Candles and Conversations

Chapter 5

Freya 

That Morning

A knock jars me awake. Sharp, rhythmic, too intentional to be Lilith.

I blink against the morning light seeping through the curtains. The knocking comes again—faster this time.

"Freya!" Nixon's voice was smooth and too awake for this hour. "We're going school shopping today. Let's go, sleeping beauty."

Half-asleep, I stumble to the door, yanking it open without thinking. Wearing nothing but a tank top and underwear, and my hair is a total mess.

"What—?" I mumble, rubbing my eyes. "What time is it?"

There's a pause.

A long one.

Then Nixon blinks, mouth slightly open, eyes immediately shooting up to the ceiling like it's the most interesting thing in the world."Okay," he says slowly. "First, you might want to invest in a robe. Second... bold look for a first impression."

I glance down.

"Oh my god."

I slam the door in his face so hard the wall rattles. From the other side, his laugh echoes down the hall. "Take your time! Princess, We leave in thirty. Maybe wear pants next time!"I pressed my forehead to the door, groaning. "Kill me now."  I throw on jeans, a plain black tank top, and a hoodie to hide that I'm still vaguely mortified. My hair is damp from the fastest shower of my life, and my face is still burning every time I remember Nixon's expression at the door.

When I head downstairs, he's waiting by the front door, leaning casually against the banister like he wasn't just witness to one of my top three humiliations.

"That's better," he says cheerfully. "Proud of you."

"Say one more word and I'll stab you with a hairbrush."

He presses a hand to his chest, mocking him like I just wounded him. 

"You wound me, Freyra."

Then Mason steps into the foyer, dressed head-to-toe in black as usual. A long coat. Dark boots. Arms crossed like the trip is already a waste of his time.

His eyes flick to me. His gaze holds for a moment too long.

"What?" I snap, still defensive from Nixon's teasing.

"Nothing," Mason says coolly. "Just surprised you survived five minutes alone with him."Nixon claps him on the back. "She did better than most."Barely," Mason mutters, heading toward the car. I follow, biting my tongue.

The ride into town is smoother than the last one—less tension, and more small talk. They take me to a row of boutique shops that probably wouldn't even let me look through the windows. The first store is ridiculous. Everything is white, clean, and expensive enough to make me nervous just breathing near the clothes racks.

Nixon's in his element, already tossing shirts and skirts into a dressing room like he's on a game show. "You're going to need a uniform," he says. "And something for casual days. Maybe something for when you're trying to intimidate people."

Like you, I say arching an eyebrow 

He grins, with a devilish smile exactly.

Mason lingers around the store watching like this whole thing is beneath him.

"Are you going to be like that all day?" I ask as I walk past him.

"Like what?"

"Silent, moody, and judging everything I touch.?"

"I'm not judging the clothes," he says without looking at me. "I'm judging this whole fake-normal charade."

Nixon sticks his head out of the dressing room. "Please ignore brooding twin number one. He's allergic to fun."

I laugh—genuinely, and it surprises even me. It's the first time I've felt even slightly normal since arriving here. As I try on outfits, Nixon offers too many opinions ("That skirt is a crime. That one's a miracle."), while Mason stays silent—until I step out in a black jacket with silver buttons.

"That one," Mason says suddenly. Quiet, but certain.

I pause. "Why?"

He meets my eyes for a moment. "It suits you. Strong, not trying too hard."

It's oddly... sincere. And for a second, I forget that last night he told me I was brought here for a reason.

Nixon glances between us, something unspoken flickering in his expression. "Well, well. Are we bonding?"

Mason scowls. "Shut up."

The rest of the day was filled with the boys bickering back and forth over who was right about the childhood stories. It felt like I belonged Mason kinda let his guard down but not enough to where you wouldn't still want to punch him in the throat. Nixon on the other hand is more outgoing I wouldn't say that he trusts easily but he's waiting for the moment that you mess up so can see how far you will fall before reaching the ground.

