Milthorne Manor [#Wattys2016]

Chapter 1

I stare blankly out the window at the moving scenery, the chill from the outside world creeping through the glass and tickling the tip of my nose. Bleak moorland flashes by, dead browns and barely-there greens against a perpetually grey sky making up the palette of colors I can discern. I breathe deeply, the exhale fogging up the clear pane of the backseat window of the family car. I lean my forehead against the cool glass, forcing myself to focus on the sensations that it brings, instead of my predicament.

"Miss Howell, we just left the pavement. Please hold on." My chauffeur, Mr. Hamish, says a second too late, as the car jolts and jostles. Recoiling just before my head slams into the window, I reach for the overhead grip, and close my eyes.

This whole arrangement seems insufferably senseless to me, but what choice do I have? It's not as if Mom gave me many options.  It was either this or going to a public high school for the remainder of my pre-college education.

I can't contain the huff of frustration that forces itself from my mouth as I think about the past month of my life.

My mother had become reacquainted with an old "family friend," meaning that she had run into someone who was just as filthy rich as she was, and they bonded over that. Long story short, this questionable "family friend" told my mother about a young ladies boarding school by the name of Milthorne Manor that she had attended when she was my age. She oozed and gushed about its exclusiveness, as it was by invitation alone one could attend, and how it had changed her for the better.

"And besides," I heard her whisper confidentially to my mother, "It's a bit... unusual, which might aid in your daughter's ability to... fit in."

Just thinking about it makes my blood boil. What business is it of hers if I have a reputation for standing out? That I get rejected from every social circle in every school I attend? It's not, and the sooner she realizes that--

The car grinds to a protesting halt.

"Miss Howell, the car seems to have gotten stuck. My apologies, but I will need to see if I can remove it from the mud." I nod, almost grateful for this twist of fate, and watch as he steps out of the vehicle.
In the corner of my eye, I see him circle the car, tugging his feet laboriously free from the mud, giving the trapped vehicle an experimental push once in a while.

I also notice the grey sky growing black above us.

Without warning, the heavens release a deluge, drowning my poor chauffeur. Imagining Mother Dearest cringing at what I'm about to do, I push my door open and go wading into the mudbath. Without hesitation, I push up my sleeves and walk for the back of the car, the road making discouraging sucking noises every time I try to lift my feet out of it. Wordlessly, Mr. Hamish follows me, and we begin trying to shove the car out of the rut.

It feels like longer, but we are only at it for about ten minutes when something happens.

"What a predicament you seem to have fallen into." Over the tantrum of the storm, a voice floats to us. Hamish turns to respond, but I simply tuck my head down against the biting rain and keep pushing.

I can't hear them anymore, but I can see my chauffeur gesturing animatedly at the car, his mouth working rapidly.

The next thing I know, the old family servant is at my shoulder, signalling for me to step away. Trying to ignore the feeling of the slick mud on my calves, I wade to the side of the road, and watch as a thoroughly cloaked figure assumes my position behind the car, and with seemingly minimal effort, shoves the car out of its earthy prison.

Dusting his hands, he strides toward us, every movement speaking of power, and takes my hand, bowing deeply before kissing it. Utterly startled, I don't react as I catch a glimpse of dark eyes, a smirking mouth, and ghostly-white hair.

I am ushered back into the car, and after a moment, Mr. Hamish reappears in the front seat. He shakes his head before starting the car.

"What a funny chap. I tried to offer him coin for his help, and he turned me down. Said helping a goddess such as yourself was enough payment for him, Miss Howell." With a shrug from the baffled driver, we are off. I check my watch; the hands point to 12:30.  As Orientation begins at 1:00, I have plenty of time before I'm late. As the car bumps along, my strange rescuer intrudes on my thoughts. Who was he? What an unusual character for the Scottish moorland. I shake my head, and resume my blank stare out the window, trying to avoid thinking about anything.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself standing in front of a towering, grim-looking piece of architecture, trying not to think about the drying mud that clings to my legs. As Hamish finishes unloading my things from the car, I rinse my legs with the water vomited from the mouth of a demonic gargoyle perched on the roof high above me.

The bags are unpacked far too quickly, and the faithful servant says his goodbyes, breaking down and pressing a fatherly kiss to my forehead before he drives away, leaving me standing alone before Milthorne Manor.

With a deep breath, I step inside.