Chapter Text
You wouldn’t say you’re a nervous person…
Except actually you would, if you were being honest with yourself. You’ve told yourself the story so many times that it feels almost true: that you are composed, that your emotions are neat parcels wrapped in string, that your mind is a well-ordered library where nothing is ever out of place. But even in your own head a voice cuts through —No you aren’t, don’t kid yourself— and the tremor in your hands betrays you every time.
But yeah, right now you feel like you are about to have the biggest panic attack of your life.
Because right now… you’re standing at the foot of an abnormally long flight of stone steps, facing iron gates that frame a school you have researched to death.
Nevermore Academy rises beyond like a gothic dream. Steep gables, needle-fine spires, and windows that hold on to the light the way some people hold on to grudges.
You clutch your Resumé to your chest so hard the paper has developed a soft curve where your arm refuses to let it go.
You know the caretaker’s name, which yeah is a bit weird. You know how many faculty members took sabbaticals last year. You could probably draw the floor plan from memory, which is impressive because you’ve never set foot here before today. You’ve watched speeches, you’ve read donor records, you’ve skimmed disciplinary forms that were so heavily redacted they were practically abstract art.
And you know the headmistress.
Principal Larissa Weems.
The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen… on a screen, in a photograph, in an article. She's the kind of poise that makes you sit up straighter even when you’re alone.
You inhale, hold, and then exhale. And put one foot on the first step. Then another. And another. You count them as you climb, though you lose track around twenty-two because your brain keeps sprinting ahead to the office with the plaque that bears her name, to the chair where you will sit, to the space between question and answer where your whole life might tilt.
The wind lifts your coat as you climb, brushing across your calves. You think about being fifteen and stepping out of an airport into an American summer that felt like living in a hairdryer. You think about the advice you got on your second day; Lose the accent, sweetheart; people don’t like what they can’t place.
You didn’t lose the accent.
By the time you reach the doors, your thighs ache with the steady burn of determination. You press your free hand to the cool brass handle; it hums faintly against your palm like a tuning fork.
Inside, the foyer is a cathedral of quiet. Of course it is. There’s a week left of summer break. Flyers for clubs are pinned to a noticeboard with the lethargic optimism of things that will matter again soon. Oil portraits look down from the walls with calm, knowing gazes, and a chandelier scatters light onto the parquet floor like a constellation fallen and rearranged.
Your footsteps echo. You do try to step more softly but, of course, you somehow make more noise. The air smells faintly of beeswax and old books, a scent you could fold yourself into if you weren’t already sewn into your anxiety.
You wander the halls at a careful pace, letting your eyes drink the cornices, the panelling, the flicker of your reflection in dark glass. Every turn reveals another corridor the colour of old honey and quiet authority. Occasionally, the back of your neck prickles and you tell yourself it’s only the AC, only the way sound behaves in high-ceilinged spaces. You catalogue the prickle anyway, the way academics do. You observe, note, and do not name.
When you reach the double doors, you don’t have to read the plaque to know what it says.
Principal Weems
Your heart executes a credible impression of a drum solo. You stand there and… well, you shit bricks.
Not literally, of course, but your body has the decency to believe in metaphors.
You hate the way your pulse roars in your ears. You hate the way your palms go damp and your fingers try to fold the resumé into an origami crane of failure. You hate that your mind, traitorous as ever, offers you neat little images at the edge of your vision: a smear of movement in the corner by the skirting board; a shadow between the doors, flat and patient as a guillotine.
Silent. Always fucking silent.
They do not whisper, they do not hiss, but their intent is palpable —tilted towards harm, a hunter’s lean without the mercy of sound. They bloom, vividly, when you are too much of anything— too happy, too afraid, too angry. Today they are the shape of sharpened patience.
Today they wait.
Focus Amy.
You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and count backward from nine. You list the colours you can see the way your therapist taught you: the burnished gold of the plaque; the oxblood lacquer of the door; the shadowed green of a potted fern down the hall… no, holy shit… don’t focus on that. Just move on.
