Isla sat cross-legged on the narrow bed, her few possessions spread around her like
islands in a sea of faded quilt. There wasn't much—some clothes, a toothbrush, and
comb, a small stuffed fox with one eye missing that she'd had since before she could remember, and a notebook with a pen tucked into its spiral binding. Nine years at
Thornfield, and this was all she had to show for it.
The third-floor room felt impossibly quiet after the constant background noise of
the dormitory she'd shared with five other girls. No whispered conversations after
lights-out, no creaking of other beds as their occupants turned in their sleep, no gen-
tle breathing to remind her she wasn't alone.
Just silence, broken only by the occasional groan of the old building settling and
the distant howl of the Highland wind.
Isla glanced at the window, where darkness had fully claimed the landscape. The
stone circle was invisible now, though she knew exactly where it stood. She'd spent
countless hours watching it from the windows of Thornfield, fascinated by its ancient presence. The locals called it the Threshold, and there were stories about it—stories in the book Mrs. Blackwood had taken from her.
With a sigh, she began putting her clothes away in the wardrobe, which creaked
ominously as she opened its doors. The inside smelled of mothballs and old wood,
and something else she couldn't quite identify—something earthy and ancient, like the pages of an ancient book.
As she placed her neatly folded sweaters on the shelf, her fingers brushed against
something carved into the wood. Frowning, she pushed her clothes aside and peered
closer, running her fingertips over the marks.
It was a symbol—a circle with a vertical line through it, surrounded by what looked
like tiny flames or rays. It had been carved with something sharp, the lines deep and
deliberate. Isla traced it with her finger, wondering who had put it there and why.
A sudden scratching sound made her jump, her heart leaping into her throat. It
seemed to be coming from inside the wall beside the wardrobe—a soft, persistent
scraping, like claws on wood.
"Hello?" she whispered, then immediately felt foolish. What was she expecting, for
the wall to answer?
The scratching stopped abruptly, and the silence that followed felt heavier than
before, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
Then it came again, but different this time—not scratching but a soft, rhythmic tap-
ping. Three quick taps, a pause, three more taps.
Isla's mouth went dry. That wasn't random. That was deliberate—a pattern, a com-
munication.
Hesitantly, she moved to the wall and placed her palm flat against it. The wallpaper was old and faded, a pattern of pale blue flowers that might once have been cheerful but now looked ghostly in the dim light of the single overhead bulb.
"Is someone there?" she whispered, feeling ridiculous but unable to stop herself.
The tapping came again, more insistent this time. Three quick taps, a pause, three more.
Isla swallowed hard, then tapped back—three times, pause, three times.
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the wind seemed to have died down,
as if the whole world were waiting.
Then, so faintly she almost thought she'd imagined it, came a whisper. Not from
the wall, but from somewhere behind her.
"Threshold Keeper."
Isla whirled around, her heart hammering against her ribs. The room was empty,
the door still firmly closed. But the air felt different somehow—charged, like the mo-
ment before a lightning strike.
The overhead light flickered once, twice, then steadied. Isla stared at it, a cold re-
alization dawning. The light had responded to her fear, to the surge of adrenaline that
had shot through her body when she heard the whisper.
Just like the book in Marcus's hand had trembled when she'd been angry.
Slowly, deliberately, Isla focused on the light. She imagined it dimming, just a little,
just enough to prove it wasn't a coincidence.
The bulb flickered again and dimmed, casting the room in a softer glow.
Isla's breath caught in her throat. She hadn't imagined it. She had done that, somehow. The same way she'd made the book tremble, the same way strange things always seemed to happen around her when her emotions ran high.
A soft thud from beneath the desk drew her attention. Dropping to her knees, she peered into the shadows underneath. There was nothing there, but as she ran her hand along the underside of the desk, her fingers found more carved symbols—different from the one in the wardrobe, more complex. A series of interconnected circles and lines that seemed to form a pattern, though not one she recognized.
As her fingers traced the carvings, a strange tingling sensation spread up her arm, like pins and needles but warmer, almost pleasant. The sensation reached her chest
and then her head, where it settled as a gentle pressure behind her eyes.
And suddenly, she could see the symbols glowing faintly in the darkness under the desk, emitting a soft blue light that hadn't been there before.
Isla jerked her hand away, and the glow faded immediately. Heart racing, she
backed away from the desk until she hit the edge of the bed and sat down hard.
