SAINT-VÉRAN

I arrive at Saint-Véran with one suitcase, a secondhand coat, and a scholarship letter folded so many times the edges have gone soft. The letter is in the inside pocket of my coat. I check for it twice before I even step out of the car. Then a third time. Just to be sure. The paper is still there. My name is still printed across the top. ELIAS MOREL. ACADÉMIE SAINT-VÉRAN. FULL ACADEMIC SCHOLARSHIP. I let my fingers rest against it for a second before pulling my hand away. I don’t know why I’m nervous. That’s a lie. I know exactly why. Because the academy in front of me looks like the kind of place I have only ever seen in movies. The taxi rolls to a stop beneath a pair of enormous wrought-iron gates. Gold letters are worked into the black metal. ACADÉMIE SAINT-VÉRAN. Below it is a crest: a shield surrounded by laurel leaves, with a mountain rising behind a thin silver cross. I stare through the window. “That’s the school?” The driver looks at me through the mirror. “Yes.” He says it like I should already know. I look back at the academy. For several seconds, I forget to breathe. Saint-Véran isn’t a school. It’s a castle pretending to be one. Gray stone towers rise above dark green trees. Narrow windows stretch three and four stories high. Ivy covers entire sections of the walls, winding around balconies and climbing toward pointed rooftops. Beyond the academy, the mountains are enormous. Snow sits on their peaks beneath a pale morning sky. And somewhere beyond the stone walls, hidden behind the trees, I can see the silver-blue surface of Lake Geneva. I suddenly become very aware of my coat. It’s old. Not terrible. Just old. The cuffs are slightly worn, and there is a tiny repaired tear near the inside pocket. My suitcase is worse. One wheel squeaks. The handle sometimes sticks. I bought it from a secondhand shop three years ago because it was the cheapest one that didn’t look like it would fall apart immediately. I look at the cars passing through the gates. A black Mercedes. A dark blue Bentley. Another black car with tinted windows. A driver in a suit steps out and opens the back door for a boy who looks about my age. The boy doesn’t even carry his own bag. Someone else does it for him. I look down at my suitcase. One wheel squeaks again. Wonderful. “First day?” the driver asks. “Yes.” “Saint-Véran?” “Yes.” He nods as if this explains everything. Maybe it does. “Good luck.” I don’t know whether he means it. I pay him, thank him, and step out. The cold hits me immediately. It smells like rain, stone, and pine. I pull my coat tighter around myself. Then I look up at the academy. I tell myself the same thing I’ve been telling myself since the acceptance letter arrived. Keep your head down. Study. Don’t cause trouble. Don’t embarrass yourself. Most importantly: Don’t let anyone know you’re terrified. I take hold of my suitcase. The wheel squeaks. I start walking. The courtyard is already crowded. Students move between the buildings in small groups. Some wear Saint-Véran’s black uniform with gold trim. Others are dressed in expensive coats that probably cost more than everything I own. Everyone seems to know everyone. They laugh. They shout greetings across the courtyard. They complain about schedules. They discuss parties. They talk about summer holidays as if casually spending two weeks in Monaco or skiing in Courchevel is something everyone does. I walk through them like a ghost. Nobody looks at me. I prefer it that way. A tall blond boy walks past me with two friends. “Did you hear the Valmonts bought the chalet in Verbier?” “Again?” “Apparently.” “Of course.” They laugh. I don’t know who they’re talking about. I probably shouldn’t care. I look down at the map the academy mailed me. There are four buildings. Five dormitories. A library. Two lecture halls. A sports complex. A chapel. A dining hall. A medical wing. Several courtyards. And apparently an entire underground passage system that the student handbook very specifically tells us not to enter. I stare at the map. Then at the buildings. Then back at the map. My first class is in fifteen minutes. Perfect. I walk toward what I think is the main academic building. Ten minutes later, I realize I’m in the wrong place. Five minutes after that, I realize I have absolutely no idea where I am. I stand beneath a stone archway, staring at a corridor that looks exactly like the corridor I was standing in five minutes ago. I turn around. There are two staircases. I have no idea which one I came from. “Brilliant.” I whisper the word to myself. A group of students walks past. I consider asking them for directions. I don’t. They look like the kind of people who would know immediately that I don’t belong here. Instead, I unfold my map again. The paper catches the wind. I grab it. My suitcase rolls backward. I grab the handle. The map slips from my hand. “No- ” I lunge for it. My suitcase catches on the corner of a stone step. The handle jerks. The suitcase tips. And I walk directly into someone. There is a hard impact. My shoulder hits a chest. My books fly from my arms. The map floats gracefully to the floor. My suitcase falls over with a humiliating thud. For one horrible second, the entire corridor seems to go silent. I freeze. “I’m sorry.” The words come automatically. I crouch down. “I’m so sorry.” I reach for my books. Another hand reaches for the same one. I stop. The hand is long-fingered, pale, and marked by faint bruises across the knuckles. I look up. And forget what I was going to say. He’s tall. Very tall. Broad shoulders beneath a perfectly fitted black Saint-Véran blazer. His tie is loosened slightly, as if he’s already bored with wearing it. Dark blond hair falls messily across his forehead. His face is the kind that makes you understand why people write songs about beautiful strangers. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. Gray-blue eyes. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t angry either. He’s simply looking at me. Like he has forgotten how to move. I look behind him. Two boys are standing several feet away. They’re staring. A girl nearby has stopped walking. Someone whispers something. Then another voice answers. “That’s Valmont.” My stomach drops. Another whisper. “Lucien.” I know that name. Not because I know him. Because I’ve already heard it three times since arriving. Lucien Valmont. The name appears on the academy website. Captain of the rugby team. National junior fencing champion. One of Saint-Véran’s highest-ranked students. His family has donated an entire wing to the academy. There is apparently a portrait of his grandfather hanging somewhere in the administration building. Everyone knows Lucien Valmont. Everyone except me. He looks down at the book in his hand. Then back at me. Something changes in his expression. It happens so quickly that I almost miss it. His eyes widen. Not much. Just enough. The faintest c***k in an otherwise perfect mask. His fingers tighten around my book. He looks at my face as if he’s searching for something. Then he says my name. “Elias.” I stop breathing. I don’t remember telling him my name. He stares at me. For one strange second, the corridor disappears. There’s only him. And the odd feeling that I’ve seen those eyes before. Not here. Somewhere else. Somewhere very far away. Then his expression becomes even stranger. Almost disbelieving. “You’re here.” His voice is quiet. I blink. “What?” He doesn’t answer. I glance behind me, wondering if he’s speaking to someone else. There is nobody. Just me. I point at myself. “Me?” His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Something sadder. Something I don’t understand. “Yes.” I stare at him. He looks familiar. That’s impossible. I have never seen him before. At least, I don’t think I have. “Have we met?” The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. His expression changes again. This time, whatever warmth had appeared disappears. “Apparently not.” I frown. “Sorry?” He gives me my book. His fingers brush mine. It’s nothing. Barely a touch. Still, something inside my chest jolts. I pull my hand back too quickly. He notices. Of course he notices. His eyes drop briefly to my hand before returning to my face. “You’re late.” I look at the clock mounted above the corridor. My first class begins in two minutes. “Oh.” Panic immediately replaces everything else. “I-I’m lost.” One of the boys behind him laughs. Lucien doesn’t. He bends down and picks up my map. He unfolds it. Looks at it once. Then folds it again. “You’ve been walking in circles.” My face burns. “I noticed.” “Obviously.” I look at him. He looks completely serious. Then, to my surprise, he holds out the map. “Come on.” “Where?” “History.” “You know where it is?” He gives me a look. “Yes.” I hesitate. He starts walking. After two steps, he glances back. I’m still standing there. “Are you coming?” I grab my suitcase. The wheel squeaks. He looks down. Then at me. Then back at the suitcase. He says nothing. For some reason, that is worse. We cross the courtyard together. I keep several steps between us. Lucien doesn’t seem bothered. People stare. I try not to notice. That becomes increasingly difficult when students openly turn their heads to watch us. A girl near the fountain whispers something to her friend. Both of them look at me. I immediately look at the ground. I shouldn’t be walking beside him. I know that already. He belongs here. I don’t. He looks like Saint-Véran was built specifically for him. I look like I accidentally wandered onto the grounds. “You don’t have to walk with me.” “I know.” I glance at him. “Then why are you?” He keeps walking. “Because you’ll get lost again.” “I won’t.” “You already did.” I have no response to that. We enter the main academic building. The temperature drops. The corridor is enormous, lined with dark wooden panels and portraits of former headmasters. Some are centuries old. Others are recent enough to look alive. Gold plaques beneath them list names and dates. The floors are polished marble. The ceiling arches overhead. Light pours through tall stained-glass windows. I stare. Lucien notices. “You’ve never been here.” It’s a statement. “No.” “First day?” “Yes.” “I know.” I glance at him again. “How?” He looks ahead. “You have the expression.” “What expression?” “Like you’re trying to memorize every exit.” I almost laugh. Almost. “Maybe I am.” “You should.” He says it so casually that I wonder if he is joking. Then we reach the classroom. He opens the door. Everyone inside looks up. The teacher stops speaking. Lucien walks in. The room immediately becomes quieter. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone. He simply walks to the back row. Then he looks at me. I realize, with horror, that the only empty seat is beside him. I stand in the doorway. “No.” Lucien raises an eyebrow. “What?” “I mean...” I glance around. There has to be another seat. The teacher looks at me. “Mr. Morel?” “Yes.” “Are you planning to join us?” My face burns. “Yes, sir.” I walk toward the empty seat. Lucien moves his bag off the chair. I sit. The teacher resumes his lecture. I take out my notebook. My hands are still shaking slightly. I force them to stop. This is Saint-Véran. I earned my place here. I earned this scholarship. I am not going to spend the first day hiding behind a desk. I look toward the board. Then I feel it. Someone watching me. I turn. Lucien is staring. Not at my notebook. Not at the teacher. At me. His expression is impossible to read. I whisper, “What?” He looks away. “Nothing.” I turn back around. But I can’t concentrate anymore. Because there is something about him. Something familiar. Something buried beneath the strange feeling crawling through my chest. A memory I can’t reach. A voice I almost recognize. A lake beneath a summer sky. A boy laughing. A silver medal catching sunlight. I blink. The memory disappears. I shake my head. It must be exhaustion. That’s all. It has to be. I look toward the window. Beyond the glass, the mountains rise behind Saint-Véran. Beautiful. Cold. Untouchable. I came here to study. To build a future. To prove that someone like me can belong in a place like this. I have no idea that by the end of the year, this academy will become the place where I lose almost every certainty I arrived with. I don’t know that the boy sitting beside me will become the person I trust most. I don’t know that the quiet boy from a forgotten summer is sitting less than a meter away. I don’t know that Lucien Valmont has remembered me for years. All I know is that on my first day at Saint-Véran, I got lost. I collided with the academy’s golden boy. And somehow, he looked at me as though he had been waiting for me to come home.