To… the… to the charcoal sweep of your coat. The soft cream of your resumé. The pale polish of your knuckles.
You lift your hand and knock.
And frighteningly so. The answer is immediate and devastatingly calm. “It’s open.”
That voice filters through the wood like warm smoke. So of course, you obey and push the door, and the office opens around you like a book.
You step inside and forget your own name.
Because the first thing you see isn’t Principal Weems. It’s her fireplace.
“Oh my god.” The words jump out of your mouth without your permission.
It dominates the room: a colossal Medusa carved in stone, serpents coiled and woven, their bodies looping in petrified choreography. The face is classical and terrible, lips parted just enough to suggest breath, eyes focused in that unnerving way some portraits manage. The suggestion that it knows something about you it shouldn’t. Flames curl behind ironwork at the base, light licking at the edges of the stone as if desperate to worship.
“That… that is the most impressive fireplace I have ever seen.”
A soft intake of breath from across the room. Then: “You’re either remarkably confident… or terribly unprofessional.”
You turn so fast your coat swishes. You feel you might actually faint. You might just actually introduce yourself to the carpet.
Principal Weems stands by her desk, one hand resting on a stack of neatly aligned folders. She is taller than you expected, which is saying something because you expected tall. Platinum hair swept back, a dress so exquisitely tailored it makes the word sharp feel sloppy. The pearls at her throat look like a decision rather than an accessory.
Suddenly you understand those anecdotes about people meeting royalty and forgetting how to bow.
“Right,” you say. “Sorry. That was… I didn’t mean… I am professional… Usually. Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you? “Hi” Lords… You consider throwing yourself into the fireplace just to end your sorry existence.
You watch as her mouth curves, its not quite a smile, but it’s kind enough to let you breathe. “Miss Corvin, I presume?”
“Uhm… Please call me Amelia. But yes, I’m Miss Corvin.” Your voice is steadier than it has any right to be. You cross the room and offer your hand.
Her handshake is cool and assured. “Do sit.” She gestures to a leather chair by the fire. “Your resumé?”
You pass it over, fighting the urge to apologise to the paper for having wrinkled it. She takes it between elegant fingers and begins to read, eyes sweeping with the efficiency of someone who already knows what she’s looking for and will find it.
“You have an impressive resumé, Miss Corvin,” she says. “Harvard doctorate. Guest lectures at Columbia and Brown. Published in The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism.” The corner of her mouth lifts a millimetre. “And a side note that you once debated a bishop on the ontology of beauty and won.”
You clear your throat. “He conceded. There was no blood.”
“I should hope not.” She sets the first page down and looks at you directly. It feels like being assessed by a benevolent hawk. “Tell me a little bit about yourself. Why Philosophy? What connects you to it? And why Nevermore?”
She doesn’t stop there. “What exactly made you want to teach? Passion, above all else, is important to me. I want my staff to be passionate but also kind. I want them to take initiative and encourage creativity… not only in the art of philosophy.”
The fire snaps as if punctuating her sentence. The Medusa’s stone eyes seem to narrow. Behind the principal’s shoulder, a shape gathers at the cusp of your peripheral vision and you do not look at it. You fold your fingers together in your lap until your knuckles go white.
“Oh, uhm,” you say, and you find your voice costly and worth every penny. “That is a fantastic question.”
You start with truth because it is the only thing sturdy enough to stand on.
“Philosophy, to me, is not just a subject to be studied. It’s a living, breathing entity. It exists in the spaces between logic and feeling, between history and innovation. Philosophy is in everything. It shapes cultures, preserves stories, and gives voice to emotions that words alone can’t capture.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. So you press on.
“My connection to philosophy has always been deeply personal. It’s been my companion in solitude, my escape in uncertainty, my means of understanding the world. And it’s something I can share. Philosophy bridges the gap between people; it lets us express what is often left unspoken.” You pause, because the urge to over-explain is a weed you’ve learned not to water. “As for Nevermore… Well, I am somewhat of an outcast myself, in more ways than one. So why not teach children that it’s not merely okay to be different, but that difference should be embraced? That creativity and uniqueness are strengths, not weaknesses.”