What was happening to her?
A movement outside the window caught her eye. She turned, half-expecting to see nothing but her reflection against the darkness. Instead, she saw shadows moving
on the hillside, weaving between the ancient stones of the circle. They weren't human
shadows—they were too fluid, too graceful, more like smoke or water than solid forms.
Isla watched, transfixed, as the shadows danced around the stones, sometimes
merging with them, sometimes separating to form distinct shapes before dissolving
again. It was beautiful and terrifying all at once.
As she stared, one of the shadows seemed to detach itself from the others and move toward Thornfield—toward her window. Isla's breath caught in her throat as it approached, growing larger, more defined.
It reached the edge of the grounds and paused, as if encountering an invisible
barrier. For a moment, it seemed to press against the air itself, like a hand against
glass. Then it retreated, rejoining the dance around the stones.
Isla realized she'd been holding her breath and let it out in a shaky exhalation. The
tingling sensation had returned, stronger now, spreading from her fingertips up her
arms and across her chest. The pressure behind her eyes intensified, not painful but
insistent, as if something were trying to wake up inside her.
The light flickered again, and this time Isla knew it wasn't a coincidence or a conscious effort on her part. Something was responding to her—or she was responding to something. The boundary between the two possibilities felt as blurred as the shadows dancing on the hillside.
She turned away from the window and caught sight of her reflection in the small,
spotted mirror above the desk. For a second—just a second—her eyes seemed to glow
with the same soft blue light she'd seen in the carved symbols.
Then it was gone, and she was just Isla again, a small, frightened girl alone in a
strange room with the night pressing in around her.
But as she prepared for bed, moving through the familiar routine of changing into her nightgown and brushing her teeth in the small adjoining bathroom, she couldn't
shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed. That she had crossed some invisible line and could never go back.
Threshold Keeper, the whisper had said. The words meant nothing to her, and yet they resonated somewhere deep inside, like the echo of a half-remembered dream.
As she lay in the unfamiliar bed, listening to the old building creak and settle around her, Isla thought of her parents. Not the vague, idealized figures she usually conjured when she tried to remember them, but something more specific—her mother's hands, long-fingered and elegant, tracing symbols in the air that left trails of light behind them. Her father's eyes, the same pale silver-grey as her own, watching her with a mixture of pride and concern.
The memory was so vivid, so unexpected, that Isla sat up in bed, her heart racing.
Had that really happened, or was her mind playing tricks on her, mixing fantasy with
the fragments of memory she'd managed to preserve over the years?
She couldn't be certain. But as she lay back down and closed her eyes, the image stayed with her—her mother's glowing symbols, her father's watchful gaze. And for the first time in years, Isla fell asleep thinking not of what she had lost, but of what she might be about to find.
The dining area on the third floor was small and spartan, with a single rectangular
table that could seat six people at most. When Isla entered the next morning, there
were already two other children there—a girl and a boy, both eating in silence.
The girl looked to be about Isla's age, with dark hair cut in a severe bob that em-phasized her thin face and large, solemn eyes. She was picking at her porridge with-
out much enthusiasm, her gaze fixed on the table.
The boy was older, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with a stocky build and a shock of
red hair that stood out against his pale skin. He was eating methodically, shoveling
food into his mouth as if afraid someone might take it away.
Neither of them looked up when Isla entered, though she was certain they'd heard her. The floorboards in the old building creaked with every step.
A middle-aged woman Isla didn't recognize—presumably the third-floor cook and
supervisor—gestured to an empty seat and placed a bowl of porridge in front of it. Isla
sat down, murmuring a quiet "thank you" that the woman didn't acknowledge.
The porridge was bland but hot, and Isla was hungrier than she'd realized. She ate slowly, stealing glances at her companions, trying to gauge what kind of people she'd be sharing this isolated space with.
The girl hadn't touched her food since Isla sat down. She was staring at her spoon
now, her brow furrowed in concentration. As Isla watched, the spoon trembled slightly, then rose about an inch off the table before clattering back down.
The boy's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "Stop it, Eliza," he hissed. "She'll
hear you."
The girl—Eliza—didn't respond verbally, but her eyes flicked toward the boy in what
might have been apology or defiance; it was difficult to tell.
"She doesn't talk," the boy said to Isla, noticing her curious gaze. "Not since she
got here, anyway." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Thomas."
