"Welcome to the Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls."

Eyes watery, awe-filled, stars pirouetting around her head so quick she became dizzy, Céleste Richel took a tiny step into the Entryway.

Wow.

She'd never express her true bewilderment here, out loud, in front of the Assistant Director, and mere seconds after her father's scoldings. The building's exterior alone impressed her—three stories of faded canary yellow and tall windows and slate-colored roofs—and she lacked the proper reaction for this.

How does a lady reveal her shock without squirming?

Her own home in Valeville often rendered men and women speechless; but this was different. Touched with pearly white accents and ornate railings and copper-coated door-frames, the Academy's main landing took her breath away.

She meandered farther inside, greeted by a wood-burning fire scent, a whiff of fresh-brewed lavender tea, and a lingering floral-and-forest cologne. To her right, a wooden banister lined a daunting curving staircase to an upper floor; to her left, a set of glass-encrusted doors opened into what appeared to be a parlor full of sofas, tables, and bookcases.

"Thank you, Mister—uh, Sir Knowles," she said, trembling as she peered at the man leading her into her new school. He wore a white wig, which was odd—it was January of seventeen-ninety-five, and to her knowledge, men had stopped sporting such items almost a decade ago.

I am but a girl lost in a sea of experienced students—how would I be aware of current trends?

"Upstairs you will find most of the classrooms," he said, one hand swerving to the steps, "but some lessons take place in our Music Room, adjoining the Ballroom. Also upstairs are the Library, containing my office, and our new Director's Study and personal quarters." His mouth scrunched side to side. "Miss M. is her name, your Director. She is also new, you see. You will not be the only one adjusting. She also arrived a bit after schedule." His gaze, a deep sienna filled with sternness, rested on her, scrutinizing her tardiness.

She gulped. "Father... we..." She winced. "We are sorry. I am sorry."

It was her father's fault—he had stops to make on the road, gifts to find for the former Queen, mourning her departed husband. Wedding presents to scrounge up for the new King and his future wife.

"No bother, Miss Richel." The man's demeanor was warm enough, though reminiscent of her father's. They might have been about the same age, too; caught in their forties, eyebrows bushy and graying, flecks of a mustache above a thin set of lips.

She shivered, not wanting to remember him, not now. Not after what he said when she alighted from the carriage moments ago. Not after how he reminded her she didn't deserve this, and he only brought her here because of Mother.

Mother...

They stopped at a giant red carpet that splattered in the middle of the Entryway, leaking towards the bottom of the steps, its edges fraying a few inches short of the parlor-like room. Sir Knowles wrinkled his nose when they trudged over it and pointed at a door by the staircase.

"That takes you to the kitchens. Do not sneak in there at all hours of the night for snacks; we already have a Sophomore student doing that." He groaned and seemed to fight an eye-roll. "The Dining Room is down the way, but one can access it from the kitchens, too."

What did the cooks serve? She recalled many a feast in her father's giant Dining Hall. Pork and beef and fowl, potatoes and beans and decadent soups. And desserts, oh, the desserts! Fruit tarts and cream pies and fluffy flavored breads—her mouth watered at the thought.

Mouths watering, daydreaming girls, ladies losing themselves in ideas—these were the things Sir Richel warned her about. The attitudes he advised her to stop if she was to become a pupil of the famous Academy for Noble Girls.

"Your mother wanted this but I hesitate, Céleste. Your mind is not fit for such learning. You are not ready. Too improper and too young, and you refuse to cease reading! Ladies do not read such novels, they do not! They cannot. Your mother—"

"Miss Richel, are you coming?"

Céleste shook herself from her memories—the heated exchange with her father, a few months prior—and scampered after Sir Knowles, who had progressed further down the hall. He stooped beneath an intricate carved archway and arrived at a door lined with silver, resting his hands on the polished knobs.

"The Ballroom," he jutted his chin at the threshold, "is an important part of the Freshman tour, so please pay attention."

She tucked her father's comments in a pocket of her mind, trying her damnedest not to think of her deceased mother and what she would have said. Forcing a smile onto her face, she twisted to Sir Knowles. "Of course, my apologies!"

