Temperance cut her off. The rush of endorphins had her head pounding harder. She wondered, horrified, if eyeballs could explode from cranial pressure.

"Hey, you're the new girl, right? I'm Zhanna! I'm in your Art History class!" She held her delicately manicured hand out for a handshake. Temperance took the woman's hand for a quick, limp shake. "I was just on my way over there after I drop off this case to the cosmetology department!"

"Cool. Now, if you don't mind—" she tried to worm her away around the high-energy woman, but a particularly painful throb tugged at her neurons, causing her to stagger, hand lashing out to grab hold of the banister to steady herself.

"A-Are you okay? Oh, God, did I hit you really hard?"

Temperance could not bring herself to answer, the pain bringing about violent nausea, nausea bringing about an elevated heartbeat from stress, and the stress working in tandem to make her headache worse. She grit her teeth, saliva building in her mouth as her teeth and flattened lips worked at damming back the river. Her knees wobbled, threatening to give out at any moment.

"Madam, are you well?"

The voice was not the blonde woman, but deep and smooth, like the roughness of black, burnt coffee. Through increasingly blurry sights, she tried to focus her attention on the person who was ascending the stairway. Like a god he was — golden skin that seemed to harness the light of the sun, icy blue orbs that contrasted beautifully against his skin tone, and midnight hair slicked back like black ocean waves. The man with the book. The man in the rain.

Zhanna sighed in relief. "Oh, Mr. Vladimir, will you help me take her to the nurse? I hit her with my bag and she just crumpled and she looks so pale and —"

"I'm fine—" But as she choked those words out, her legs folded beneath her. Luckily, the strange man had reached the two just in time, wrapping a large hand around Temperance's waist, and holding her up effortlessly.

The chillness of his skin bit through even her clothes and she winced at the frigid sensation. He held her close to his body, the scent of vanilla and musk and expensive tobacco wafting from his well-crafted suit.

"You do not look well. Allow me to take you to the infirmary." His breath, icy and fresh, tickled her skin as he bent at the waist to speak directly into her ear.

She was too weak to refuse, so she blearily nodded, allowing this strange, handsome man to carry her off to God-knows-where.