Chapter THREE: The People Who Know Us

By seven in the morning, the girls’ boarding wing at Veyrenholt Academy had descended into its usual disorder.

Someone was searching for a missing shoe. Two girls were arguing over the bathroom mirror, and a third was insisting that nobody had touched her hairbrush despite holding someone else’s in her hand. From the corridor came the familiar warning that breakfast ended in fifteen minutes, followed by several complaints from students who had clearly planned to ignore that information.

Isaure sat on the edge of her bed, fastening the strap of her watch while Séverine searched through a pile of books on the desk between their beds.

“Have you seen my literature notes?”

“You left them in the common room.”

“I checked there.”

“Then someone has moved them.”

Séverine stopped searching. “You could have mentioned that before I emptied half my belongings.”

“You asked if I had seen them. I answered.”

“That is not the same as being helpful.”

Isaure picked up her bag. “Your notes are in the blue folder. You put them there yesterday because you said the black one made your handwriting look depressing.”

Séverine stared at her for a moment before finding the folder beneath a stack of exercise books.

“I hate that you remember things I don't remember telling you.”

“You tell me everything.”

“Unfortunately.”

They left together, joining the stream of students moving towards the dining hall.

Isaure had attended Veyrenholt long enough to know the rhythms of the place. The younger students hurried because they still feared being late. The older ones walked as if the rules had been written for someone else. Prefects attempted to maintain order, usually without success, and the dining staff had developed the remarkable ability to ignore complaints about breakfast.

Today, however, the leadership competition had given everyone something new to discuss.

At the table beside the windows, two boys were debating whether Caspian Thorne's proposal had been better than Isaure's. A girl from the year below them insisted that neither candidate understood what ordinary students needed.

Séverine listened while buttering her toast.

“You know they're going to talk about this until the next round,” she said.

“They'll find something else to discuss by lunch.”

“Perhaps. But you should hear what they're saying.”

Isaure continued reading the notice on her phone. “I heard the arguments yesterday.”

“Not the arguments. The opinions.”

That earned Séverine her attention.

“Apparently, you're so determined to win that you'll turn the entire school into a research project.”

“That's an exaggeration.”

“I agree. You're much more likely to organise the research project, assign everyone a deadline, and become offended when they fail to meet it.”

Isaure put her phone down.

“You're enjoying this.”

“A little.”

For a moment, they returned to their breakfast. Their friendship had survived examinations, disagreements, and the sort of misunderstandings that could have ruined other friendships. Séverine could tell Isaure when she was being unreasonable, and Isaure could do the same without either of them immediately reaching for an excuse to walk away.

That did not mean they always listened.

“Your proposal was good,” Séverine said eventually. “The academic resources idea makes sense. But when you presented it yesterday, you spent more time proving that your numbers were correct than explaining how students would benefit.”

“The numbers establish whether the proposal is practical.”

“They do. They don't explain why anyone should care.”

Isaure looked towards the opposite end of the hall, where a group of students were trying to divide a plate of eggs between six people.

“Students need access to resources. That's the point.”

“Then make them understand what you're trying to change. You don't have to turn every presentation into a defence of your intelligence.”

The comment irritated Isaure because it was close enough to the truth to be useful.

She finished her tea.

“I'll consider it.”

Séverine nodded, apparently satisfied that she had been heard, even if she had not been obeyed.

Across the courtyard, Caspian Thorne was having a different kind of morning.

“You have been staring at that timetable for five minutes,” Rafe said. “Either you've discovered a new subject or you're hoping the lessons will disappear.”

“I'm checking whether the chemistry practical clashes with the committee meeting.”

“You're volunteering for a committee?”

Caspian folded the timetable. “I entered a leadership competition. It would be strange to avoid the work.”

Rafe considered this. “I preferred you when you were making questionable decisions.”

“You preferred me when my decisions gave you better stories.”

“That too.”

They crossed the courtyard towards their first lesson. Rafe carried a folder under one arm, its contents threatening to escape through a split along the edge.

Caspian pointed at it. “What's that?”

“My proposal.”

“For what?”

“The student media programme. The equipment is outdated, the editorial schedule is a mess, and the younger students have to beg for permission to contribute anything.”

Caspian glanced at him. “Since when do you care about the editorial schedule?”

“Since I became responsible for helping to run it.”

“You volunteered?”

“I was asked.”

