"Across centuries and the void of a world, I seek you."
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It had been raining ever since I stepped out of the aircraft-no, correction, ever since I stepped into this new life.
Grey clouds pressed low over the sky like a thick woollen blanket someone forgot to shake out, heavy and brooding, swallowing any trace of sunlight.
It wasn't like Birmingham, where the rain was usually light and almost shy. No-this was aggressive, wild, like Glasgow itself was warning me: you don't belong here, Lancaster.
I didn't even say goodbye to the garden swing back home. I bet it's still there, rusting quietly in the rain... just like I am.
I sat curled up on the wide cushioned seat nestled into the gothic arch of the library window, my knees pulled close to my chest.
The window was huge-floor to ceiling, with dark iron mullions webbing through the glass-and framed a dripping view of the estate gardens. Even the grass looked moodier here. Wet, rich, green.
It's trying too hard.
Outside, the stone courtyard glistened like a storybook. Men in black coats were still directing delivery lorries around the circular driveway-some of them shouting instructions through the storm, others just looking terribly wet and terribly confused.
Umbrellas turned inside-out in the wind, valet drivers in white gloves hurried up and down the entrance steps, and somewhere in the far distance I could see the golden glint of the family crest being hammered onto the new iron gates.
I hate it here.
I didn't say it out loud, but I didn't need to. Every sigh I let out filled the tall, echoing library with sulk. My sulk. The books, tall and leather-bound behind their glass cases, seemed to watch me like concerned uncles at a dinner party.
They all probably think I'm being dramatic. But I'm not. I'm literally not being dramatic. I'm just... adjusting.
I scrunched my knees to my chest, tucking the hem of my cream knit sweater under my toes.
It's not like I asked for any of this. I didn't want Gothic arches or domed ceilings or a staircase that looks like it belongs in some haunted royal manor.
I wanted my pink duvet, my twinkly bedroom lights, my best pen, and Maxi's flat in London where everything smells like cinnamon and motorcycle grease and coffee.
Suddenly-
"Rennaaaa?"
I flinched at the sing-song voice. Of course. Mama.
Here we go.
Ava Lancaster. 5'7", legs for days, blush pink lipstick always perfect, looking like she was about to host a reality show called The Real Housewives of Blythswood Palace.