By the time the car pulls up to the front steps of the house, the sky is painted in shades of burnt orange and violet. The ride back had been filled with casual teasing — mostly Nixon throwing playful jabs at Mason, and Mason pretending not to care. He still laughed here and there 

But the second we stepped inside, the warmth faded. The doors close behind us with a soft, echoing thud. The air always feels colder in the house footsteps are coming from down the hallway it's Lilith telling us that dinner is ready and that Mr. Coldwell is waiting I sit between Mason and Nixon the earlier laughter is gone and replaced with something heavy in the air Mr Coldwell sits at the head of the table calm and unreadable he hasn't said much of anything but his presence in the room is enough to mute the room entirely

You've been adjusting well I see. Mr Coldwell says without looking up from his plate. Chewing what food was left in my mouth I reply I'm trying to at least. You'll have to do more than that he replies potential can only take you so far the words are sharp not cruel just measured. Mason glances sideways at me but he doesn't say anything keeping his head down, Nixon steps in trying to shift the mood she held her own today beating Mason in cards.

Barely Mason mutters under his breath, a win is a win I say. Mr Coldwell smiles faintly, then places his napkin on the table after patting his mouth. Enjoy the small victories because the real test just began what does that mean I say feeling my mouth going dry- looking me straight in the face it means don't get too comfortable. He leaves without saying another word. 

Laying everything out on the bed my uniform is neatly folded the new shoes, still smelling like fresh leather plus the black sweater Mason picked out. Now hanging on the back of my desk chair. Lilith knocks before entering the room holding a silver tray of tea smelling of cinnamon, and a plate of sliced apples. I thought you didn't eat enough at dinner she says gently your right my nerves are running a mile on my skin. I start tomorrow I say more to myself new school. New people. No idea what I'm. I'm walking into.

Lilith sits at the end of the bed placing her hand on my shoulder you'll be fine Freya you're stronger than you think. Sipping my tea I hope so.

"what's the school like I ask what do people think of the Coldwells and what will they expect from me." 

She pauses picking her words carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

They'll wonder where you came from they will watch your every move. 

"Why"? I ask.

Because power attracts attention, Lilith says. Because no one gets close to this family without a reason. I swallowed, not wanting the words to leave my lips not because I didn't know the answer or maybe I wasn't ready for the truth.—I finally asked so why am I here, why me?

Lilith just smiles. Not kindly.

"That's what we're all trying to figure out." She leaves me to think about everything differently. Lying in bed staring at the ceiling the house is still.—No footsteps in the halls no voices behind closed doors. Just silence and the ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs. 

I don't remember dozing off 

There's a gentle knock on my bedroom door by one of the other housekeepers—Florence, maybe she nudges the door slightly open and calls my name softly. Waking me up before sunrise it's about six—thirty am dragging myself out of bed and taking a quick shower, letting the hot water wake me up. Once I'm dry and wrapped in a towel, I stare at my closet debating if I should throw on black jeans or a skirt. I ended up picking the dark gray pleated skirt and the black sweater vest that Mason chose with a white collar polo shirt underneath. My makeup is light, barely— just enough not to look dead in the face. Put my hair into a half-up half-down ponytail letting my loose curls frame my face 

Stepping into my Mary Jane's taking a glance at myself in the mirror, satisfied. The ruffled socks are the finishing touches because I had to argue with Nixon for about a good ten minutes last week about them. 

"They make you look like a five-year-old child he groaned."

"They make the outfit work, "rolling my eyes, counteracted.

Now looking at the full picture I knew I was right.

Making it down to the kitchen there's a faint smell of cinnamon that lingers in the air Lilith is making pancakes there's fresh fruit bacon, eggs, and toast. Lilith greets me with a small smile try to eat, she says softly. Even if only a little. I nod, because my stomach is knotted too tight for food. I settle on orange juice and a few pieces of bacon. Mason is already sitting at the table sipping his coffee like he's in a café legs crossed black blazer the big day he says with a grin ready for the wolf den.

"Ready as I can be," I mutter 

Hearing Mason enter the room moments later, dressed in all black looking like he just lifted the matrix. He doesn't say much like usual he just gives me a once-over and nods guessing that's his way of saying he approves of my outfit choice.

Mason drive's and Nixon rides shotgun. I sit in the back seat my hands curled around the straps of my book bag, watching the estate fade in the distance as we reach closer to the Blackmoor Academy. The campus looms ahead like something out of a brochure—beautiful, historic, and intimidating still move about in matching uniforms clustered in tight groups. 

Feeling everyone's eyes on the car as we pull up to the main gate of the school.

As I step out of the car, hearing the whispers all around me.

She's here the one staying with the Coldwell family. 

"Omg" it the Mason, Nixon 

Mason turns facing me, voice low "Keep your head down don't answer questions that you don't want to. What if someone pushes I ask his expression turning serious and unreadable.