“And you said yes?”

Rafe adjusted the folder. “Some of us have interests beyond irritating people before breakfast.”

Caspian accepted the rebuke without argument. Rafe had been helping with the student publication since the previous year. He took the work seriously, although he rarely discussed it with people who assumed his easygoing manner meant he had no ambitions.

The programme mattered to him. He wanted to expand it, give younger students a chance to write, and make the publication worth reading instead of producing another collection of announcements nobody remembered after assembly.

Caspian knew this. He had read Rafe's drafts, argued with him over headlines, and once spent an entire evening helping him reconstruct an article after a computer malfunction had erased half the work.

He had also made fun of the article's original title for three days.

“Have you spoken to the staff adviser?” Caspian asked.

“Twice. She wants a budget and a proper plan before she'll approve anything.”

“Then finish the budget.”

“Thank you. I hadn't considered completing the task.”

“Happy to help.”

Rafe shook his head, but he was smiling when they entered the classroom.

By lunchtime, the announcement had arrived.

The next stage of the leadership competition would require each candidate to develop a practical proposal addressing a problem within the academy. Candidates would need to submit a detailed plan, justify the cost, and explain how students would benefit. Their proposals would be assessed by a panel that included staff representatives and elected student members.

The deadline was three weeks away.

Isaure read the announcement twice.

Three weeks was enough time to improve her original proposal, consult students, and prepare a convincing presentation. It was also enough time for Caspian to find a weakness in anything she produced.

She disliked how quickly her thoughts had reached him.

“Don't start,” Séverine said, settling into the seat opposite her.

“I haven't said anything.”

“You've been looking at that notice as if it personally challenged your family.”

Isaure turned the phone towards her. “The assessment includes student consultation.”

“Good. Speak to students.”

“I intend to.”

“Speak to the ones who disagree with you, too.”

Before Isaure could answer, Rafe approached their table with his lunch tray.

“Is this seat taken?”

Séverine moved her bag off the empty chair. “Not anymore.”

Rafe sat down. He and Séverine knew each other through school events and the overlapping circles that formed naturally in a boarding school. They were comfortable enough to speak without introductions, although they had never been especially close.

“Have you seen the announcement?” he asked.

“Three weeks,” Isaure replied. “A practical proposal, a budget, and a student consultation.”

“Sounds straightforward.”

“Only if you have a workable idea.”

Rafe placed his folder beside his tray. “I'm thinking about the student publication. We need better equipment, but the bigger problem is that most students don't know they can contribute.”

Séverine leaned forward to look at the folder.

“Could you run workshops? Teach younger students how to write articles and edit them?”

“That would help. I'd also like to introduce a regular opinion section.”

“Then you need people who'll actually submit pieces,” Isaure said. “Not just people who say they like the idea.”

“I'm aware.”

“Have you asked students what they'd want to read?”

Rafe paused.

“Not yet.”

“Then start there. Otherwise, you're designing a programme for students you haven't consulted.”

He considered the point before nodding. “Fair enough.”

Séverine looked between them. “Look at that. A useful conversation without anyone declaring war.”

“Give it time,” Rafe said.

Isaure ignored him, but she began thinking about the conversation long after the others moved on to their next lessons.

For the first time since the competition had begun, she was considering a problem that did not involve beating Caspian Thorne.

That evening, she returned to her room with a notebook full of questions she wanted to ask students. Séverine was at the desk, working on an assignment, and looked up when Isaure spread the pages across her bed.

“What's all that?”

“Questions for the consultation.”

Séverine read the first few lines. “These are better than yesterday's presentation.”

“I haven't presented them yet.”

“I know. That's why I'm complimenting the questions.”

Isaure sat beside her and began rearranging the pages.

Outside, the boarding wing gradually quieted as students settled into their evening routines. Somewhere down the corridor, somebody was laughing too loudly. A prefect knocked on a door and reminded its occupants that quiet hours began in ten minutes.

Veyrenholt carried on around them, full of people with plans that had nothing to do with the leadership competition.

Isaure had spent years believing that being prepared meant anticipating every possible objection before anyone else could raise it.

Perhaps, she thought, preparation also meant asking questions she did not already know how to answer.

She wrote one more question at the bottom of the page.

What is one thing about Veyrenholt you would change if someone genuinely listened?

Then she underlined it.

Three weeks suddenly seemed much shorter.