Chapter Text
Mark stands in the middle of what is to be his new home. Two duffle bags at his feet, both still untouched.
The apartment smells of harsh, antiseptic cleaner. Somebody has clearly been prepping the place for his arrival, scrubbing the place raw to erase any evidence of the previous occupant. He wonders how long that guy lasted.
It is a single-bed unit, tucked away behind the administration wing. All standard issue, academic housing with off-white walls, grey carpets, and laminate kitchens that are curled and faded at the edges of the units. The living area is rectangular and bleeds into the kitchenette, separated only by a small two seater table and chairs. A darkened hallway leads to what he presumes is the bedroom and bathroom. It isn’t ugly, just one-note. And empty.
Mark nudges one of the duffle bags with his toe, as though they may somehow unpack themselves. He scratches his chin and can feel the patchy, uneven stubble growing in there. He needs to shave before he meets his new boss, that’s for sure.
With a grunt, he reaches down for both bags and hauls them through into the bedroom, where he unpacks his meagre collection of belongings. Socks, underwear, t-shirts. Two pairs of jeans, three pairs of slacks. Three casual button downs and three crisp shirts. A few thick sweaters that Devon insisted he brought. All in all, it barely takes up half the closet space.
The smaller bag is heavier. A few half used spiral notebooks and a pack of whiteboard markers. Textbooks. An already open bottle of scotch. And, tucked into the side pocket, his wedding ring and a photo of Gemma.
He doesn’t know why he brought the ring. He doesn’t wear it anymore, can’t even bring himself to take it out of the pocket of the bag, but he couldn’t leave it behind either. He leaves it in the bag, balled up and tossed beneath the bed. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
Outside the window, Mark can see the girls crossing the quad between classes. They wear matching uniforms. Dark green pleated skirts and matching blazers, with shiny brogue shoes. They walk calmly, but with precision and an almost mechanical stiffness. He wonders if they are as eerie up close. And what it’s going to be like when classes start on Monday and he has twenty of them staring at him at once.
Ganz doesn’t seem so bad, now that he’s not there anymore.
Not that he could have stayed in that place for any longer. He knew his time was coming to an end long before management had the balls to say it . Nobody wanted a grieving, hungover professor sleeping in his office, showing up late to lectures smelling like gin. But how was he supposed to teach about the war like it was the worst thing to happen to humanity, when his wife’s toothbrush was still in the holder and unopened sympathy cards were still in the trash.
So now, here he is. Thirty-two, widowed, probably-alcoholic and permanently hungover, relocated to a girls’ boarding school with a goddamn chapel bell that rings every hour.
The Myrtle Eagan School for Girls.
A place that feels less like a school, and more like a correctional facility for well-bred brats. He’s heard of the place before, it would be hard to live in Kier and not know about the place that takes wealthy parents’ children and churns out the social elite. He knows that the place was founded by the Eagans (along with almost everything else in this town).
He already hates it.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
At precisely 1:00pm, Mark is due to meet the Head Girl outside of the administration and staff housing wing. As he approaches the designated meeting point, right at the edge of the area that students are not permitted to enter, he walks down a narrow covered walkway lined with columns.
She waits at the threshold, posture perfect, hands clasped lightly in front of her plaid skirt. He hasn’t even stepped through the stone archway before she is smiling.
”Mr. Scout. You’re right on time.”
“Uh— hey.”
”Right this way please.”
Her smile is unsettlingly wide, showing each one of her teeth.
As they walk, she introduces herself as Natalie. She points out a few features of the school, stone statues of historic Eagans, marble water fountains, a piano hall and a dance studio and a gymnasium. Mark isn’t listening much. He’s unsure if he is supposed to speak, or just observe the well rehearsed performance.
“We’re very glad to have you here,” Natalie tells him as they pass a line of portraits. “Ms. Cobel was concerned that we may not find a new history teacher in time for fall semester. I know she will be pleased to see you.”
“Sure.”
If she is offended by his blunt, half-answers, it doesn’t show on her face.
Outside the office, Natalie pauses and turns to him with her smile still fixed in place.
“Ms. Cobel does not respond well to… disorganization.”
Mark almost laughs. He doesn’t know if this is a warning given to all recipients of her tour, or if she senses it in him, like a bloodhound for people who tend to half-ass their way through life.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
With a final nod to Mark, Natalie knocks firmly on the door. “Mr. Scout for you, ma’am,” she calls through.
