Some wounds just don't heal.
And not all love is bulletproof.
In the aftermath of the disaster at Arrowsmith Institute for Excellency, Freya Arsov is left rattled to her core.
She had it all. Four best friends who would do anything for her. A boy...
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BEATRICE JAWARA HAD LIVED MANY LIVES.
So much so, that she wasn't sure she was living at all.
Was it living, after all, to die, over and over again, and rebirth yourself anew each time? Or was it something crueller?
The halls of Arrowsmith Institue for Excellency rang with cruelty. And if you somehow missed that, you could feel it in the stares, in the tilt of lips, in the tapping, expectant fingernails on textbooks.
Hunters. They were hunters. And she was fresh meat.
She walked from the silent, unwelcome halls of Ebony House by herself, hair tied into a high ponytail, books in hand.
England— she would never get used to England's weather and the drifting breeze which touched her cheeks as she left the house spoke of winter.
She wasn't sure which was colder, the glare of Freya Arsov's empty room or the day's weather.
The four girls who shared the house with her had done a good job of avoiding interacting with her in the few hours she'd stepped into its walls. The front door had opened three times since Helena Chapman had confronted Juliet on the front steps. The final time it had opened, it slammed open.
"Maye," Beatrice heard a voice drift upstairs from the foyer accompanying the slam. "No."
She knew they were referring to her, somehow.
And Juliet's voice following that brief warning confirmed it. A sigh. "Let's leave leave her be."
And leave her be they did.
She was thankful for this, for it gave her time to organise her thought, to sort through the twisting vines of Ebony House.
Just this morning, she'd found herself typing a name into Instagram.
Freya Arsov's Instagram had not been updated in two months.
She had a mighty following, likely eager eyes ready to consume the glimmer of life that flashed across a screen. They didn't seem to care that life on social media was not life at all. The little blue tick beside her name spoke of her notoriety. Beatrice had one of those little ticks but it was for less infamous reasons.
