SAINT-VÉRAN

SATURDAY DETENTION

I had been at Saint-Véran for exactly twelve days when I learned that being innocent did not necessarily mean being believed.

It was a useful lesson.

One I suspected the academy had been waiting to teach me.

Saturday mornings at Saint-Véran were usually quiet.

Most students slept until breakfast was nearly over, especially after Friday nights spent at parties in Montreux or sneaking into one of the old common rooms after curfew. The few who remained awake tended to belong to the sort of people who considered eight o’clock an acceptable time to go running around the lake.

I was not one of those people.

I liked Saturday mornings because the academy emptied itself.

The corridors became silent.

The dining hall lost its usual roar of voices and cutlery.

The library was almost entirely mine.

It was the closest thing Saint-Véran had to feeling peaceful.

I had been planning to spend the entire morning in the east library, finishing my history essay before lunch.

Instead, at seven forty-three, I was standing inside Lecture Hall C with my hands stained blue and the smell of permanent marker burning the inside of my nose.

I stared at the wall.

Then at the desk.

Then back at the wall.

“Oh, no.”

The words came out as a whisper.

Someone had vandalized the entire back section of the lecture hall.

Not accidentally.

Not carelessly.

Deliberately.

The old stone wall had been covered in enormous black letters.

SAINT-VÉRAN BELONGS TO US.

Someone had drawn the academy crest upside down beneath it.

There were crude symbols across three desks, paint splashed over the polished wood, and one of the antique portraits hanging beside the entrance had been smeared with blue ink.

I hadn’t done any of it.

Obviously.

I had come into the lecture hall because I couldn’t sleep.

That was all.

I had found the door unlocked.

I had stepped inside.

I had noticed one of the desks covered in ink.

And, because apparently I was incapable of minding my own business, I had tried to clean it.

That was when Professor Delacroix had walked in.

And now..

“Mr. Morel.”

I flinched.

Professor Delacroix stood in the doorway.

Her gray hair was pulled into a severe knot, and she held a folder against her chest with the sort of rigid disappointment that made me feel guilty even when I had done nothing wrong.

“Explain.”

I opened my mouth.

“I didn’t- ”

Her eyes moved past me.

Across the room.

To the ruined desks.

To the writing on the wall.

Then back to me.

“You were alone in here.”

“Yes, but- ”

“And you have ink on your hands.”

I looked down.

Blue stained the tips of my fingers.

“I was trying to clean it.”

“With your bare hands?”

“I couldn’t find anything else.”

She stared at me.

I wished desperately that I had simply left the room.

“Mr. Morel, do you understand how serious this is?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that this lecture hall contains artifacts belonging to the academy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that the restoration of these walls alone will cost thousands of francs?”

My stomach twisted.

“I didn’t do this.”

She said nothing.

That silence was worse than an accusation.

I swallowed.

“I came here to study.”

“At seven in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Yes.”

She sighed.

It was the kind of sigh adults used when they had already decided what they thought of you.

“Of course.”

My face burned.

I knew that look.

I had seen it before.

Not at school.

At grocery stores.

At offices.

At the apartment building where we used to live.

People looked at my cheap coat, my worn shoes, my secondhand laptop and decided things before I had even spoken.

At Saint-Véran, it was different.

Here, they looked at my scholarship.

Apparently that was enough.

“I swear I didn’t do it.”

Professor Delacroix closed her folder.

“You will report to Saturday detention at eight tomorrow morning.”

My heart dropped.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“But Professor- ”

“Mr. Morel.”

Her voice softened, but somehow that made it worse.

“You were found alone at the scene. Until we determine otherwise, you are responsible for what happened.”

“But that’s not fair.”

The words escaped before I could stop them.

Her expression hardened.

“Fairness has very little to do with disciplinary procedures.”

And then she walked away.

I remained standing in the ruined lecture hall.

For several seconds, I didn’t move.

Then I looked at the enormous words on the wall.

SAINT-VÉRAN BELONGS TO US.

“I don’t even want Saint-Véran,” I muttered.

“That’s unfortunate.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I turned.

Lucien Valmont stood in the doorway.

Of course he did.

He had a remarkable talent for appearing when I least wanted him to.

He was still wearing his rugby clothes, his academy training jacket hanging loosely over one shoulder. His hair was damp, probably from an early morning practice. A faint flush remained across his cheeks from the cold.

He looked at the wall.

Then at me.

Then at the ink on my hands.

His expression didn’t change.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

He raised one eyebrow.

I hated that eyebrow.

“Nothing?”

“Professor Delacroix thinks I vandalized the lecture hall.”

His eyes moved slowly around the room.

“And did you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you standing here looking guilty?”

“I always look guilty.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

He stared at me.

For some reason, I suddenly felt very self-conscious.

Lucien was the kind of person who could make an entire room feel smaller simply by entering it.

I looked away.

“You’re going to get in trouble for being here.”

“I’m already in trouble.”

I glanced at him.

“What?”

He stepped into the room.

“I was involved.”

My brain stopped.

“What?”

He walked toward the nearest desk.

“Professor Delacroix.”

“You were involved?”

“Yes.”

“But- ”

I looked at him.

Then at the vandalized wall.

Then at him again.

“Did you actually do this?”

“No.”

I blinked.

“Then why did you say you were involved?”

He shrugged.

I stared.

“You just got yourself detention.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

Another shrug.

I didn’t understand this boy.

I didn’t think anyone did.

Lucien walked to the wall and studied the writing.

He looked almost bored.

Then he picked up one of the overturned chairs.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

“What?”

“The chair.”

I looked down.

I had apparently been gripping the back of it like I intended to strangle it.

Lucien took it from me.

“Here.”

He turned it around and set it upright.