A voice from the office responds. “Send him in.”
Like a wisp of smoke, Natalie vanishes into the corridor and Mark is left to face Cobel alone.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Ms. Cobel stands behind her desk in a navy skirt and tailored jacket, her posture ramrod straight. She is older than Mark, maybe in her mid-fifties, but there is nothing soft about her. Her gray, almost silver hair is pulled into a tight bun that looks as though it is pinching the skin at her temples.
She is not smiling.
“Sit, please.”
The office is sparse, but unusually symmetrical. The desk is flanked by two, towering potted plants, then two bookshelves on either side, with volumes that look more decorative than for reading. Two identical chairs face her desk and reading lamps with a pull-string switch sit on either side.
Mark sits in the left chair, and wonders if that was the right choice.
Cobel folds her hands in front of her as she sits.
”You have been assigned to the Myrtle Eagan School on a conditional basis.”
Straight to business.
Mark nods. “I’m aware.”
“Then you will be aware, Mr. Scout, of the values that our institution upholds.”
”Yes ma’am.”
”All nine?”
He smiles at her, considers asking if this is going to be on the test at the end, but the look she gives him tells him that she may not be joking. He grits his jaw and nods solemnly. “Yes ma’am, all nine.”
She eyes him with suspicion and looks him up and down.
”I’m not here to cause problems,” he tells her, a little defensively. “Just to teach.”
Cobel quirks a brow. “No. You’re here because Ganz College decided that your behaviour was no longer compatible with a tenured position.”
Mark feels a cold sweat drip down his spine. He shifts uncomfortably, feeling the wood of his chair creak beneath him.
“That’s all in the past.”
With a sharp inhale, Cobel nods. She seems to accept it from him, or at least, not have the grounds to argue with him just yet.
But for the rest of the meeting, Mark can’t shake the feeling that she’s memorizing every detail of him. Filing it away to use against him later. Something about the way she slides him the handbook and advises that he takes special care when reviewing the campus rules makes Mark think he’s walking blindfolded into a trap.
Ganz couldn’t fire Mark due to his tenure, and he never quite broke the rules enough to be dismissed, but maybe sending him out here to juvenile prison camp, where the rules are tighter and there is a much narrower line for him to walk without messing up… maybe it is deliberate.
Mark knows, without a doubt, that he has to be on his best behaviour.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The olympic-sized pool smells of chlorine and teenage contempt.
His second day on campus, and last day before classes start on Monday and Mark has already been drafted in to cover for a teacher. Supposedly his flight didn’t arrive in time and he hasn’t yet arrived from the airport for the start of the semester. So now, Mark has to spend his Sunday afternoon overseeing swim team tryouts, rather than watching old movies alone.
Mark stands just at the edge of the pool with a clipboard and a borrowed whistle. His feet are already wet, but apparently, that was his fault for not bringing the right footwear. Nobody told him that his new teaching position would involve such varied duties.
“We just need another adult present for liability purposes,” Ms. Cobel had told him earlier, after he’s been summoned to another impromptu meeting. “Someone to stand by and look authoritative. Keep an eye out in case one of our little angels slips and falls.”
She hadn’t waited for him to say yes.
Now, Mark watches as a dozen girls in black lycra swimsuits loiter near the edge of the pool. Some wrapped in towels, others bare. He tries not to look at any of them for too long.
The girls are loud. Whispering and giggling, catching up after a summer apart. He overhears knowing remarks about which girls are making the cut, and which aren’t. For a while they speculate over who will be captain, most of them favouring a lean blonde girl who, from the look on her face, thinks she has it in the bag already.
It is competitive in the way teenage girls often are, smiling with their mouths and snarling behind their eyes.
The swim coach clears her throat and raises her voice just enough to be heard. “Okay, ladies. Welcome back. This is Mr. Scout. He’ll be filling in for Mr. Kilmer today.”
No one looks at him. One girl, standing near the middle of the group, yawns dramatically. A few others smirked.
Mark couldn’t care less. This isn’t his job. Today, he is just the substitute. The warm body in the room, paying just enough attention to check the insurance box.
Still, he does a rough headcount as the swim coach talks them through the schedule for the afternoon. He comes up one short.
