Thornefield Academy had been educating the children of Albenmere's elite for over two hundred years. Its halls were lined with portraits of distinguished alumni, its library contained volumes that predated the current royal dynasty, and its student body was composed entirely of the sort of people who said things like "summer estate" without irony.
Into this bastion of refined society, Vera Ashton walked like an armed invasion.
"Is that her?"
"The Whitmore bodyguard?"
"I heard she can break a man's arm in three places."
"I heard she doesn't sleep. Just stands outside his door all night."
"My cousin said she once threw a boy down a flight of stairs for bumping into him."
The whispers followed Vera through the corridor like a physical presence. She ignored them with the same efficiency she ignored most things that weren't direct threats to Adrian's safety.
Adrian, walking slightly ahead of her, was completely oblivious to the stares. He was reading while walking—a terrible habit that Vera had failed to break him of—his nose buried in a book on economic theory.
"Did you know," he said without looking up, "that the textile workers' rebellion of 1802 was actually precipitated by a seventeen percent increase in cotton prices rather than the commonly cited wage disputes? It's fascinating how historical narratives can be—"
He walked directly into a marble column.
Vera's hand shot out, catching the back of his collar and pulling him sideways before his face could make contact with two hundred years of architectural history.
"—simplified," Adrian finished, blinking. He looked at the column, then at Vera. "Ah. Thank you."
"Watch where you're walking."
"I was reading."
"Watch where you're walking while reading."
"That seems unnecessarily complicated."
Vera's jaw tightened infinitesimally. Around them, at least a dozen students had witnessed this exchange. By lunch, it would be forty students. By dinner, the entire school would know.
She could already hear the gossip forming: Did you see how she grabbed him? So possessive. They must be—
"Mr. Whitmore!" A cheerful voice cut through Vera's thoughts. "Finally! I've been looking everywhere for you!"
A boy emerged from the crowd—tall, blond, wearing the kind of smile that suggested he found the entire world delightfully amusing. Charles Hartwick, son of a shipping magnate, and one of the few students who'd attempted to befriend Adrian.
"Charles," Adrian said, closing his book. "Good morning. I was just heading to—"
"Professor Caldwell's office, I know. But that's not for another twenty minutes, and I need your help desperately." Charles clasped his hands together in mock supplication. "The Latin translation. The one due this afternoon. I'm going to fail spectacularly unless someone with actual competence takes pity on me."
"It's not that difficult if you just apply the grammatical rules—"
"Adrian. My friend. My dear, brilliant friend." Charles draped an arm over Adrian's shoulders. "I have applied the rules. The result was something that I'm fairly certain translates to 'the horse eats my grandmother's hat.' I need help."
Adrian laughed. "That's not even close to the actual passage."
"Hence the desperate plea."
Vera watched this interaction with the focus of someone observing a potential threat. Charles Hartwick was harmless—she'd verified this weeks ago through observation and discrete inquiry. But habit made her catalog every detail anyway: his posture (relaxed, non-threatening), his hands (visible, empty), his tone (genuinely friendly, no sarcasm).
Charles glanced at her, and his smile faltered slightly. "Miss Ashton. Lovely morning, isn't it?"
"Mr. Hartwick," Vera acknowledged.
"Right. Yes. Well." Charles turned back to Adrian, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "Does she ever smile? I'm genuinely asking. I've been trying to figure it out for weeks."
"Charles," Adrian said, his tone mildly reproachful.
"What? It's a reasonable question! She's terrifying. I'm not ashamed to admit it."
"She's not terrifying. She's professional."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive," Charles muttered. Then, louder: "Anyway. Latin. Please? I'll owe you my firstborn child."
"I don't want your firstborn child."
"Good, because I'm not planning on having one. Babies are sticky." Charles steered Adrian toward an empty classroom. "Come on. Twenty minutes. That's all I need."
Adrian glanced back at Vera. "I'll just—"
"I'll wait outside," Vera said.
"You don't have to—"
"I'll wait outside," she repeated.
Adrian opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then seemed to think better of it. He let Charles pull him into the classroom, and Vera took up position beside the door.
Two paces to the side. Optimal sight lines. Easy access if needed.
She'd barely settled when two girls rounded the corner and stopped dead at the sight of her.
First-years, Vera noted. Probably fourteen. Both staring like she'd sprouted a second head.
"Um," one of them said. "Is this... are you guarding the door?"
"Yes," Vera said.
"Oh. Okay. We were just going to—"
"Find another route," Vera suggested.
The girls fled.