Your accent has thickened; you can hear it. But you aren’t going to apologise for it.
“And,” you add, daring the smallest smile, “because it’s one of the things I’m good at. Philosophy isn’t just a discipline; it’s a language. If I can help even one student see the world through a different lens, if I can give them the tools to observe, to question, to analyse, to find meaning where others may not… then I will have done my job well.”
The principal’s expression changes in a way subtle enough to count as a weather event. “Eloquent,” she murmurs. “Convincing.”
You don’t exhale. Not yet. Larissa gives you the vibe that she is the sort of woman for whom compliments are not conclusions.
“You understand that Nevermore is… unusual,” she continues. “Our students are gifted in ways that require not only academic prowess but composure. You will be asked to remain calm in circumstances most would find challenging. You will be asked to model a kind of emotional equilibrium.”
Your body chooses that moment to test your limits. The shadow at the edge of your vision lengthens, smudging across the bookcase like spilled ink. Another unfurls by the door, tall and patient, the suggestion of shoulders and a head bowed as though to charge. They are silent, but their presence speaks hunger in a language your nerves know too well.
You keep your gaze on Larissa. “I understand.”
“I see you’ve never worked in a facility that specialises in outcasts.”
Oh, shit.
Well, you’re fucked.
“Uhm… no, not exactly,” you say honestly.
“You must understand that I take pride in the safety of both my students and staff,” she says. “Nevermore is home to very hormonal teenagers. Anxiety is high among classes. I cannot hire you with a good conscience. All my staff need outcast experience. I have had too many accidents.” She breathes in. “I am sorry, Miss Corvin…”
“N-no, it’s okay.” Your mouth is dry and your hands have developed a tremor that seems to come from a different weather system than the rest of your body. You glue your palms together in your lap, neat, as if neatness could make you acceptable again.
Shit. Fuck. Bollocks.
You feel the air in the right-hand corner of the room condense, as if the shadow has learned how to be heavier than the room’s light will allow. Then HE returns… more prominent than he’s ever been: a tall, thinner-darkness that has the personality of a blade. No footfall. No breath. Just intention. It crowds your peripheral vision and the skin of your neck tightens in response like a cautious animal.
“I understand,” you say, and you do. You really do. You are thirty-three years old for fuck sakes. You have a doctorates and you have taught students who could quote you to yourself, and still —still— this is a particular house with particular doors, and you haven’t lived in it yet.
“Really, I do.” That comes out softer, the vowel of “do” rounded by the accent you carried your whole life and never quite put down. You feel stupidly young, like the first day in Massachusetts when snow went up your sleeves because you’d never learned the snow’s rude language and the wind laugh behind your ears.
“Hmm… I know this isn’t what you wish to hear.” A pause. “I have some friends that owe a favour, if you will. Gain experience with dealing with teenage outcasts and the job is yours.” She doesn’t make it grand. She doesn’t make it pity. She makes it a path. One you're grateful for…
“Until then… I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate it,” you say. It isn’t eloquent, not by your standards, but it’s true and balanced. Your heart has begun to hammer the way it does in lecture halls when the lights go down and you’ve forgotten you have a body until it reminds you.
You release your hands and then lace your fingers again, the movement so small it could be imagined. You steady your gaze on the mantle, counting: one, two, three.
“I’ll send the introductions this afternoon,” Larissa suddenly says, her tone returning to that business-like tone.
And just like that, the stillness fractures.
You nod, way too quickly than you intended and make your way to the door, every step echoing against the high ceiling, it’s like a damn cathedral of dark wood and judgement.
The moment the door closes behind you, you feel it again. That presence. That familiar shadow brushing the back of your neck like a whisper with teeth.
You snap your head over your shoulder, your breath catching.
“WILL YOU FUCK OFF?”
