Ashwyck Academy for the Damned

Coffins and Cardigans

Isadora:

I was packing for my own funeral.

At least, that’s what it felt like. My suitcase lay open like a black coffin on my bed—if coffins came lined in school-regulation tartan. I eyed it with the same enthusiasm one might have for an arranged marriage or public execution. Neither of which sounded worse than Ashwyck Academy.

Gray sky filtered through the tall arched window, casting faint shadows across my bedspread. Even the weather seemed reluctant to say goodbye. My fingers paused over a folded blouse—white, high-collared, insufferably proper—and I resisted the urge to shred it in half. Or set it aflame. Either would be more honest than bringing it with me.

“I don’t see why you’re making that face,” my mother called from the doorway, her tone clipped but still wine-smooth. “Ashwyck is one of the finest academies in Europe.”

That wasn’t a selling point. That was a warning.

I turned just enough to catch her reflection in the mirror. Immaculate as always. Her lips painted the exact shade of disdain, her hair pulled back so tight I wondered how she ever managed to frown. “I’m not making a face,” I replied coolly. “This is just how my soul looks when it’s dying.”

She didn’t laugh. She rarely did.

Down the hall, Father’s oxfords tapped along the marble floor with military precision. “Car’s leaving in twenty,” he called. “Let’s not be late. Sir Henry’s got the trunk open.”

Right. Sir Henry, our long-suffering butler, chauffeur, funeral director, and—let’s be honest—the only living creature in this house who genuinely liked me. I was fairly certain he kept a soft spot for me under that stiff coat of his. Or maybe it was just pity. Hard to tell, given his face hadn’t changed expressions since I was nine.

I dropped a pair of ink-stained gloves into the suitcase. Then a journal. Then my favorite fountain pen—concealed in the pocket of a cardigan, lest anyone confiscate it for being “too expressive,” like my mother had my sketch charcoal and my annotated copy of Macbeth.

Ashwyck was a clean slate, they said. A fresh start to bloom into.... what ever I was.

Which meant: forget everything, become no one, blend in.

How delightful.

“Isadora,” Mother said, folding her arms, “you’re scowling.”

“I’m trying on expressions. Maybe Ashwyck will like this one better.”

She tutted. “Honestly.”

“Exactly.”

Father appeared behind her like a specter in tailored tweed, glancing at his watch again. “Are you packed?”

I nodded. “And emotionally voided, per your instructions.”

His brow twitched, but he didn’t correct me.

Instead, he stepped aside to let me pass as I heaved my suitcase off the bed. It groaned like it didn’t want to go either. I dragged it down the curving staircase where portraits of long-dead Gravelle's stared down with judgmental eyes and powdered wigs. One of them—Great Aunt Agatha—once poisoned her third husband. I always liked her best.

Outside, the car waited like a hearse.

Sir Henry, tall and glacial in his black coat, stood beside the trunk with his gloved hands folded. “Miss Isadora,” he greeted with a slight nod, his voice lower than the wind.

“Sir Henry,” I returned, offering him my suitcase.

He took it without complaint and placed it in the trunk with a reverence usually reserved for ancient relics or cursed objects. Frankly, my belongings were probably both.

“You know,” I said, stepping back, “you could just pretend the car is for a funeral. Throw some lilies on the hood. Slip a veil over my face. Really sell it.”

Sir Henry’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “That would be... unorthodox.”

“So is shipping your daughter off to a boarding school with more ghosts than students.”

“Allegedly,” he murmured.

I liked him best when he was cryptic.

Mother and Father descended the front steps in unison, like matching bookends. I half-expected them to say something sentimental. Instead, they looked at me like I was about to board a yacht, not a soul-sucking institution in the fog-drenched countryside.

“Write when you get settled,” my mother said.

“And remember your posture,” Father added.

I wanted to scream. Or maybe laugh. But instead, I nodded. Because that’s what you do when your family is allergic to feelings and thinks therapy is for the weak-spirited.

I slid into the backseat of the car, and Sir Henry closed the door behind me with the same quiet dignity he used to close mausoleums. The engine growled softly to life, and just like that, Gravelle Manor slipped into the mist behind me, one spire at a time.

I didn’t look back.

The drive to Ashwyck took four hours. We passed through towns with names like Hallow Hills and Murkmire. I stared out the window as the landscape darkened—forests so dense they swallowed the light, fields of rust-colored grass, crumbling chapels with doors that no longer opened. Even the air felt thicker. Like it had weight. Like it didn’t want to be breathed.

Sir Henry didn’t speak. He rarely did. The only sounds were the hum of tires over rain-slicked roads and the occasional caw of a crow overhead, which seemed painfully on brand.

Somewhere between Herefordshire and the edge of the map, we turned onto a narrow path flanked by wrought iron gates that groaned open as we approached. Beyond them, Ashwyck Academy loomed.

It looked like a castle that had been abandoned, then reluctantly repurposed for education. Spires pierced the gray sky like daggers. Gargoyles leered down from every ledge. Ivy clung to stone like it was trying to keep the place from crumbling into the earth. The windows were tall and thin and utterly indifferent. The whole structure looked like it might groan if you listened long enough.

We stopped at the foot of the main staircase. I stepped out into the cold, wet air and stared up at the building that would be my prison, my tomb, my new “opportunity.”

“I’ll take your bags to the registrar’s office,” Sir Henry said, lifting the trunk with inhuman calm. “You’ll want to check in before dusk.”

“Why? Do the walls start whispering after dark?”

His gaze was unreadable. “Among other things.”

That was... not reassuring.

He left me with that haunting little thought and vanished into the mist like the dignified revenant he was. I hoisted my satchel over one shoulder and climbed the steps. Each one echoed beneath my boots. Like the stones remembered everyone who’d walked them and were trying to warn me.

At the top stood a heavy wooden door, carved with the Ashwyck crest—a raven, a candle, and a crescent moon. Subtle.

I reached for the iron handle.

And hesitated.

Behind me, the wind howled through the trees like it was trying to drag me back. But ahead, I could already hear the faint strains of a piano echoing from somewhere deep within the halls. Minor key. Melancholy. Beautiful.

Like someone had left the door open to the underworld and forgotten to lock it.

I took a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to steady my spine.

Then I opened the door, and walked in.