Page 7 of Lessons in Touch

“I know,” I smile.

Chapter 3

Rose

The limousine slows as we approach Wolfswood Institute. My heart races. The building stands ahead, tall and weathered, with mid-October clouds hanging low behind its chimneys.

The building is much larger than I imagined. Dark grey stone covers its walls, and the tall spires rise sharply into the cloudy sky. The windows are narrow and shut tight against the rain. Behind the structure, the gardens stretch so far that they seem to disappear into the horizon.

A clock tower rings loudly, counting time with strict precision. Everything—the gleam of the brass door, the weight of the iron balconies, the careful stonework around the entrance—speaks of wealth. But the place feels heavy, as if it holds dark secrets from both past and present.

I see students walking in small, orderly groups. Their uniforms are immaculate, and their voices remain low and measured. It feels as if the building itself expects a certain kind of discipline. The Wolfswood uniform is understated but clearly expensive: navy blazers with silver crests, crisp white shirts, and charcoal skirts or trousers. Every detail carries tradition, shaped by centuries of history.

I step out of the limousine, taken aback by the campus’s grandeur. Nothing about this place resembles the life I had in London. This is my new reality—the Devereaux world.

Headmistress Lillian Velmont is waiting for me inside. Her silver hair is pulled tightly back, and her eyes are cold and sharp. She seems strict and unapologetic.

“Miss Devereaux, welcome,” she says with a restrained smile. “Follow me. I will show you to your dorm.”

She leads me through halls of gleaming wood and ancient portraits. The students are pausing to whisper my name. Devereaux—this word is trailing me like a ghost.

My dorm room is stunning—grand in that old-money way, where nothing is flashy but everything costs a fortune. It’s larger than our entire apartment back in London and dripping with opulence. I open a drawer and pause, half-certain the knobs are made of gold. The windows are fogged, and the campus is barely visible—but right now, all my attention is on what’s inside.

“Is this… all for me?” I ask the headmistress.

“Are you expecting someone else?” she answers as if I’m dumb.

“No, I meant…”

“Miss Devereaux, I was told to show you to your bedroom, even though I am the headmistress of the institution. I need to inform you that I do not provide butler services, no matter what your family or Mr. Thorn might think.”

“Who is Mr. Thorn? Is he a part of…”

She rolls her eyes and turns to walk out of my bedroom.

“I have my eye on you, Miss Devereaux.”

Before I can reply, she’s gone. “Great,” I think to myself. I’ve been here for five minutes and I have already upset the headmistress. That’s a wonderful start.

I sit down on the bed to settle my heart rate after that episode, but I notice there is a book there.

The Devereaux Legacy. Its cover is embossed with a family crest. There is no note on it, and I immediately start to wonder—who left this here? It couldn’t have been the headmistress. I trace the title, wondering what secrets it holds. But my mind wanders.

She mentioned the Devereauxs and Mr. Thorn.

Who is Mr. Thorn?

***

I’ve never felt this nervous before. My alarm goes off, but I’m already up. It’s my first class is Business Etiquette, today, and I have absolutely no clue what to expect.

The classroom buzzes with students. They speak in polished accents and stand with confident postures, clearly presenting themselves as heirs to fortunes.

A very tall man stands at the front, effortlessly commanding the class’s attention. He has a lean, muscular frame, and his light olive skin contrasts with his jet-black, slightly tousled hair. A tailored suit matches his dark brown eyes, which seem calm and comforting.

“He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”

“Oh, my God. It’s insane how good-looking he is!!”