The marble staircase of Thornefield Academy had been polished to a mirror shine that morning—a fact that would prove far more relevant than anyone anticipated.
Adrian Whitmore had not noticed this, of course. He rarely noticed such practical matters as floor surfaces or the envious glares that followed him through the corridors. At seventeen, he moved through the world with the sort of gentle obliviousness that made old ladies smile and young ladies plot. His dark hair fell just so across his forehead, his posture was impeccable without being stiff, and his smile—when he offered it—had the unfortunate quality of making people believe they were the only person in the room.
He was also, at this precise moment, about to die.
"Mr. Whitmore!" called Professor Hendricks from the top of the grand staircase. "A word, if you please!"
Adrian turned, one foot already on the third step, his leather satchel slung over his shoulder. "Of course, Professor—"
He didn't see the three boys descending behind him.
He didn't see Marcus Pemberton's foot extend just slightly into his path.
He didn't see the exact moment when gravity and malice reached an agreement.
But she did.
Vera Ashton had been watching Adrian Whitmore for eleven years, three months, and sixteen days. Not that she kept count. Not that she'd memorized the exact shade of confusion that crossed his face when he was about to do something foolish. Not that her body had learned to read the microscopic shift in his weight distribution that preceded a fall.
She was simply doing her job.
The moment his foot hit the slick marble at the wrong angle, she moved.
To the other students, it looked like a shadow detaching from the wall. One second, Adrian Whitmore was tilting backward, arms windmilling, his eyes wide with the particular surprise of someone who has just realized that staircases are, in fact, quite solid. The next second, there was a girl between him and the marble—one hand braced against the small of his back, the other gripping the banister so hard the wood creaked.
Adrian found himself suspended at a forty-five-degree angle, held up by what appeared to be a single human being who had somehow defied both physics and common sense.
"Miss Ashton!" Professor Hendricks gasped. "Good heavens!"
Vera said nothing. She simply pulled Adrian upright with the sort of casual strength one might use to right a tipped chair, released him, and stepped back to her usual position: two paces behind and one pace to the left.
Her expression hadn't changed. It never did.
Adrian blinked several times, his brain trying to process what had just happened. "I... thank you. I didn't—"
"You should watch your step, Mr. Whitmore," she said quietly. Her voice was low, controlled, utterly devoid of emotion. "The floors have been polished."
"Right. Yes. Of course." He turned to look at the staircase, then at Marcus Pemberton, who was trying very hard to look innocent. Adrian's brow furrowed. "Did you...?"
"I tripped," Marcus said quickly. "Nearly fell myself. Slippery, these stairs."
Adrian's face softened immediately into concern. "Oh! Are you alright? We should tell someone about the floors—someone could get hurt—"
Behind him, Vera's jaw tightened by approximately two millimeters. To anyone else, her expression remained perfectly neutral. But if one had studied her face for, say, eleven years, three months, and sixteen days, one might recognize this as her "internally composing a list of creative punishments" expression.
Marcus Pemberton, who had not studied her face at all, made the mistake of smirking.
Vera's eyes shifted to him. Just her eyes. Nothing else moved.
The smirk died.
"I'm perfectly fine, Whitmore," Marcus said, suddenly very interested in his shoes. "Must dash. Latin exam. You know how it is."
He fled. His two companions followed with similar haste.
Adrian watched them go with visible confusion. "That was odd. Marcus usually loves to chat."
"Indeed," Vera murmured.
"Mr. Whitmore!" Professor Hendricks had descended the stairs, his considerable mustache quivering with residual alarm. "That was a near thing! Are you quite alright?"
"Oh, yes, perfectly fine. Thanks to Miss Ashton, of course." Adrian smiled at her—that devastating, completely genuine smile that made her fingers curl slightly at her sides. "She's always looking out for me."
"Indeed she is," Hendricks said, eyeing Vera with the mixture of respect and unease that most of the faculty exhibited in her presence. "Quick reflexes, Miss Ashton. Very... impressive."
Vera inclined her head precisely one inch. "Sir."
"Yes. Well." Hendricks coughed. "Mr. Whitmore, I wanted to discuss your essay on the economic policies of the Regency period. Brilliant work, truly brilliant. I've submitted it for the Ashworth Historical Society's annual competition."
Adrian's face lit up. "Really? Oh, Professor, I don't know what to say—"
"Don't say anything yet. Simply keep up the excellent work." Hendricks patted his shoulder. "You have a remarkable mind, my boy. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
As Hendricks departed, Adrian stood a little straighter. The praise had clearly affected him, though he tried to hide his pleasure behind modesty.
Vera watched him from her position slightly behind. The morning light from the tall windows caught in his hair, turned it almost auburn. He was clutching his satchel with both hands now, a small smile playing at his lips. In three seconds, he would turn to her and say something self-deprecating. In five seconds, she would respond with something neutral and professional. In six seconds, they would continue to their next class, and she would resume her vigil.
In eleven years, this dance had not changed.
"Did you hear that?" Adrian turned to her, right on schedule. "He thinks my essay was brilliant. I'm sure he's being generous, but still—"
"Your essay was well-researched and thoroughly argued," Vera said. "The professor's assessment is accurate."
"You read it?"
She had proofread it at two in the morning while he slept, corrected three minor citation errors, and left the annotated copy on his desk before dawn. "I may have glanced at it."
"I value your opinion more than you know." He said it so simply, so genuinely, that something behind Vera's ribs did a complicated twist that she absolutely refused to acknowledge.
She inclined her head again. "We should proceed to your literature class. You have twelve minutes."
"Right, yes." He started walking, then paused. "Vera?"
She stopped. He almost never used her first name at school. "Yes?"
"I really am grateful. For earlier. For... everything." He looked like he wanted to say more, his mouth opening and closing slightly.
For a fraction of a second, she allowed herself to look at him. Really look. At the earnestness in his gray eyes, the slight pink in his cheeks, the way his hair refused to stay completely tamed no matter how carefully he combed it.
Then she looked away.
"It's my job, Mr. Whitmore."
Something flickered across his face—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. But it was gone so quickly she might have imagined it.
"Of course," he said quietly. "Shall we?"
They walked through the corridors of Thornefield Academy, he in front, she two paces behind and one pace to the left. Students parted for them like water around stone. Some stared. Some whispered.
Adrian noticed none of it.
Vera noticed all of it.
In the headmaster's office three floors above, Professor Hendricks was having tea with Madame Rothschild, the etiquette instructor.
"Did you see?" Hendricks asked, stirring his cup thoughtfully. "The Ashton girl. Caught him before he'd fallen two inches."
"I heard," Madame Rothschild said. "The students are already talking. They say she watches him like a hawk."
"More like a guardian angel." Hendricks chuckled. "Though I pity any young lady who tries to pursue the Whitmore boy with her standing watch."
"Indeed. Though one does wonder..."
"Wonder what?"
Madame Rothschild smiled into her tea. "Nothing, nothing. Simply that it's curious, isn't it? How devoted she is. One might almost think—"
"She's his bodyguard," Hendricks interrupted firmly. "Hired by the family. Very professional arrangement."
"Of course. Very professional."
They sipped their tea.
Below them, in the hallway, Adrian was laughing at something a classmate had said.
Two paces behind and one pace to the left, Vera was not smiling.
But her eyes never left his back.