Behind Velvet Doors: 2. The Warning

The first week at St. Clarissa’s slid by with a polished kind of monotony. Uniforms pressed to perfection. Bells chiming at precise intervals. Meals eaten in a hush broken only by the scrape of silverware against porcelain.

Isobel was getting used to the way this place wrapped its rules around you like silk cords—soft, but inescapable.

She was also getting used to the sensation of being watched.

Sometimes, in class, she would feel it—the weight of a gaze—and glance toward the door to find Headmistress D’Arcy standing there. She never stayed long, never spoke. Just observed, lips curved faintly, eyes unreadable. Then she would move on, her heels clicking softly against the polished floors.

On Friday afternoon, as the last class ended, Isobel was gathering her books when a shadow fell across her desk.

“Miss Vale,” said the voice that now seemed to live under her skin.

She looked up. Evangeline D’Arcy stood there, elegant as always, the dark silk of her blo