Then his eyes land on her. The one he missed.
A girl is sitting off to the side, away from the rest. Her legs are pulled up, arms wrapped around her shins, and a towel is draped loosely around her shoulders like a boxer. She isn’t talking, or giggling, or even looking at the others. She just stares at the water, expression unreadable.
She has red hair, a little darker than copper, pulled into a slick, tight bun. Her pale skin is striking against her dark bathing suit. She doesn’t look tall, but there’s something long-limbed and slender in the way she sits. She’s muscular, toned and lean without an ounce of baby-fat on her frame.
She picks up her phone from the bench beside her.
“Hey,” Mark calls over. “No phones during practice. Uh. Tryouts, I mean.”
She looks up slowly and blinks at him with sharp, cold eyes. Then places the phone back down beside her with exaggerated care, like she is humoring a child.
In the main huddle, one of the louder girls elbows her friend and mutters something too low to catch. They both snigger in the quiet girl’s direction. She grits her jaw and looks away.
Mark tries to ignore the guilt he feels in his stomach and turns his attention back to the group.
The coach blows her whistle and begins calling groups of girls forward to the edge of the pool, lined up ready to take their turn. The drills are standard. Warm-ups, then sprints, then two timed laps each to earn them a ranking. Most of the girls are decent. A few are sloppy, all flail and splash and the occasional panicked gasp, but they all have spirit.
Then, the quiet girl steps forward.
She slips out of her towel and walks to the block with a delicate grace. The other girls still slightly, just enough for them to watch. A few exchange quick looks.
She crouches. Waits.
The coach blows the whistle.
The moment she hits the water, the pool is silent. She isn’t dramatic or showy. No flourishes or big splashes, just clean lines and cols efficiently. She cuts through the water without a jot of tension, shoulders rotating and hands cutting the surface with perfect precision. Her kick is violent and disciplined. Her flip turn after one length is so sharp, she barely exits the water until she is pointing back in the other direction.
Mark blinks at the clock on the wall. She shaves eight seconds off the fastest time so far and makes it look effortless.
She pulls herself from the water in one clean motion and stands, dripping and stone-faced on the slick tile. Her eyes flick toward the coach, who nods once back at her— place on the team secured, it seems. Then, her eyes drift to Mark. Not expectant, just a small, almost imperceptible quirk of her brow.
After a beat, the pool sparks back to life as the next group of girls are called up to take their turns.
Quiet girl does not have to wait out the rest of tryouts. She swipes her phone and towel from the bench, then moves past him toward the changing rooms.
She walks right past the tray of orange slices and paper cups of Gatorade without a glance.
“Hey, slick, hold up,” he calls after her. Softer this time, so that he doesn’t draw the attention of the rest of the girls.
She turns toward him slightly.
He gestures toward the snack tray. “You earned it.”
She quirks her eyebrow. “No, thank you.”
“Come on, humour me.” he tells her, flashing her a smile. “Handing out snacks is like my only job today.”
“That and being the phone monitor.”
He laughs. “Yeah, that too.”
He waits for her to give in, and when it doesn't look like she’s going to, he picks up an orange wedge and holds it to her on his outstretched palm.
She considers him for a moment. Then takes it between two delicate fingers and slips between her teeth. She tears the flesh from the peel slowly, deliberately, and never takes her eyes off his.
For a moment, Mark forgets where he is. He watches her mouth, the faint parting of her lips and the tension in her jaw as she chews. His own jaw slackens, his palm held uselessly between them as he freezes on the spot.
Then, she removes the chewed peel from her mouth and drops it back into his open palm.
Before he can react, she’s gone. She walks away from him toward the changing rooms, towel slung loose over one shoulder, long toned legs still gleaming from the pool.
Mark exhales long and slow, forcing himself to look away.
He should be annoyed at the damp, warm mess in his hand. Should demand to know her name and give her whatever is the highest form of punishment that this school allows.
But he isn’t. Instead, he smiles. Just a little.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
By the end of his first week, Mark is starting to understand how the place works.
There’s a rhythm to the Myrtle Eagan School for Girls—a quiet clockwork that ticks beneath the surface of all the rules and rituals. Every classroom has a schedule. Every face has a mask. Every member of staff works in sync to run a tight ship, and so far, he hasn’t dropped the ball.