Then he picked up another.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

I watched him move through the room.

He didn’t complain.

He didn’t act annoyed.

He simply started cleaning.

That was the first strange thing.

The second was that he didn’t order me around.

The Lucien Valmont I knew from the corridors was always surrounded by people.

People who laughed at his jokes even when he didn’t make any.

People who followed him to lunch.

People who asked him about rugby.

People who wanted his attention.

This Lucien was different.

There was no audience.

No teammates.

No admirers.

No one watching.

He seemed almost...

quiet.

Not his usual cold silence.

Something softer.

I picked up a rag.

We worked.

For nearly twenty minutes, the only sounds were the scrape of chairs and the occasional squeak of a cloth against polished wood.

Eventually, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Why?”

Lucien looked up.

“Why what?”

“Why did you say you did it?”

He returned his attention to the desk.

“I told you.”

“No. You said you were involved.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not.”

“It is to Delacroix.”

“You’re going to get detention.”

“I know.”

“Saturday detention.”

“I know.”

“You have rugby practice.”

“I know.”

I stared at him.

“Then why?”

He finally looked at me.

His gray-blue eyes were remarkably difficult to read.

“Didn’t want you here alone.”

I waited.

That was it.

Apparently.

I frowned.

“I wouldn’t have been alone.”

“You were.”

“Professor Delacroix was here.”

“She left.”

“You were here.”

“Now I am.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I looked away.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Lucien said nothing.

I went back to cleaning.

My heart was doing something strange.

Probably because I was annoyed.

That had to be it.

I wasn’t going to let myself think anything else.

After another few minutes, he spoke.

“Where are you from?”

I looked at him.

“What?”

“Before Saint-Véran.”

“Lyon.”

He nodded.

“Your family?”

I hesitated.

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“I’m asking.”

Nobody had asked me that here.

Not really.

People asked what my grades were.

What scholarship I had.

Which university I wanted.

What I planned to study.

They asked about my academic record as though it were a résumé and not a part of my life.

Nobody asked about my family.

“My mother works at a bakery,” I said quietly. “My father repairs heating systems.”

Lucien nodded.

“Do you have siblings?”

“No.”

“Only child?”

“Yes.”

He wiped the desk.

“Do they know you’re here?”

“My parents?”

“Yes.”

I smiled faintly.

“My mother calls every night.”

“Every night?”

“Usually.”

“What does she say?”

I laughed.

“Mostly that I need to eat properly.”

Lucien’s mouth twitched.

Almost a smile.

I stared.

I had never seen him smile properly.

The expression disappeared so quickly that I wondered if I had imagined it.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

He continued wiping the desk.

“What about you?”

He went still.

I immediately regretted asking.

“Your family,” I clarified.

He looked at the windows.

“My father works.”

“Doing what?”

“Business.”

I knew better than to ask which business.

Everyone knew.

The Valmont family owned hotels, vineyards, shipping companies, property.

There were Valmont names on buildings all over Europe.

“And your mother?”

“She lives in Paris.”

“Do you see her often?”

“No.”

There was something in the way he said it.

A finality I recognized.

I decided not to ask more.

We continued cleaning.

The silence became comfortable.

Unexpectedly comfortable.

At some point, sunlight began slipping through the tall windows.

Dust floated through the beams of pale gold.

The lecture hall looked different in daylight.

Less intimidating.

The stone walls were warm instead of gray.

The old wooden seats had been polished so many times that they reflected the light.

I looked toward the blackboard.

“Do you ever like it here?”

Lucien leaned against a desk.

“Saint-Véran?”

“Yes.”

He considered the question.

“Sometimes.”

“When?”

“When no one’s around.”

I smiled.

“Me too.”

His eyes moved to me.

Something changed.

Just slightly.

Like we had discovered something we weren’t supposed to have in common.

I looked down quickly.

After another hour, the lecture hall was almost clean.

Almost.

There were still faint blue marks on the stone.

Professor Delacroix would probably have someone professionally remove them.

I rubbed my fingers together.

They were still stained.

Lucien noticed.

“Your hands.”

“I know.”

He reached into his bag.

I expected him to pull out something expensive.

Instead, he handed me a small packet of cleaning wipes.

I stared at it.

“Why do you have these?”

“Rugby.”

“Rugby players carry cleaning wipes?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

He looked at the blue stains.

“You’re a mess.”

I frowned.

“I’m not.”

“You have ink on your face.”

“What?”

I immediately wiped my cheek.

Wrong side.

Lucien sighed.

Then, without thinking, he reached toward me.

His thumb brushed gently across my cheek.

I froze.

So did he.

For one second, neither of us moved.

His hand was warm.

The contact was brief.

Barely there.

Then Lucien pulled away.

“Other side,” he said.

I stared at him.

“Oh.”

Brilliant.

Eloquent.

I looked down at the floor.

My face felt hot.

Lucien turned away.

For some reason, he looked uncomfortable too.

That made me feel slightly better.

We finished cleaning in silence.

When the clock reached noon, we were finally allowed to leave.

I packed my books.

Lucien picked up his bag.

At the doorway, I stopped.

“Lucien?”

He looked back.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

I shrugged.

“For getting detention with me.”

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then he said quietly:

“Don’t thank me.”

“Why?”

His gaze dropped briefly to the silver medal around his wrist.

Then returned to me.

“Because I wanted to.”

I didn’t know what that meant.

I pretended I did.

That was easier.

We walked back toward the dormitory together.

Not side by side exactly.

There was always a small distance between us.

But it was smaller than before.

And somehow, when we reached Room 317, I realized something that bothered me more than the detention ever had.

For the first time since arriving at Saint-Véran, I hadn’t felt like I was walking through the academy alone.