Ink & Ivory

3 - The Smell of Autumn

I'd always imagined what my first day at Willow Hall would feel like, but nothing could've prepared me for the real thing.

I adjust my ballet flats as I step into the warm sunlight, feeling the comforting weight of the day ahead. The air is alive with excitement—voices echoing across the lawn, laughter spilling out of dorm windows, and the soft hum of magic flowing beneath her skin. It is Orientation Day at Willow Hall, and everything about the morning feels like a dream laced with silk ribbons, rose-tinted auras, and hidden promises.

My fingers toy with the silk ribbon I'd tied around my wrist, a nervous habit that I can't seem to shake. I can feel my heart racing, the excitement and anxiety of it all mixing together like a poorly stirred potion.

Audrey falls into step beside me, sipping her iced lavender coffee, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "I heard the Headmistress gives the same speech every year," she says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "But people still say it's the highlight of orientation."

I smile, adjusting my flowing blush dress that flutters in the gentle breeze. "I guess it's part of the tradition, right?" I love traditions, even if maybe they aren't my own. They make places feel lived in, woven into the fabric of a home. And with any luck, that's what Willow Hall will become—a home.

Willow Hall itself is a towering beauty, an imposing structure made softer by the ivy that creeps along its edges and the warm glow of enchanted lanterns hanging from the arched walkways. It feels alive, as though the building itself is a living entity, ancient yet filled with youth, bursting with magic in its walls, its cobblestone paths, even in the air.

As we enter the main courtyard, I can feel my breath hitch. The sprawling campus opens up before us, dotted with students moving in small groups, all just as bright-eyed and unsure as I am. The lawn is lush, dotted with flowering trees, its petals a blush pink that mirrors the soft tones I've always loved.

The courtyard is filled with students, gathered in small clusters. The soft murmurs of conversations mingle with the scent of fresh-cut grass and the faintest hint of vanilla from a nearby wishing well. I feel a tug of nervousness deep in my chest. Meeting new people is always a bit daunting, especially when they all seem so effortlessly put together. The girls I pass wear silky blouses, delicate jewelry that shimmers with charm-spun sigils and ballet flats tapping softly on the cobblestone path.

"Wow, it's even prettier than the pictures," Audrey says softly, her gaze sweeping over the scene. "I can't believe we're actually here."

I nod, but my mind is elsewhere. As much as I love the beauty of the place, the anticipation of starting my dance program looms over me like an impending storm. My father's voice echoes in the back of my mind—his disapproval of Willow Hall and its magic, the heavy expectation he's placed on me to succeed without Aether. But here, surrounded by students who embrace their magical gifts so freely, it's hard not to feel like an outsider.

"Come on," Audrey urges, tugging me towards a grassy knoll where some other girls have gathered. "Let's scope out the best spot before the speech starts."

As we make our way over, I notice a tall, dark-haired girl sitting cross-legged on the grass, flipping through a well-worn grimoire that has been scribbled in, dog-eared, and loved. Nearby, another girl is braiding her hair, crystals spread out on a lace handkerchief as they absorb the early morning slight. I can't help but smile. There's something so comforting in the sight of these little rituals, something familiar yet foreign, like peeking into someone else's memory of home.

As we settle near the edge of the knoll, just as a low hum fills the air. The buzz of conversation quiets and heads turn towards the small stage that's been set up near the courtyard's old oak tree. The headmistress of Willow Hall, Madame Violetta Rosemont, stands poised, with her long silver hair pinned elegantly back, as she steps onto the platform. She wears robes in pale lavender and soft ivory, shimmering with enchanted threads that sparkle like starlight under the sun. She has a serene, powerful, presence, as though the very air around her holds its breath, waiting. Her presence demands respect but there's a warmth in her gaze that puts me at ease.