"Push harder."

Leaving from getting my schedule from the Administration office my first quarter of the semester they're already coming for blood. 

AP English.

AP World History.

AP Music Theory.

AP Creative Writing 

Staring at the paper, then glancing around they weren't kidding about the high expectations here. Putting my schedule into my folder taking a deep breath through my nose. I can hear Mr coldwell's voice in my head clipped and controlled: scholarships don't earn themselves. These aren't just challenging classes—they're a declaration like they want to see if you can handle the weight or crack under it. The first bell rings. Tightening the grip on the strap on my bag and I start walking to AP English in room 208– a bright sunlit classroom with tall windows and eight rows of desks that seat three people at a time there are books shelves lining one wall. I pause in the doorway, all eyes fall onto me everyone is already seated most of them are in mid-conversation or scrolling through their phones.

I slide into an empty seat in the second row close enough to hear the teacher but close enough not to stand out. The girl sitting next to me offers me a glance but returns to her phone shifting in her seat trying not to touch me like I'm the plague. The teacher enters the room moments later Ms. Garner is tall, lean, and fair skin wearing flare green slacks with a creamy pearl button-up that was tucked in slightly into her slacks. You could tell that her hair was freshly touched up with high lights wearing it in a low ponytail. Her tone was warm when she spoke.

Welcome to AP English this semester, we'll be focusing on modern literature, and layering narrative structures. She picks up a marker writing on the whiteboard  

"Stories that matter".

In my class you're going to be challenged she continues Not just to analyze but to connect—to understand how literature reflects who we are, and more importantly who we pretend to be. 

Great emotional excavation before 9 am just my luck—I mumble. Flipping open my notebook just as someone loudly shouts " Guess we're doing charity work now" people muttering behind me and small snickers.

"Freya Myers".

"Yes."

Looking up Ms. Garner is watching me through the rim of her glasses I read your placement essay she says clear-cut and a little guarded but promising. I opened my mouth to respond, but she's already moved on, calling the next name on the list if I thought eyes were on before now they're really watching me.

By the time lunch comes around, I've heard just about everything 

She hooked up with an older guy from her last foster home.

She's trying to get sympathy to win a scholarship.

Her dad's in prison and writes her threatening letters.

My brain feels like it's been through the blender hell maybe even a cement mixer. Every class so far has been some version of "Here's the syllabus, here's your workload, here's how you'll probably fail if you blink too slowly." The cafeteria is an open space with clean lines, glass walls, and expansive lighting that feels too sophisticated for teenagers who still trip over their shoe laces, and still suck on there's mothers' nipples. Clusters of students sit at long tables or huddled in the corners with their friend groups. I couldn't stomach a full meal so water and some Cheeto puffs will do hovering a little too long in the middle of the cafeteria I hear across the room 

"Freya"

I hesitated not wanting to turn around but again he screamed my name even louder "Over here Freya" Once I met his gaze he had the biggest grin on his face my cheeks turning a flushed pink— annoyingly. The kind of blush that says I care, even when I don't. The whole room felt like it went completely silent. Of course it did, because why not add a full audience and sprinkle the humiliation? There he was chiseled jawline. Blue eyes, blond hair. The guy looks like he bathes in privilege and flosses with compliments. 

"I'm Liam," he said flashing that toothpaste-ad smile." So how'd you end up here?" I tilted my head giving him a once-over. "Witnesses protection. But thank you for blowing my cover, Liam." He blinked! Took him a second to figure out that I was joking he laughed low and easily "All alright, Freya. I'll paste myself— wouldn't want to scare you off." Scare me? I scoffed, folding my arms. " please. I've survived foster homes, two caseworkers who ghosted me, and cafeteria lasagna. You're just a pretty face with a loud voice. Try harder."

"Ouch", he said, putting his hand over his chest as if  I wounded him. " that's cold. But fair enough."

I smiled, just a little. You'll live."Is this what flirting with you is like? Mild emotional damage and vague threats?"I grinned. "Pretty much. Still interested?"

He paused. Just long enough to shift the energy.

"Yeah," he said." I am."

The way he said it—simple, without the usual cocky shine—threw me off. For a half-second, I didn't know what to do with it. I narrowed my eyes, studying him. "Why?" He shrugged, pushing his hands into his pockets. "Because everyone here keeps talking about you like you're a headline. But you don't act like one. And that kind of mystery?" He smiled, softer this time. "That's way more interesting than just being hot."