Vera returned her attention to the classroom. Through the door, she could hear Charles and Adrian's voices—Charles dramatically bemoaning his fate, Adrian patiently explaining verb conjugations.
"I swear she's not human," a voice whispered from down the hall.
Vera's eyes shifted. Three boys, huddled together, not-quite-successfully pretending they weren't talking about her.
"My brother said the Whitmores hired her from some kind of military academy."
"Don't be stupid. There are no military academies for girls."
"Then where did she learn to fight like that? Did you see what she did to Pemberton yesterday? One look and he practically wet himself."
"Pemberton's an idiot."
"Pemberton's terrified. There's a difference."
Vera kept her expression neutral. She'd learned years ago that reacting to gossip only encouraged it. Better to be a statue. Better to be furniture.
Better to be invisible except when absolutely necessary.
The classroom door opened. Charles emerged, looking relieved.
"You," he said, pointing at Adrian, "are a saint among men. I might actually pass now."
"You'll definitely pass if you actually study instead of relying on last-minute help," Adrian said.
"Where's the fun in that?" Charles noticed Vera and jumped slightly. "Christ. I forgot you were there."
"Most people do," Vera said.
"See? Terrifying." Charles backed away, hands raised in surrender. "I'm going to go... not be here. Adrian, I'll see you at lunch?"
"Of course."
Charles fled with the same speed as the first-years.
Adrian watched him go, bemused. "I think you might be scaring people."
"Good," Vera said.
"That's not good. You should have friends."
"I have adequate social connections."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard." Adrian checked his pocket watch—the one he'd tried to give her, the one she'd ultimately refused despite his insistence. "I have ten minutes before Caldwell. Want to walk?"
It wasn't really a question. Adrian was already moving, and Vera fell into step behind him.
They walked through the Academy's main corridor, past classrooms and trophy cases and clusters of students who all stopped talking the moment they appeared. Vera tracked every face, every movement, every potential threat.
There—two third-year boys who'd made crude comments about Adrian last week. There—a group of girls who'd been spreading rumors about the Whitmore family's financial situation. There—a teacher who'd once suggested that Adrian should "toughen up" if he wanted to succeed in society.
Vera catalogued them all. Remembered them all. Filed them away for future reference.
"You know," Adrian said, stopping in front of a window that overlooked the Academy grounds, "sometimes I think you see threats everywhere."
"That's because threats are everywhere."
"That's a bit paranoid."
"That's realistic." Vera joined him at the window, maintaining her professional distance. "You're the heir to a considerable fortune. That makes you a target."
"For what? Aggressive debutantes?"
"Among other things."
Adrian laughed. "You make my life sound far more dangerous than it is."
Vera didn't respond. She was watching a groundskeeper below who was trimming hedges with motions that were slightly too aggressive, too focused. Probably nothing. Possibly something. She'd check with the head of household staff later.
"I'm serious," Adrian continued. "You worry too much."
"Someone has to."
"Why does that someone have to be you?"
Because eleven years ago, you gave me chocolate and a coat and a reason to live, Vera thought. Because you smiled at me like I mattered. Because you're the first person who ever treated me like I deserved kindness.
Because I would walk through fire for you and you don't even know it.
"It's my job," she said instead.
Adrian's expression did something complicated. "Right. Your job."
The words sat between them, heavy with something neither of them would acknowledge.
"I should go," Adrian said finally. "Don't want to keep Professor Caldwell waiting."
"Of course."
They walked to Caldwell's office in silence. Adrian knocked, was admitted, and disappeared behind the heavy oak door.
Vera took up her position outside. Two paces to the left. Perfect sight lines.
She'd been standing there for approximately ninety seconds when Madame Rothschild appeared.
"Miss Ashton," the etiquette teacher said, her tone warm but assessing. "Always at your post, I see."
"Madame," Vera acknowledged.
"You're very dedicated."
"I take my responsibilities seriously."
"Clearly." Madame Rothschild studied her with the sort of penetrating gaze that made lesser students confess to crimes they hadn't committed. "Tell me, dear. Do you ever tire of it? The constant vigilance?"
"No, ma'am."
"Never? Not even once?"
Vera met her eyes steadily. "Never."
It was a lie, of course. She was tired all the time. Tired of watching other girls flirt with Adrian. Tired of standing two paces back. Tired of being professional when all she wanted was to—
"Interesting," Madame Rothschild said. "Well. Don't let me keep you from your duties."
She swept away, leaving Vera alone in the corridor.
Through the door, she could hear Adrian's voice, animated and enthusiastic as he explained his thesis proposal. Professor Caldwell was laughing—Adrian had that effect on people. Made them smile. Made them want to help him.
