THE NINTH SEAT

The rain hits the taxi roof like it's personally offended. I press my forehead to the cold window and watch Ravenswood Academy rise out of the mist like something that should've stayed buried. Stone towers stab at the low clouds. Ivy claws up the walls like it's trying to drag the whole place back into the earth. The iron gates are open, but they look like they're waiting to snap shut. The driver grunts. "You sure this is the right stop, miss? Looks more like a haunted house than a school." I don't answer. He's not wrong. I pay, grab my suitcase, and step out into the downpour. Water soaks through my coat in seconds. My boots squelch on the gravel drive. Somewhere a bell tolls deep, slow, like it's counting down to something. I tell myself it's just the chapel clock. I tell myself a lot of things lately. Seven years. That's how long it's been since Lydia walked through these gates and never walked out. My sister. The golden one. The one who sent postcards with laughing emojis and promises of "I'll visit at half-term, swear." The one who vanished like smoke. I'm not here for closure. Closure is for people who believe in tidy endings. I'm here because the last postcard she sent had a photo of the main quad, and on the back, in tiny handwriting squeezed into the margin: *Don't come looking. Please.* She knew I would anyway. The entrance hall smells of old books, wet stone, and something faintly metallic like blood you can't quite place. A woman in a severe blazer Mrs. Hargrove, deputy head, according to the email waits with a clipboard and the kind of smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Elara Voss." She says my name like she's tasting it. "Welcome to Ravenswood. Your sister was… memorable." Past tense. Of course. She hands me a key and a map folded into sharp creases. "Dormitory wing, third floor. Supper at seven. Assembly tomorrow morning. Try not to get lost the corridors have a habit of rearranging themselves." I almost laugh. Almost. Instead I nod, polite as ever. Rage folded neatly behind manners. That's my specialty. My room is at the end of a long corridor that smells like dust and secrets. Single bed, desk, wardrobe that looks like it's judging me. One window overlooks the quad empty now except for rain and shadows. I drop my suitcase and unzip it. Clothes, books, the small wooden box Mum insisted I bring. And at the bottom, tucked inside a sweater I never wear: Lydia's old leather journal. I shouldn't have it. The police took everything they could find when she disappeared. But this one was hidden in the lining of her trunk, overlooked. I only found it last year, when I finally went through her things. I sit on the bed and open it. The pages are warped from damp. Her handwriting is sharp, slanted, impatient like she was always in a hurry. Most entries are normal: complaints about Latin prep, doodles of ravens, a rant about the "stuck-up prefects." Then, near the end: *The Council isn't what they say. Nine seats. Eight filled. The ninth is never empty for long. They need someone willing. Or at least someone they can make willing.* A line scratched out so hard the paper tears. *If you're reading this, don't * The rest is gone. Ripped out. I close the journal. My hands are shaking. I tell myself it's the cold. A knock at the door. I shove the journal under the pillow. "Yeah?" The door opens. A girl with short platinum hair and a nose ring leans in uniform worn loose, sleeves rolled, like the dress code is a suggestion. "You're the new girl. Voss, right?" "Elara." "Mara. Your roommate's stuck in London train delay. You've got the place to yourself tonight." She grins, sharp. "Lucky you. Want the tour?" "I'll figure it out." "Suit yourself." She starts to leave, then pauses. "Your sister. Lydia, yeah? People still talk about her. The vanishing act." A beat. "Especially the Council kids. They get weird when her name comes up." She's gone before I can ask what Council kids means. I cross to the window. The quad is empty. But across the way, in one of the arched windows of the old library wing, a figure stands watching. Tall. Dark coat. Hands in pockets. Staring straight at me. Then he turns away quick, almost flinchy and something about that small involuntary movement makes my stomach drop. I know that silhouette. Old yearbooks. Lydia's camera roll backups. Theo Harrington. Council president now. He was just a kid back then ten, maybe eleven. He shouldn't remember her. Not really. But he flinched. I press my palm to the glass. The cold burns straight through. And there, in the fog my breath made on the window a shape. One digit, traced by a finger that wasn't mine. *9.* It fades before I can blink. But the prickle on the back of my neck doesn't. Somewhere deep in the building, a door slams. Not loud. Just deliberate. Like it already knows my name.