Isla shook his hand cautiously. "Isla."
"I know who you are," Thomas said, returning to his porridge. "Mrs. Blackwood
told us you were coming. Said you were 'special,' like us." He made air quotes around
the word "special," his tone making it clear what he thought of that designation.
"Special how?" Isla asked, though she had a sinking feeling she already knew.
Thomas glanced at the supervisor, who had her back to them as she washed dishes in the small sink. He lowered his voice. "You see things, don't you? Things that
aren't supposed to be there."
Isla's spoon froze halfway to her mouth. She set it down carefully, her appetite suddenly gone. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." Thomas's voice was matter-of-fact, without accusation. "It's okay".
We all do, one way or another. That's why we're up here, away from the others. Mrs.
Blackwood says we need "special attention." Again, those air quotes, dripping with sarcasm.
Eliza's eyes were on Isla now, wide and intent. She made a subtle gesture with her
hand—a circle with a vertical line through it.
The same symbol Isla had found carved into the wardrobe.
Before Isla could respond, the dining room door opened, and Mrs. Blackwood swept in. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, and Thomas immediately hunched over his bowl, all traces of his earlier confidence gone.
"Good morning, children," Mrs. Blackwood said, her voice as cold and sharp as a winter wind. She moved around the table, inspecting each of them with those flint-like
eyes. "I trust you all slept well?"
None of them responded, which didn't seem to bother her. She stopped behind Isla's chair, placing her hands on Isla's shoulders. Her touch was light, but Isla had to suppress a shudder.
"Miss MacLeod will be joining your lessons today," Mrs. Blackwood continued. "I
expect you all to make her feel welcome." The pressure on Isla's shoulders increased
slightly, her long fingers digging in just enough to be uncomfortable. "After breakfast, Thomas, you'll go with Mr. Jenkins for your physical education. Eliza, Mrs. Patterson is expecting you in the art room." She paused. "Miss MacLeod, you'll come with me to the library. I believe some supervised reading time would be beneficial for you."
Isla's heart leapt at the mention of the library. It was her favorite place in Thornfield, a sanctuary of books and quiet where she could lose herself for hours. She hadn't expected to be allowed access to it after being moved to the third floor.
"Yes, Mrs. Blackwood," she said, trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice.
Mrs. Blackwood's lips curved in that not-quite-smile that made Isla's skin crawl.
"Excellent. Finish your breakfast, children. I'll return in twenty minutes."
With that, she swept out of the room, leaving a chill in her wake.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Thomas let out a breath. "She's worse than
usual today," he muttered. "Watch yourself, new girl. When she's in that mood, someone always ends up crying."
Eliza nodded in silent agreement, her eyes full of warning.
Isla looked from one to the other, a knot forming in her stomach. "What does she
do to you?"
Thomas shrugged, but there was tension in the set of his shoulders. "Tests.Experiments. Calls it 'training,' but it's really just her poking at us to see what happens." He
pushed his empty bowl away. "She's obsessed with what we can do, what our limits are."
"And if we don't cooperate?" Isla asked, though she suspected she knew the answer.
"Then she finds ways to motivate us," Thomas said grimly. "She's excellent at find-
ing what hurts most."
Eliza made another gesture, this one Isla couldn't interpret. Thomas seemed to
understand, though.
"Yeah," he said. "Eliza's right. The new girl should know about the others."
"What others?" Isla asked.
Thomas leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The ones who were here before. The ones who 'graduated' from Mrs. Blackwood's special program."
"Where did they go?"
"Nobody knows for sure. Mrs. Blackwood says they went to special schools, or got
adopted by families who could 'handle their unique needs.'" More air quotes. "But
Eliza and I, we think—"
The door opened again, and Thomas straightened up so quickly he nearly
knocked over his water glass. But it wasn't Mrs. Blackwood—it was the supervisor, re-
turning from wherever she'd disappeared to while they were talking.
"Finish up," she said briskly. "Mrs. Blackwood doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Thomas gave Isla a significant look that clearly said they'd continue this conversa-
tion later. Eliza's eyes were fixed on her bowl again, but her hand made a small, subtle
movement under the table—the circle-and-line symbol once more.
Isla finished her porridge mechanically, her mind racing. What had happened to
the other children? What did Mrs. Blackwood want from them—from her? And what did that symbol mean?