Tonight is his first patrol shift.
The teachers rotate every two weeks, each assigned one evening to walk the grounds and enforce curfew. It’s more about optics than safety. He suspects the girls could set the building on fire and the board would only care if the flames were visible from the donor’s garden. Still, the rules are rigid. No leaving the dorms after nine. Lights out at ten. No smoking, no alcohol, no boys, not that it seems remotely likely in this place, situated in the middle of nowhere.
He has a key ring clipped to his belt and a flashlight he hasn’t turned on once. The stone pathways are lit by wrought iron lanterns, flickering with dim, yellow light that makes the hedges look like sleeping creatures. The whole place has a haunted stillness about it, half fairy tale, half prison.
So far, the night has been just eventful enough to be interesting without being anything he needs to fill out paperwork for.
He caught two girls sneaking snacks from the faculty kitchen and sent them back to their dorm with a warning that was more amused than stern.
He found another—tiny, barely eleven—curled on a bench near the chapel, shivering and blinking back tears.
“Homesick,” she whispered when he asked what was wrong.
Mark didn’t know what to say to that. His instinct was to sit beside her, but he didn’t trust himself not to make it worse. He’s never been particularly comforting, and especially not to children.
“Come on,” he said gently instead. “Let’s get you to the nurse.”
The girl nodded, grateful, and trailed behind him as they walked the corridors. He waited until the nurse greeted at the door, and for a moment, when he saw the towering, stern looking woman, he thought he’d made a mistake and that maybe he would be the more comforting option.
Then, to his surprise, Lorne introduced herself with a warm, soft smile and the offer of a cup of tea. He felt confident he was leaving the girl in good hands.
Now it’s after eleven, not long until his shift ends and he can crawl into bed. The paths are empty. The wind picks up slightly as he rounds the west corner of the main building, passing beneath one of the stone archways that connects the dormitories to the central quad. One last skim of the area, and he’ll head back to his apartment.
That’s when he sees her.
A girl, half-lit by the overhead lantern, is curled on one of the benches built into the alcove wall. She’s got a book in her lap and one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out long and pale under the hem of her skirt. She doesn’t look startled. Doesn’t look up, even as he slows.
Mark frowns and calls out, “You’re not supposed to be out here this late.”
No reaction.
He takes a few steps closer and then. “Oh,” he says, recognizing her. “It’s you.”
She looks up slowly, the movement unhurried and deliberate. Her eyes catch the light, greenish-hazel and flat with disinterest.
“It’s me,” she says with a shrug.
Mark stops a few feet away, unsure what he expected her to say. The last time he saw her, she was dropping chewed fruit into his hand and walking away like a petulant teen with an attitude problem. Now she’s here in an alcove, lit like a painting, and reading a novel way past curfew.
He nods toward the book. “Thought you didn’t take history?”
He hasn’t spotted her in any of his classes this week, he’d definitely remember her face.
“I don’t.”
“Hm.” He points to the cover. The Winter Palace by Eva Stachniak. Historical fiction. Not exactly light reading.
“You know,” he tells her, “for somebody who doesn’t like the subject, you’re not doing a great job avoiding it.”
She shrugs, her shoulders barely lifting. “Didn’t say I’m not interested. You can have too much of a good thing.”
Her voice is quieter than he expects. She says it like a fact, like she’s tired of people assuming she has to enjoy something just because she’s good at it.
He shifts his weight.
“You have a name?”
“Helena,” she replies, and only then does she close the book.
“Mar—” He catches himself. “Mr. Scout.”
“Yeah, I know who you are, snack monitor.”
He smiles, involuntarily. Something small and honest curling at the corner of his mouth. There’s something strange here. Easy. Unsettlingly easy. It almost makes him forget why he’s out here at all.
“I’m sorry,” Mark says, blinking himself back into the role he’s meant to be playing. “You still need to go back to your dorm.”
Helena rolls her eyes and sets the book down next to her. Then, she stretches, slow and feline, and asks, “How much do you want?”
Mark furrows his brow.
“I’m sorry?”
“To forget you saw me.” She leans forward and rests her elbow on her bent knee. “Most teachers will take twenty bucks to not tell. Or a flat two hundred to ignore me for the rest of the semester.”
It takes him a second to process what she’s saying. Then another to decide whether or not she’s joking. Her face tells him that she isn’t.