Damn it. He got me for a second, I forgot how to be smug.

 "Okay, Shakespeare. That was almost impressive." Do you flirt with every girl like this or am I just special 

"Depends," he said, stepping a little closer. "Is it working 

"Careful," I warned, lips twitching. "Flatter me too much and I might think you're serious."He smiled."Challenge accepted," Liam said, still wearing that annoyingly good smile. For once, I didn't have a comeback ready. Which was infuriating.

The silence stretched—just long enough to feel like something could happen between us. Maybe become friends.

And then—

"Liam!"

The voice cut through the cafeteria like a buzzsaw. Sharp. High. We both turned.

A girl in a cheer uniform—tight ponytail, glossy lips, not a single ounce of self-doubt in sight—was strutting toward us like she was the main event. And judging by the way a few heads turned, maybe she was. Liam sighed, in annoyance like this wasn't the first time she'd pulled this. "Hey, Brooke."

Brooke. Of course, she had a name like Brooke.

She barely glanced at me, all her energy aimed at him. "Coach wants to go over formations again before lunch. You're late."

He straightened, the easy charm still there but dulled just a bit. "Yeah, I'll be there in five."

Her eyes flicked to me, finally, like she just noticed I was standing there "your way prettier than I thought new girl.?" she said, like it was a surprise—or maybe a disappointment.

I gave her a slow smile. "I chuckled— sorry it's a letdown I did kiss the  frog this morning." She blinked. Just for a second. Off guard. Like the insult hadn't boomeranged the way she expected.

I didn't wait for her to recover.

"Must've worn off.

A beat passed.

Her lips curved—too practiced to be real. "Just saying. People talk."

"And clearly, they talk to the wrong people."

That got a few quiet "oohs" from the little people surrounding us. She didn't flinch—but her eyes said game on. 

He didn't look at her when he answered. His eyes were still on me.

Then she turned to Liam, voice syrup-sweet. "Try not to get distracted."He didn't look at her when he answered. His eyes were still on me.

"Too late."

And just like that, she was gone, heels clicking down the hall like she owned every tileAnd just like that, she was gone, heels clicking down the hall like she owned every tile.

I exhaled. "That your girlfriend?"

He shook his head. "That's... complicated."

I snorted. "Of course it is." 

Well," I said, getting up from the table. "Good luck with cheer practice or... pyramid duty or whatever."

"You're not going to stay and watch?"

I shot him a look over my shoulder. "Nice try, Liam."He called after me as I walked away: "You're still not cutting me, though."

I didn't answer. But I was smiling.

By the last period, my feet hurt, my brain was fried, and I'd officially smiled too much for one day. Mostly thanks to Liam "Toothpaste Commercial" Walker and his surprise ability to flirt like he means it. Glancing at my schedule creative writing- room 312. Great. A class that probably requires emotional vulnerability and forced metaphors. Just what I needed to round out the day.

I stepped in and immediately clocked the vibe: mismatched desks, posters with quotes like "Write your truth" and "There are no bad first drafts"—lies, and one tired-looking teacher who hadn't looked up from his mug.

The room smelled like old coffee and book pages.

I kind of liked it.

I slid into the back row, dropped my bag, and prepared to disappear. The bell hadn't even rung yet, and most students were still filtering in. A couple of girls were laughing near the windows. Some guy in the corner was sketching something intense in a notebook. The teacher finally looks up alright he said tapping his mug on the desk like it was a gavel. Let's get settled. We are starting something new today— writing  prompts on the whiteboard.

I'm scared of... 

when I was told...

 they made me believe...

 I totally avoid...

"I want you to dig deep—talk through your soul," he said, facing us again. "Tell everyone your story. Show us a glimpse into your world. This class isn't just about words on a page; it's about helping people see things through your looking glass. I want you to work on this today, and tomorrow, you'll show us your story—in color."

The last bell of the day rings, signaling that school is finally over. I stand from my seat and sling my backpack over one shoulder. Just as I'm about to leave, a girl slips a folded note into my hand without saying a word.

"Meet me in the girls' bathroom."

I let out a breath. Great. Just what I needed—a girl talk ambush.

As I make my way down the hall, I hear voices echoing from inside the bathroom before I even get there.

"Do you think she'll show up?" one of them whispers.

"Shhh—" another voice cuts in. I recognize that one. Brooke.

"She has to. If not, the whole school will know that her mother was a junkie."