As she followed the supervisor out of the dining area, Isla caught a glimpse of her
reflection in the window. For just a moment, she thought she saw that blue glow in her
eyes again. Then it was gone, and she was left wondering if she'd imagined it.
But one thing was certain: whatever was happening to her, she wasn't the only one. And somehow, that was both comforting and terrifying.
---
The library at Thornfield was a large, high-ceilinged room on the ground floor,
with tall windows that let in what little sunlight the Highland sky had to offer. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with a mix of educational texts, classic litera-
ture, and reference books. It was one of the few rooms in Thornfield that felt genuinely
welcoming, with comfortable chairs scattered throughout and the rich, comforting smell of old books permeating the air.
Miss MacBride, the librarian, was a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked brown
hair always pulled back in a loose bun and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She
was one of the few adults at Thornfield who treated the children as people rather than
problems to be managed, and Isla had always felt safe in her presence.
Today, though, Miss MacBride looked tense as she greeted Isla and Mrs. Blackwood. Her smile was strained, and her eyes kept darting between them as if she were
watching a dangerous animal circling its prey.
"Miss MacLeod will be spending the morning here," Mrs. Blackwood said, her hand firmly on Isla's shoulder. "She's to read only from the approved shelves—nothing
from the restricted section, understood?"
"Of course, Mrs. Blackwood," Miss MacBride said, her Scottish accent more pronounced than usual, a sign of stress Isla had noticed before. "I'll keep a close eye on
her."
"See that you do." Mrs. Blackwood gave Isla's shoulder a final squeeze. "I have
some matters to attend to, but I'll return in an hour. Miss MacLeod, I expect you to be-
have appropriately."
"Yes, Mrs. Blackwood," Isla said, keeping her eyes downcast.
As soon as the director left, the atmosphere in the library seemed to lighten. Miss MacBride's shoulders relaxed, and she gave Isla a genuine smile.
"Well now, lass, it's good to see you," she said warmly. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances. I heard you've been moved to the third floor."
Isla nodded, not trusting her voice. Miss MacBride was one of the few people at
Thornfield she genuinely liked, and the librarian's kindness threatened to crack the
careful composure she'd been maintaining.
Miss MacBride seemed to understand. She patted Isla's arm gently. "Come on, then. Let's find you something good to read."
She led Isla through the stacks, past the "approved" shelves that held mostly text-
books and sanitized classics, toward a section near the back of the library. "I've been reorganizing," she said conversationally, though her voice was pitched low. "Some books got a bit… misplaced in the process."
They stopped in front of a shelf that held a mix of history books and folklore collections. Miss MacBride pulled out a thick volume bound in faded green leather. "This might interest you," she said, placing it on a nearby table. "It's a history of the Scottish Highlands, with particular attention to the ancient monuments. Like that stone circle
behind Thornfield."
Isla's heart skipped a beat. "The Threshold," she said without thinking.
Miss MacBride's eyes widened slightly. "Yes," she said carefully. "That's what the
locals call it. How did you know that?"
"I… I heard someone mention it," Isla said, not wanting to admit that she'd read it
in the book Mrs. Blackwood had confiscated.
Miss MacBride studied her for a moment, then nodded as if coming to a decision.
"Well, you're right. The Threshold is what it's been called for centuries. It's said to be a
place where the veil between worlds is thin, where one can sometimes glimpse… other realities."
She opened the book to a page marked with a thin ribbon. There was an illustration of a stone circle that looked remarkably like the one behind Thornfield. Besides, it was a smaller drawing of a symbol—a circle with a vertical line through it, surrounded by rays or flames.
The same symbol Isla had found carved in her wardrobe. The same one Eliza had
made with her hand.
"This is interesting, isn't it?" Miss MacBride said, tapping the symbol. "It's called
the Mark of the Keeper. According to legend, it was used by those who guarded the
thresholds between worlds—special people who could see beyond the veil and pro-
tect our reality from… incursions."
Isla's mouth had gone dry. "Threshold Keepers," she whispered.
Miss MacBride's hand froze on the page. "Yes," she said, her voice barely audible.
"How did you—"
The library door opened, and they both jumped. But it wasn't Mrs. Blackwood—it
was Mr. Jenkins, the caretaker, looking harried.