Made them love him without even trying.
Vera leaned against the wall and closed her eyes for exactly three seconds.
Then she opened them, straightened her spine, and resumed her watch.
Lunch was held in the Academy's grand dining hall—a cavernous space with vaulted ceilings and long tables organized by year and social status. The noise level was considerable: two hundred adolescent aristocrats all talking, laughing, gossiping, and generally making Vera's job significantly more difficult.
She stood along the wall with the other staff—servants, tutors, the occasional bodyguard though none as young as her. From here, she had a clear view of Adrian's table.
He was sitting with Charles and two other boys from their year, discussing something that required considerable hand gesturing. Every few minutes, he'd laugh at something Charles said, and the sound would carry across the hall.
Vera watched. Waited. Catalogued potential threats.
"Is it true she sleeps standing up?"
Vera's eyes shifted. Two tables over, a group of second-year girls were whispering and pointing.
"I heard she doesn't sleep at all."
"That's impossible. Everyone has to sleep."
"Not her. She's not normal."
"Do you think she and Whitmore are—"
"Don't be ridiculous. She's his servant."
"But they're always together."
"Because it's her job."
Vera's expression didn't change, but something in her chest pulled tight.
Across the hall, a girl approached Adrian's table. Lady Helena Ashford—third-year, daughter of a diplomat, known for her beauty and her calculated social maneuvers.
Vera's attention sharpened.
"Mr. Whitmore," Helena said, her voice carrying that particular musical quality that girls like her seemed to cultivate. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
Adrian looked up, surprised. "Lady Helena. Not at all. Would you like to sit?"
He was already half-standing, pulling out a chair—because of course he was. Adrian Whitmore, gentleman to the core, would offer his seat to anyone who asked.
Helena sat with practiced grace. "I wanted to thank you for the notes you lent me last week. They were incredibly helpful."
"Oh. You're welcome. I'm glad they helped."
"You're far too generous with your time." Helena leaned slightly closer. "Most boys wouldn't bother helping a girl with her studies."
"I don't see why not. Education should be accessible to everyone."
Helena laughed—a delicate, tinkling sound. "You're wonderfully idealistic."
From her position against the wall, Vera watched this interaction with the clinical detachment of someone observing a chess match. Helena was positioning herself carefully, using the notes as an opening, establishing rapport. Classic approach. Moderately effective.
Adrian, predictably, was completely missing every signal.
"Idealism is underrated," he said earnestly. "If we don't believe things can improve, how can we expect them to?"
"That's a lovely way of thinking." Helena touched his arm lightly. "We should discuss it more. Perhaps over tea sometime?"
"That sounds—"
Vera moved.
She didn't plan it. Didn't consciously decide. But suddenly she was crossing the dining hall, her footsteps silent, her expression neutral.
Every conversation she passed died mid-sentence.
She reached Adrian's table and stood exactly two paces behind his chair.
Adrian turned, startled. "Vera? Is something wrong?"
"Your afternoon schedule," Vera said calmly. "You have Advanced Mathematics in twenty minutes. You'll need to review your problem sets before class."
This was true. It was also completely unnecessary—Adrian knew his schedule perfectly well.
"Oh. Right." Adrian looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Lady Helena. I should—"
"Of course." Helena's smile didn't waver, but her eyes had gone cold. She stood with perfect poise. "We'll continue this conversation another time, Mr. Whitmore."
She left. Her friends followed, all of them shooting Vera looks that ranged from intimidated to outright hostile.
Adrian watched them go, then turned to Vera with mild confusion. "I know my schedule. You didn't need to—"
"It's my job to ensure you're prepared," Vera said.
Charles, who'd been watching this entire exchange with barely concealed amusement, started laughing.
"What?" Adrian asked.
"Nothing," Charles said. "Absolutely nothing. Just appreciating the efficiency of Miss Ashton's work."
"I don't understand."
"Of course you don't," Charles muttered. Then, louder: "Come on. Let's get you to Mathematics before your watchdog decides I'm a threat too."
They gathered their things and headed for the door. Vera followed, maintaining her professional distance.
Behind them, the whispers exploded like fireworks.
"Did you see that?"
"She practically growled."
"Poor Helena didn't stand a chance."
"I'm telling you, there's something going on between them."
"There's nothing going on. She's just doing her job."
"That wasn't her job. That was territorial."
Vera heard every word. Filed every word away. Kept walking.
Two paces behind.
One pace to the left.
Exactly where she belonged.