🌹🌻🌹
The Weathervane smells of coffee and cinnamon and the faint smell of sweat. Its bell rings and you approach the counter, focusing heavily on the gleam of the espresso machine as if it were a talisman, and the barista lifts his chin in greeting.
“Sure you need more coffee?” he asks, a smile ghosting the corner of his mouth.
Your hands have a minor earthquake happening and it would be nice to have an excuse for it.
“Positive,”
Thankfully he doesn’t press. And the cup arrives hot and black, you take it to one of the corners, away from everyone, the corner where you can see the door and the street and your reflection in the window. You put the cup down and expect the smell to settle the city in your chest. Of course, it doesn’t work. Your hands won’t stop fucking shaking.
So you stare out the window and watch nothing for a bit because nothing is kind. Then something… not so nothing… threads into your hearing: the pitch of laughter that has been sharpened for a purpose. Not friendly. Not even playful. It’s the timbre of people who are practising being cruel because they haven’t yet learned what else to do with their fear.
You turn your head. Three girls have circled a fourth. The fourth is a smaller girl, hunched over a milkshake and has the look of someone who knows precisely what crying will cost her. The other three giggle and trill and leave the Weathervane in a hurricane of satisfaction. The room rights itself. The girl remains, brittle and damp-eyed.
You sit there a moment longer, not because you don’t know what you’ll do, but because your chest is full and when it’s full the shadows come closer. You can feel IT still, the way the corner grows denser without growing darker. Your mind offers you a set of instructions you’ve practised: count the breath; locate five blue things in the room; name three scents. Coffee, cinnamon, the faint wood of the stirring sticks.
You rise. Your legs feel like the first day of a new term… willing, shaky, in need of a ritual.
You take the two steps across the floor and keep your hands visible, gentle, as if approaching a bird.
“Hey, sweetie,” you say softly. “Can I sit?”
She nods without quite looking at you. You sit, keeping just the right amount of space between you… You're close enough to be company, but far enough not to crowd.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
“Yeah… I’m okay,” she says, and she makes the mistake of glancing up to see whether you believe her.
“Well,” you say, not unkindly, “I don’t agree.”
Puzzlement crosses her face then, it's a quick, delicate thing.
“You know what those girls said,” you continue, letting your voice hold its warmth without turning into pity. Pity has never saved you, so you won’t press it onto someone else. “Outcasts do belong in a ‘normie’ society. I think we’re actually pretty cool, in our own unique way.” You pitch the word cool like a joke at your own expense. Her mouth makes the shape of not-smiling that comes just before smiling.
“Do you like flowers?” The question surprises even you. It leaps up from some storage box in your chest labelled: things that worked when I was fifteen and needed someone to tell me there would be beauty later.
She nods.
“Which one’s your favourite?”
“Sunflowers,” she says, a bit too quickly, as if she expected to be quizzed on it.
“Fantastic choice,” you say. Then you extend your hand, palm turned upward, and with a deliberate grace, conjure a sunflower from nothing. Not a trace of soil, just the sudden, golden bloom resting gently in your palm, petals unfurling like a slow yawn.
You offer it to her, and smile.
“See? Beauty is in everything,” you say, and then, because your habit of teaching refuses to be suppressed at moments like these, “If you know where to look.”
Her mouth gives in and smiles, tiny and real. She touches the edge of the petal with her finger as if it might burn.
Before you can say more, you hear a voice, and the back of your neck prickles. Her voice is the kind of voice that can lower a room’s temperature and raise its dignity at once.
“Miss Walters… what happened? Why are you crying?”
The girl looks up, and you look because you can’t not. Principal Weems is framed in the doorway like a painting that has found its wall. She takes in the situation in less than a breath. You go to stand, of course you do, because her attention has the gravity of a planet and you are in its field, but she lifts a hand… So politely… and your knees obey: stay.
“Come, Emily,” she coos. “Let’s get you back to Nevermore. Would you like a hot chocolate for on the way?”
Emily nods, and a small miracle happens, the room’s edges actually relax. And Larissa smiles. “Go on, then,” she says to the girl, that’s is already moving.