Yup.

Game on.

I push the door open, letting it swing behind me. The voices fall silent, mid-conversation.I raise my voice just enough to cut through the quiet."What exactly will the school know, Brooke?"Without missing a beat, she turns toward me, all confidence and venom."That you're a freak. And your mother was a junkie."I let out a small laugh, dry and sharp."If you're gonna talk shit about me, at least come up with something new."Silence again. No one says a word. They're just standing there, sizing me up, like this is some kind of showdown. Fine by me.

The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. Brooke crosses her arms, trying to look unbothered, but I can see the twitch in her jaw. She's waiting for me to fold, to cry, to run out like I don't belong here.

But I'm done running.

I take a step forward, slow and deliberate, my eyes locked on hers.

"You think throwing around the word junkie makes you powerful? Like saying something cruel gives you control?" I pause. "You're not scary, Brooke. You're predictable."

Her friends shift uncomfortably behind her.

"My mom was sick," I continue, voice steady now. "She made mistakes. Big ones. But I've spent most of my life cleaning up the pieces she left behind. You wanna call me a freak for that? Fine. At least I'm not hiding behind someone else's pain just to feel bigger."

Brooke's smirk falters.

I glance at the girl who gave me the note. "Hope passing messages is worth being part of her little fan club."

She looks down, guilt creeping across her face.

I step back, heading for the door. "I've got more important things to do than entertain the insecure."

Just before I leave, I turn back one last time.

"Oh, and Brooke?" I say, smiling just enough to be dangerous. "Careful what secrets you throw around. You never know who's holding yours."

And with that, I walk out—head high, heart pounding, but unbroken. 

Heading through the gate I see the boys waiting for me Nixon spots me first getting  out the car  wearing a genuine smile. " how was your first day, princess?. 

I shoot him a glare as I'm reaching for the back door "don't call me that." He laughs. "You say it like it hurts your entire soul."

"Because it does."

I slide into the back seat, drop my bag with a thud, and close the door. Mason glances at me through the rearview mirror as he pulls away from the curb."Anything happen?" he asks, his voice casual but careful—like he's trying not to sound like he's digging."Nothing I couldn't handle," I say, staring out the window.He doesn't push, just nods once. But I catch the way his fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel.By the time we get home, the sky's soft with evening. Joanna's already setting the table. Mason tosses his keys in the bowl by the door, Nixon kicks his shoes off halfway down the hall like he always does, and I follow, a few steps behind.

No Mr. Coldwell tonight—working late again. The house feels... quiet. But not hollow. Just the kind of quiet that doesn't ask anything from me.Dinner's something simple—pasta, garlic bread, the kind of food that smells like someone tried.Joanna asks about our day like it's normal. Mason shrugs. Nixon makes a joke about almost falling asleep in History. When she looks at me, I just say, "Fine," and she doesn't press. She just smiles, like she knows that's enough—for now.

Halfway through dinner, Mason leans back in his chair, fork in hand, studying me.

"You sure nothing happened today?"

I meet his eyes, slow and deliberate. "Why?"

He gives a half-smile, tilting his head. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"Like you're holding something sharp behind your back." He pauses, then adds with a flicker of amusement, "Trouble."

My brow arches. "Excuse me?"

"That's what I'm calling you now," he says, casual. "You act like you don't want anyone to notice you, but you walk around like you're expecting a fight."

I stare at him for a beat too long. "Then maybe you should stop looking."

He smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes this time. "Too late for that." He's actually... handsome when he smiles.

Who would've thought?

It's not like the smirk he usually wears, the one that says I'm bored or I know something you don't. This smile is real—soft at the edges, just for a second. It slips out before he can stop it.

I clear my throat, suddenly aware I'm looking too long.

"Maybe you should do that more often," I say out loud, almost before I know I'm speaking.

Mason blinks, surprised. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He scoffs a little, eyebrows pinched, like I just challenged his entire personality.

"You should smile more," I repeat, standing from the table and grabbing my plate. "It doesn't look terrible on you."

I don't wait for a response. I rinse my plate, place it carefully in the dishwasher, and head for the hallway—my heart doing that annoying thing where it trips over itself.

Behind me, the room goes quiet for a beat. Then I hear Nixon mutter something that sounds like a laugh, and Joanna's chair creak as she stands.

But I'm already halfway to the stairs, not sure if I'm proud I said it—or terrified that I meant it.