"Miss MacBride," he called. "Mrs. Blackwood needs you in her office. Something about the book order."
Miss MacBride hesitated, glancing at Isla. "I can't leave Miss MacLeod unsupervised," she said. "Mrs. Blackwood's instructions—"
"I'll stay with her," Mr. Jenkins said. "Just for a few minutes. Mrs. Blackwood was
quite insistent."
Miss MacBride still looked reluctant, but she nodded. "I'll be as quick as I can," she told Isla. "Stay here, and… be careful with that book. Some knowledge can be… dangerous in the wrong hands."
With that cryptic warning, she hurried out, leaving Isla alone with Mr. Jenkins, who
took up a position by the door, his weathered face impassive.
Isla turned back to the book, her heart racing. The Mark of the Keeper. Threshold
Keepers. The whisper in her room, the symbols carved into the furniture, Eliza's hand gestures—it all seemed connected, pieces of a puzzle she was just beginning to see.
She turned the page and found a passage about the stone circle behind Thornfield:
"The Threshold at Gleann Síth is one of the oldest and most powerful of the sacred
sites in the Highlands. Legend holds that it was created by the ancient Picts in collabo-
ration with visitors from beyond the veil—beings of great power who taught them the
art of threshold keeping. For centuries, the circle was guarded by a lineage of Keepers,
individuals born with the ability to see beyond the veil and maintain the balance be-
tween worlds.
"The last known Keepers of the Gleann Síth Threshold were Ewan and Fiona MacLeod, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances in the winter of 2013, leaving
behind a young daughter…"
Isla's blood turned to ice. MacLeod. Her parents' names were Ewan and Fiona.
They had died—disappeared—in 2013 when she was three years old.
This couldn't be a coincidence.
With trembling fingers, she turned the page, desperate for more information. But
before she could read further, she heard footsteps approaching—the sharp, distinctive click of Mrs. Blackwood's heels on the hardwood floor.
Quickly, Isla memorized the page number and closed the book, sliding it back onto the shelf just as Mrs. Blackwood entered the library.
"Ah, Miss MacLeod," she said, her cold eyes taking in the scene. "Where is Miss MacBride?"
"You called her to your office, ma'am," Mr. Jenkins said before Isla could respond.
"About the book order."
Mrs. Blackwood's eyes narrowed slightly. "Did I? How forgetful of me." She turned
to Isla. "Well, it seems our library time is cut short today. Come along, Miss MacLeod.
It's time for your first lesson."
Isla followed Mrs. Blackwood out of the library, her mind reeling from what she'd
just discovered. Her parents hadn't been ordinary people who died in an accident.
They had been Threshold Keepers, guardians of the stone circle behind Thornfield.
And they hadn't died—they had disappeared.
Which meant they might still be alive.
As they climbed the stairs to the third floor, Isla felt something stirring inside her—
a mix of hope, fear, and determination that made her fingertips tingle and the pressure behind her eyes return. The blue glow was building again, and she had to concentrate to suppress it, instinctively knowing that Mrs. Blackwood must not see it.
Whatever Mrs. Blackwood had planned for her "lesson," Isla would endure it. Because now she had something she'd lacked before: a purpose. She needed to learn more about the Threshold Keepers, about her parents, about her own strange abilities.
And somehow, she needed to find out what had really happened to Ewan and Fiona MacLeod.
---
Mrs. Blackwood's private study on the third floor was a stark contrast to the library.
Where the library was warm and inviting, this room was cold and austere, with bare walls painted a pale, institutional green and a single window that offered a view of the
stone circle—the Threshold—on the hill behind Thornfield.
The furniture was minimal: a large desk with a high-backed chair behind it, two
uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs in front of it, and a glass-fronted cabinet along
one wall that contained an assortment of objects Isla couldn't identify from where she
stood.
Mrs. Blackwood gestured to one of the wooden chairs. "Sit."
Isla sat, her back straight, hands folded in her lap. She'd decided on the walk up
that her best strategy was to appear compliant while revealing as little as possible about what she knew or suspected.
Mrs. Blackwood didn't sit behind the desk as Isla had expected. Instead, she moved to the cabinet and opened it, removing a small wooden box which she placed on the desk between them.
"Do you know why you're here, Miss MacLeod?" she asked, her voice deceptively
soft.
"Because I'm different," Isla said, deciding that a partial truth was safer than an
outright lie.