“You’re offering me a bribe?”.
Helena tilts her head. “I’m offering you the chance to participate in a system that’s already in place.”
“That’s—” Mark starts, then stops. “ All the teachers do this?”
“Not the art teacher,” she says, almost bored. “He’s a real stickler for the rules. But yeah. Everyone else.”
He stares at her. Not because he’s offended, he’s not sure he has the energy to be offended, but because she said it with such effortless clarity, like it’s just the way the world works and only fools pretend otherwise. Helena watches him, waiting. She’s trying to figure out what kind of man he is, and how much he’ll cost.
Mark doesn’t answer right away.
There’s something brittle in the way she sits. Composed, yes, but not relaxed.
Mark exhales slowly, pressing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “Okay. Look. I don’t know what kind of arrangement you’ve got with the others, but I’m not—”
“One of them?” Helena cuts in, voice sharp now.
He levels his eyes at her. “I was going to say interested.”
She huffs. “Whatever. Still not going back.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Helena.”
She stands abruptly, slinging her bag over her shoulder with a practiced snap. “Fine. I’ll go sit somewhere else, then.”
He can already see the rest of the night forming in his head. Her vanishing into the shadowy maze of this ridiculous school while he spends the next hour chasing her down and trying to force her back into the dorms. Then, inevitably, reporting to Ms. Cobel and explaining why his first solo duty ended in a failed manhunt because he was outfoxed by a teenager.
It’s not how he wants to spend is night.
“Okay, okay,” he raises his hands placatingly. “Can you please just take a beat and sit back down?”
Helena stops mid-turn.
She looks at him, seemingly a little stunned by the sincerity in his voice.
He exhales again, softer this time. Runs a hand through his hair. “Please?”
A long silence stretches between them. A breeze passes through the archway, carrying the scent of cold stone. Then, without a word, she drops her bag back to the bench and sits. Mark sits down beside her, and neither of them speaks. Not right away.
The lantern above them buzzes faintly.
Somewhere in the trees, an owl calls out once, then goes silent.
Helena picks at a loose thread on her skirt. Mark leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring out into the dark. The only sound is the soft hum of insects and the distant gurgle of the koi pond near the quad. The stone beneath them is cool, but not uncomfortable.
Eventually, he speaks. His voice is quieter now. Less official, more him.
“Look,” he says, not looking at her. “I’m Mark.”
She glances sideways. He sees it, but doesn’t meet her gaze.
“I’m not some ball-busting teacher out to make your life hell. I’m just a guy. I got transferred here because I... fucked up my last job.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “My wife died. And I didn’t exactly bounce back the way they were hoping.”
Helena’s face doesn’t move, but something behind her eyes shifts. Her gaze doesn’t flinch away like most people’s would. She just listens.
“I’m not trying to ruin your night,” Mark continues. “I get wanting to be alone. I do. I just... I don’t want to get fired during my first week because I let one student wander the grounds after curfew.”
He shrugs, still watching the trees.
“And I’m tired,” he adds simply. “I want to go to bed.”
She chuckles a little at that.
She looks down at the book in her lap, then back out at the night, as if weighing something in the dark. When she speaks, her voice is quiet.
“Okay.”
Mark turns his head toward her. “Okay?”
She stands, brushing off the back of her skirt. “I’ll go to bed.”
“You will?”
Helena shrugs. “Whatever. It’s fine. My roommates are probably asleep by now anyway.”
There’s something in her tone that tugs at him an edge of resignation that doesn’t match the flippant words. He watches her for a second longer.
“Helena, do you wait until they’re asleep to go to bed?” he asks, careful.
She doesn’t answer.
With a shrug, she adjusts her bag and slings it over her shoulder again.
“Goodnight, Mark,” she says, already turning to go.
He smirks, watching her retreat. “Don’t call me that in front of people.”
She half-turns as she walks, just enough for him to catch the outline of her grin.
Then, just before she disappears into the archway, she calls over her shoulder:
“It’s Eagan, by the way.”
Mark straightens slightly. “What?”
She pauses. Looks back at him.
“Helena Eagan.”
And then she’s gone.
Mark sits there a moment longer, blinking at the empty space where she’d been.
“Shit,” he mutters to himself, leaning back against the cold stone wall.