When he pushed the doors open, a trace of pine-scented air whooshed up to her cheeks. She inhaled the breeze in a most unladylike fashion, but if Sir Knowles had noticed, he said nothing, zoning in on two ladies across the way, their backs turned as they peeped out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Miss Bristol!" Sir Knowles' once warm voice fizzled out like a horde of blazing arrows aiming at enemies. He stomped into the chandelier-illuminated room, his footsteps sending giant gusts of wind into the flames from the twin fireplaces on either side of the area. "How many times have I told you? This Ballroom is not for your leisure!"

He stopped a few feet from an auburn-haired girl wrapped in a bright bonbon-colored chiffon dress that engulfed her; and another lady, fair with faded strawberry curls, froze and squealed upon seeing him.

"Sir—"

"—and you, Miss Thatcher; did you not learn last year how coveted your position is?"

Both lowered their chins and muttered excuses that Céleste couldn't hear.

Thatcher? That name is familiar.

She rose onto her tip-toes to visualize what the girls had been gaping at, confused why the Assistant Director would make such a fuss—but Sir Knowles blocked her view.

"As Sophomores, I expect you to compose yourselves. This, ladies, is not composure!" Spittle flew from his mouth as he teetered before them, red-faced and stiffening.

The students inclined their heads, fumbled with more apologies, and shuffled out, their skirts whipping into Céleste's demure cerulean gown as they giggled.

Amazed at the man's power and how fast he cleared the room, Céleste swirled back to find him adjusting the lapels of his maroon coat.

She shrugged away a strand of her dirty blonde hair as it tickled near her temples. "Sir, what did they—"

"—do?" He scoffed as he marched up to her. "Oh, they have nerve. In the presence of a Freshman, no less! I will write to their fathers." He flinched. "Ah, I mean, our new Director will." He erased his grimace and raised his arms, spinning on his heels, all trace of irritation gone. "Anyway, this is the Ballroom! We hold Graduations here, in late November. And dance lessons requiring more space than the Music Room can accommodate."

Céleste marveled at the grandeur, the emptiness, the light-wood floors stretching from one end to the other. At the flowered teal wallpaper with ornamented gold trimming, the white-marble hearths, the bare buffet tables scattered in a corner.

"It is beautiful."

She could tell she'd have difficulty not sneaking into the room, like the Sophomore girls; to not daydream of dancing in over-sized gowns of glamorous glitter.

He guided her out, flashing a weak smile as he motioned for her to go with him towards the Entryway. "Your father brought you here, yes?" She nodded. "He already departed, correct?"

She blushed; of course, most Freshmen students enrolling at the Academy had this tour with their parents. But her father had little time to spare her; Emeric, her eighteen-year-old brother, was beginning his final term at the Torrinni Military Academy—a fine establishment for all eligible Totresian noble-boys. That event mattered more to Marquess Barnabé Richel than his youngest child's first day at the lady's Academy, so he had to hasten on to Torrinni to deliver Emeric.

"Yes, but he left a few of his men to help with..." She glanced at the open front doors, imagining the pebbled courtyard below and the trunks piled up where Sir Richel had dropped them. "To help with my things."

She gulped, embarrassed, fearful others would notice her distress and mock her, snicker at her solitude, single her out for being different. Girls like the two Sophomores they encountered in the Ballroom, quiet and bashful; or meaner ones, those who gossiped, like the vipers portrayed in her works of fiction. The snide ones who bullied newcomers and caused them to fail, break their teacups, fall from their horses during riding classes.

Do such creatures exist, or are they only in my fantasy world of books?

Books—those always sent jolts of joy to Céleste's heart but often accompanied by cold sweats and tremors.

"Do not even think to bring any of your outrageous novels with you, young lady!"

Though she shivered, she smirked at the memory—because despite her father's warnings, she snuck a few of her favorites into her belongings. Smuggled them in her chests of clothes, between thick cloaks and cotton gowns; and she'd stashed rolls of parchment and her quill and diary, too. Which Barnabé Richel would have killed her for transporting into such a refined and renowned Academy. A location where ladies learned their proper place and fancy etiquette lessons and how to drink without spilling. They had no time to read and write prose and poetry for leisure; no time to daydream over fairy-tale worlds and epic adventures and dashing Princes.

If only Mother were still alive. She would have eased me into this, she—

Jamming her teeth onto her lower lip to stop it from quivering, she peeked at Sir Knowles, who, it seemed, had been staring at her.

"Are you certain you are all right, Miss Richel?" A soothing softness trickled from his sympathetic grin.

"I am fine, Sir Knowles, I promise. A tad homesick."