"Yes." Mrs. Blackwood opened the box and removed a small silver object—a pendant on a chain. It was a simple design: a circle with a vertical line through it, surrounded by rays or flames.
The Mark of the Keeper.
Isla's breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to remain still, to show no
recognition.
"This belonged to your mother," Mrs. Blackwood said, dangling the pendant from
her fingers so it caught the light. "It was found among her possessions after she and
your father… disappeared."
So Mrs. Blackwood knew. She knew about Isla's parents, about the Threshold Keepers. The question was, what did she want with Isla?
"My parents died in a car accident," Isla said, sticking to the story she'd been told all her life.
Mrs. Blackwood's lips curved in that not-quite-smile. "Is that what you believe?
How… convenient." She set the pendant on the desk between them. "Touch it."
Isla hesitated, every instinct screaming that this was a trap. But refusing would only
confirm Mrs. Blackwood's suspicions. Slowly, she reached out and placed her fingertip on the cool silver surface of the pendant.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming. The tingling sensation she'd felt before rushed up her arm and spread throughout her body, a thousand times stronger than before. The pressure behind her eyes built to an almost painful intensity, and she knew without seeing that they were glowing blue.
The pendant itself began to glow as well, emitting the same soft blue light. Objects on the desk—a pen, a paperweight, a small clock—rose into the air, hovering several inches above the surface.
Mrs. Blackwood watched with an expression of cold satisfaction. "As I suspected,"
she said. "The power runs in your blood, just as it did in your parents'."
With an effort that left her gasping, Isla pulled her finger away from the pendant.
The objects crashed back to the desk, and the blue glow faded from both the pendant and, she presumed, her eyes.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice shaking.
"To help you, of course," Mrs. Blackwood said, though her tone held no warmth or
genuine concern. "To teach you to control these… abilities of yours. They're danger-
ous, you know. Without proper training, you could hurt yourself or others."
Isla didn't believe for a second that Mrs. Blackwood cared about her welfare. But
she needed to learn more, both about her abilities and about Mrs. Blackwood's intentions.
"What happened to my parents?" she asked directly.
Mrs. Blackwood's expression hardened. "They were foolish," she said. "They meddled with forces beyond their understanding. And they paid the price for their arrogance." She picked up the pendant and returned it to the box. "But that need not be your fate, Miss MacLeod. With proper guidance, you could achieve what they could not."
"And what's that?"
"Control," Mrs. Blackwood said simply. "Mastery over your gifts, rather than being
mastered by them." She closed the box with a snap. "We'll start with something simple. A test of your telekinetic abilities."
She placed a small metal ball on the desk. "Move this without touching it."
Isla stared at the ball, remembering how objects had risen when she touched the
pendant. That had been involuntary, a reaction to the surge of power. Could she do it deliberately?
She focused on the ball, trying to recapture the sensation she'd felt—the tingling,
the pressure behind her eyes. Nothing happened.
"I can't," she said after a moment.
"You can," Mrs. Blackwood insisted. "You're simply not trying hard enough. Perhaps you need… motivation."
She opened a drawer in the desk and removed a photograph, which she placed
face-up in front of Isla. It showed a group of children standing in front of Thornfield—
children Isla recognized from her time there, including some who had indeed "graduated" from Mrs. Blackwood's program and never been heard from again.
"Do you know what happened to them?" Mrs. Blackwood asked, her voice soft but
menacing.
Isla shook her head, a cold knot forming in her stomach.
"They failed to develop their potential," Mrs. Blackwood said. "They were… disappointments." She tapped the photograph. "I would hate for you to join their ranks, Miss MacLeod."
The threat was clear, though Isla wasn't sure exactly what it meant. What had happened to those children? Where were they now?
Fear and anger surged through her—fear for herself, anger at this woman who treated children like experiments to be discarded if they didn't yield the desired results. The emotions were powerful, overwhelming, and as they crested, the metal ball on the desk trembled and then shot across the surface, falling to the floor with a sharp ping.
Mrs. Blackwood's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "There," she said. "You see?
Emotion is the key—the gateway to your power. Again."
She retrieved the ball and placed it back on the desk. For the next hour, she had Isla move objects of increasing size and weight, always using fear or anger as the trigger. By the end, Isla was exhausted, her head pounding, a trickle of blood running
from her nose.
