Adrian stared at the rain streaking the glass, blurring the city into watery smears, with gaslights glowing like halos in the dark. His mind was a knot of frantic thoughts; how to persuade the counselor, how to twist or bend the theme into something he could grasp. Every idea felt hollow; every sketch was a mockery of the word love.
A sudden jolt from the carriage dragged him back. Startled, he blinked at the blurred outline ahead: St. Aldwych School of Art & Design.
The building rose out of the rain like something carved from shadow and ambition. Dark oak panels, arched windows like watchful eyes. Even after seeing it countless times in newspapers and pamphlets, the real thing always stopped him short.
Adrian climbed down from the cab as he tossed two shillings to the driver. The man tipped his cap in silent thanks as Adrian adjusted his coat against the wind. He opened his umbrella and turned towards the steps.
The cobblestone streets outside the academy gleamed like black glass, lined with wrought-iron lampposts glowing in soft yellow halos. Ivy crawled up the walls, clinging to the stone like stubborn dreams. The façade was a cathedral to art, with ornate carvings of cherubs, vines, and muses etched into the brick, their weathered faces seeming to judge everyone who entered.
He paused beneath the archway, rain dripping from the brim of his hat, his chest heavy with a mix of awe and dread. This was the place he had fought to enter. Now, he risked failing it before even beginning.
He drew a slow breath and stepped inside. If the exterior impressed, the interior overwhelmed.
Inside, warmth hit first: coal heat laced with varnish and damp wool. Adrian's boots clicked against the polished dark floors, his reflection rippling faintly beneath the glossy surface. Tall portraits of past masters stared down from oak-paneled walls, their eyes sharp with expectation. Gas lamps hummed softly above, mingling with the pale glow of early electric chandeliers.
As he walked, he stole glances through open classroom doors: rows of easels, the scent of turpentine hanging thick. Plaster busts of Venus and Apollo stood watch like silent instructors, and brushes lay soaking in glass jars on paint-splattered tables. Somewhere in the distance, he caught a glimpse of a quiet, candlelit room with rows of leather-bound books, scrolls, and sketchbooks of past alumni. The smell of old paper and ink dominated.
At last, Adrian reached the reception desk. A brass bell sat atop the counter beside a thick ledger.
"Ring!"
The sound drew the gaze of an old man seated behind a high oak desk, his thinning white hair slicked back, spectacles perched low on his nose. His face was a map of deep lines, and his ink-stained fingers drummed against the desk as he looked Adrian up and down.
"What do you want, young man?" he asked.
Adrian removed his cap, bowing down slightly. "I am here for Professor Bexley."
"Do you have an appointment?" The man's voice carried a dry rasp, like parchment rubbed too thin.
Adrian froze, heat rising to his cheeks. "Ah… no, sir."
The receptionist's eyebrows climbed. He sighed, the sound weary but not entirely unkind. His gaze flicked to Adrian's damp coat and dripping umbrella, as if deciding whether to pity him or scold him.
"Second door down the left hall," the man said at last, pointing with a crooked finger. "And next time, make a reservation. We're not in the habit of entertaining strays."
"Thank you," Adrian murmured, giving a quick bow before hurrying off. His shoes squeaked against the floor, nearly sending him sliding as he rounded the corner.
The old man watched him go, muttering under his breath, "Every year, they bring a stranger breed."