You, who have been a professor long enough to recognise when you are being observed, feel the observation and do not perform for it. You slide the flower gently towards Emily, who tucks it into the pocket of her coat as if it were both treasure and proof. You smile at her then, before Larissa’s voice snaps you back to reality.
“Miss Corvin,” She says, and you meet her eyes and try not to set yourself on fire by doing so. “Thank you.” She waits for exactly the right number of beats between one sentence and the next. “Come along to my office tomorrow morning. You have the position.”
There are so many ways you could humiliate yourself here. So you take a breath, a breath that is pulled in too sharply. Nodding once. “Uhm… Yes, P-Principal Weems.”
She inclines her head, escorts Emily out as if escorting were an art form — news flash… it is— and is then gone. The only sign that she was truly there was that the bell tolls gently above the door.
You drink your coffee before it cools, then conjure another sunflower for the sake of it. The second one is better. And the third looks like a sunflower that has decided not to take itself so seriously.
🌹🌻🌹
You don’t sleep. And when your alarm goes, it feels as if some small mean god is plucking you out of a soft grave.
Fuck. You should have slept more.
You pad barefoot into your kitchen. And are bombarded with a bomb site. Fuck sakes your flat is an absolute mess. Definitely the aftermath of your week spent living out of piles and notebooks. There’s dishes piling up in the sink. You should really clean.
But you don’t, of course you don’t.
You sit at your little dressing table and begin the ritual that turns nerves into neatness.
Now, this is personal preference but you do your hair first. You brush through it until it shines and then divide the top section in two, crossing one over the other to make a soft twist that blooms at the crown. You fix it with pins. You plait two low braids at the back, steady and even, teasing a few wisps loose at your temples. You cross the braids and wrap them up and over, pinning them into a braided bun. You leave a curl to soften your jaw. The updo looks almost careless. But you know it would survive an earthquake.
You get dressed next. The white blouse, sleeves rolled to the correct point at your forearm. The tapestry waistcoat with its autumnal geometry… garnets and rusts, navy diamonds, nesting diamonds. The trousers: high waist, perfect pleats, the three brass buttons fastened with a satisfying snick. Socks that no one will see but you chose anyway, and your favourite pair of small heels. And then last but no least, the gold locket at your throat, resting in the small V the waistcoat allows.
You breathe. And again. One, two, three.
~x~
“Ah, Miss Corvin,” Principal Weems says. “Come, take a seat.”
Obviously, you do. You note the way she fills the room as if she were written into its architecture, the same way the hearth is.
You then wonder how many difficult conversations those stones have absorbed and held.
“I apologise for before,” she says, and it is startling to hear an apology voiced with such calm ownership. “But seeing you interact with one of our most easily unsettled students… You have a gift, Miss Corvin. And that is what I need in my classrooms.”
“I…” You stop, and start again. You don’t want to sound like you’re making the moment about your history, but you also don’t want to lie. “I’ve been in similar situations,” you say, “and I never had help.”
“I know what it’s like to feel as though you don’t belong anywhere. To be made to feel like an outsider, even among people like oneself. I always felt alone. The kind of loneliness you carry in your bones.”
“I just… I don’t like seeing people upset. Especially if they’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I know precisely what you mean, Miss Corvin.” Her mouth softens. “You have the compassion of someone who is willing to step up for those who share the same difficulties.”
“Can you start next week?” she asks. “You will have the week to get to know your students and your classroom, shadow some staff, learn our pastoral pathways.”
“I can, yes.” Your smile feels like a small sun you’re trying not to stare at directly. “Thank you, Principal Weems.”
“Good.” She stands, and you rise too. “The timetable is in this folder. A temporary ID, keys, and a staff handbook. Your room is on the second floor, east wing. Windows that stick; radiator that hisses. You’ll like it.”
“I already do.” You can’t help the way your voice warms.
“Excellent. And Amelia?” She waits until you meet her eyes. You try not to set yourself on fire by doing so. “Breathe.”