"Enough for today," Mrs. Blackwood said finally, noting Isla's condition with clinical detachment. "Using your abilities without proper conditioning can be draining.
Rest now, and we'll continue tomorrow."
Isla stood on shaky legs, desperate to escape the cold study and Mrs. Blackwood's colder presence. But as she reached the door, Mrs. Blackwood called after her.
"Miss MacLeod."
Isla turned, her hand on the doorknob.
"I would advise against discussing our lessons with the other children," Mrs. Black-
wood said. "Or with anyone else at Thornfield. It would be… unfortunate if your special education were to be interrupted."
Another threat, thinly veiled. Isla nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and fled the room.
---
Back in her room, Isla collapsed onto the bed, her body aching and her mind reeling from everything that had happened. The revelation about her parents, the pendant with the Mark of the Keeper, the forced use of her abilities—it was almost too
much to process.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to ease the throbbing pain there.
The nosebleed had stopped, but she could still taste copper at the back of her throat,
a reminder of the physical toll her "lesson" had taken.
As the evening light faded, casting long shadows across the floor, Isla found herself staring at the stone circle on the hill. The Threshold. The place her parents had
guarded before they disappeared. The place that somehow connected to her own
strange abilities.
She needed to learn more, but how? Mrs. Blackwood had stressed that the library
was now restricted, and she doubted she'd get another chance to speak privately with
Miss MacBride anytime soon.
Then she remembered the notebook among her possessions. It was just a simple
spiral-bound pad she'd used for schoolwork, but it could serve another purpose now.
She could record what she learned, keep track of her questions and discoveries.
Retrieving the notebook and pen, Isla began to write, starting with what she'd learned about the Threshold Keepers and her parents. She wrote about the symbols
she'd found carved into the furniture, about the whisper in her room, about the shadows she'd seen dancing among the stones.
She wrote about Thomas and Eliza, wondering if they too were potential Keepers, or if their abilities were different. Likewise, she wrote about Mrs. Blackwood and her ominous warnings, her threats, her apparent knowledge of the Threshold and the Keepers.
And finally, she wrote about her experiences—the tingling sensation, the pressure
behind her eyes, the blue glow, the way objects moved when her emotions ran high.
When she was finished, she hid the notebook under the mattress, knowing instinctively that Mrs. Blackwood or her staff would search the room regularly.
Night had fully fallen now, and the stone circle was invisible in the darkness. But as
Isla watched, tiny points of blue light appeared among the stones—the same blue as the glow from her eyes and the pendant. They moved in patterns, weaving between
the ancient monoliths, sometimes forming shapes that almost looked like letters or
symbols before dissolving again.
On an impulse, Isla raised her hand and focused on creating that tingling sensation, that pressure behind her eyes. It came more easily this time, perhaps because she was alone and unafraid, or perhaps because she was beginning to understand how to access it deliberately.
A small ball of blue light formed in her palm, pulsing gently like a tiny heartbeat. It wasn't scary or painful; it felt natural, as if she'd always been able to do this but had somehow forgotten.
She let the light hover above her palm for a moment, watching it pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat. Then, with a thought, she sent it floating toward the window, where it hovered like a miniature star.
Out on the hillside, the lights among the stones seemed to pulse in response, as if
acknowledging her presence, her awakening power.
Isla let her light fade and watched as the lights among the stones gradually dimmed as well. But even after they were gone, she could feel a connection to that place, a pull like an invisible thread linking her to the ancient circle.
Her parents had been the Keepers of the Threshold. Now, it seemed, that responsibility might be passing to her. The thought was terrifying but also strangely exhilarating. For the first time in her life, Isla felt as if she might have a purpose, a destiny beyond the bleak walls of Thornfield.
As she prepared for bed, moving through her evening routine with mechanical efficiency, Isla decided. She would learn everything she could from Mrs. Blackwood about her abilities, about the Threshold, about what had happened to her parents. But
she would reveal as little as possible in return. She would be cautious, strategic, playing the role of the compliant student while secretly pursuing her agenda.
And somehow, someday, she would find out the truth about Ewan and Fiona MacLeod.
With that resolution firmly in mind, Isla climbed into bed and closed her eyes. Just
before sleep claimed her, she thought she heard that whisper again—"Threshold Keeper"—but this time, it didn't frighten her.
This time, it felt like a promise.