He brought her to the main staircase, and she grasped the banister. "It is overwhelming, I know. A young girl of fifteen, sent far from home, locked in a manor surrounded by luscious greenery but unable to explore it. Examined by teaching nuns and cloistered in intimidating classrooms and drowning in assignments and textbooks." At his last word, she perked up and almost slipped, but he caught her by the elbow and chuckled. "Ah, books. You like those, yes?"

She nodded so fast she again lost her balance, but this time Sir Knowles wasn't quick enough—her foot slid down a few steps and her chin came inches from slamming onto the stairs. Somehow, her palms clapped against the surface first, saving her nose from breaking.

Sir Knowles gasped and heaved her up, throwing out apologies for not catching her sooner, asking if she had hurt her ankle or arms, inspecting her face for bruises like a father would to his baby girl. Yet the damage was done, and she had no way to avoid the shame heating her cheeks.

To make matters worse, two girls trotted down the stairs, covering their mouths to hide their guffaws; and one sported an icy blue stare that intensified the reddening of Céleste's skin.

Céleste brushed herself off, keeping her gaze cast down, squeezing against the railing to steer clear of them; but no matter how hard she tried, she found it impossible to not scowl as they cackled louder, not bothering to be discreet. One mumbled "watch your step, newbie!" as they landed on the ground floor and hurried off who-knew-where.

Sir Knowles watched them, frowning; and once they disappeared, he offered his arm to Céleste, helping her readjust herself. "Ignore them. Sophomores here tend to tower over Freshmen, though they are not much higher up on the scale." He shook his head as they resumed their trek upwards. "Especially those two—beware of them. Rumor has it they are terrors, but I have yet to catch them myself."

She couldn't communicate her true thoughts. Father would have her head for that. But what she wanted to ask was why? Who were these two to assume they could run around mocking anyone who struggled to climb these treacherous steps? Were their fathers more important, higher nobility, fervent contributors to the Academy? Were they the best students, which allowed them to get away with actions other ladies would receive punishment for?

"Perhaps you wish to rest, settle into your quarters before meeting to go over your schedule and what you will need to catch up? I daresay the Director..." He winced as they reached the top, and held Céleste back, not permitting her to move any further. "I doubt she is adept to receive visitors yet, as she familiarizes herself with her new surroundings."

Céleste glimpsed around him, to the right, noticing copper candles hanging from velvety chestnut-colored walls, illuminating a narrow passage with two doors.

He said his office and hers were up here.

The Assistant Director strode forward and pivoted, fingertips cupping his chin. "What do you think, Miss Richel? Best to have your father's men bring up your things, and you can unpack and freshen up." He tipped and glanced to his left—Céleste's right, down the mysterious corridor. "Or we may go straight to my office, and on the way take a brief stroll through the Library?"

Her heart sped up and her nerves exploded with fireworks and her lips tugged into a wide grin.

The Library.

A heaven of books in a place where, at least for an occasion, her father had no say in what she did, in what tomes she lifted off the shelves, in the quantity of manuscripts she read and the subjects they dealt with.

"Library? Am I... am I allowed inside, Sir?" Anticipation fluttered in her tone, and she cringed at her excitement, wary it didn't suit a young Freshman of the Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls.

If he agreed, if he found it distasteful, Sir Knowles only winked as he jutted his jaw towards the dim hall. "You have not yet started your courses, and I recognize a true bibliophile when I meet one," he said, his voice low, secretive. "As long as you promise to not spend every waking moment in there, and you focus on your ladylike studies, I do not see why you cannot peep at the books we offer. They are not to the levels of the Torrinni Castle Library, but... well, come along."

Tiptoeing, as if any noise would give them away and ruin their excursion, Sir Knowles led her down the hallway and pried open a door to their right.

The Totresian Academy Library.

Gravity yanked her jaw downward as she discovered a glowing room of high bookshelves, watercolor landscapes on taupe walls, silver sconces decking the corners. Scarlet books basked at her from dusty shelves. Worn-down leather bindings howled her name, begged her to handle them with care and caution. The scent of crisp pages and dried ink floated into her nostrils, pulling her from her troubles, her discomfort, her anxiety.

Her woes about the Academy, her father's reminders she'd never fit in, her brother's warnings she had to grow up—all disappeared. Crammed beneath the heaps of books she planned to read, regardless of what anyone thought.

•••