Chapter 21

Lenore felt a rare fatigue drape over her, like a lead lined blanket—her muscles felt swollen, and thick as she slowly approached her door. She unlocked it, but it wouldn’t open, like something was blocking it—her shoulder slammed against it, and it swung open.

“Lenore.” Lorelai jumped up away from her bed, where Bianca sat—Lorelai’s signature red smeared around her lips. Lenore arched a brow, and looked between them like a disapproving parent. She didn’t speak a word, only collected her dusty guitar from under her bed.

“Where were you? And where the fuck did you go last night?” Lorelai asked, and Lenore’s eyes snapped over to her—the wildness, like a feral animal, from last night hadn’t faded yet—and the siren shivered beneath her gaze.

“Ms Capri took me back to our dorm,” she answered coldly, struggling to sling the guitar case over her shoulder.

“Why did she take you back?”

Lenore’s gaze dropped to the floor, “I fainted.” She murmured.

“And you thought not to tell me about this?”

“You aren’t my fucking mother, Lorelai!” She barked—eyes widened, darkening slowly, chest heaving with wild breaths. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to join you there, anyway.”

“Yeah, I don’t know either.” Lorelai shouted as Lenore slammed the door behind her; it shook in its hinges, and the glass shivered.

Between Lenore’s sharpened teeth, a growl resounded—irritation flaring hot in her skin, like a forest fire raging within her; as she walked down the stairs, she resisted the urge to tear the banister from the wall, instead her hand locked tightly around it. Behind that anger, coming like a flash flood, her eyes burned with something she refused to weep—turning tears to embers.

Her fingers curled around the cuffs of her shirt, and jagged, bitten nails ripped at the fabric. Her teeth ached, like they were doused in water, beneath the pressure of her jaw—her canine’s grinded together, like a knife sharpening on a stone.

She didn’t even have to think, as she descended the stairs, pushing into the corridors busy with the after school crowds—her feet absentmindedly led her to the music room. The door lay ajar, and Ms Capri stood with her back to the door, at her desk, staring down at a newspaper article. Her face was tense, muscles taut—a thunderous look in her eye.

“Miss Capri,” Lenore called out, leaning against the doorway.

She reeled around, and pressed the newspaper to her chest—it looked old, at least a few years, coffee stained, ripped at the edges, sun bleached, and had creases where it had been folded and unfolded over years. “Lenore,” her downcast expression faded away, and a smile crept in to take its place. She placed down the newspaper.

“Are you okay?” Lenore asked, slowly stepping forward, gently kicking the door shut behind her.

“Yeah- yes, I’m fine. I should be asking you that question.” Ms Capri said, and while suspicion lay scrawled across Lenore’s face, she didn’t say anything—only tried to ignore the remaining adrenaline pumping through her veins. “Are you okay?” She approached Lenore, and they met halfway.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” she said, trying to offer a comforting smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

“Lenore…” she said softly, smoothing down the wrinkles on her shirt, and her hand travelled down Lenore’s arm, to her hand, intertwining their fingers gently, and uncurling her fist, “what’s wrong?”

Guilt, burning in its path, crept up her throat—it made her feel like she was eleven again, everyone so high above her, like they could crush her beneath their heel, “I didn’t mean to shout at her,” she murmured.

“At who?”

“Lorelai,” she said.

Miss Capri traced the oldest scar across Lenore’s palm, “I’m sure she knows that.”

“She always been there, even when we were tested by my shitty ex… and I don’t know what to do; she doesn’t look at me how she used to,” Lenore said, and without a word, Ms Capri led her over, towards the stage, where she helped Lenore take off the guitar bag, and sat down.

“Shitty ex?” Miss Capri gritted out.

Lenore laughed weakly, “yeah, Lori full on fought her for me.”

“What happened?”

“Where I lived there were a few groups of outcasts, so we often hung out together, and that’s where I met Althea when I came home from Nevermore one summer,” she said, trying to stop herself from further splitting the seams from her shirt, “rumours had spread about me, and she was interested; she played me, made me feel like I wasn’t a monster, but she really just liked the notoriety of ‘taming’ me. Once she saw me transform, though, and properly lose my shit, it scared her. I scared her. That’s when she started using her siren song, and once Lorelai found out, she went nuclear.”

Ms Capri fell silent—and she breathed slowly, but sharply, like she was trying to maintain her composure, “this girl did what to you?” She asked.

“Don’t worry, Lorelai dealt with it,” Lenore shrugged it off—but the feeling of her throat being forced closed by siren song could never escape her.

“What did she do?”

Lenore’s smile sharpened with amusement, “the thing about her is she can be very… persuasive when she wants to be; she, with a few of her friends, jumped Althea, and the day after, I got a text saying, ‘we’re done.'” She said.

“Good, she sounds awful—you should’ve pressed charges,” Miss Capri said, and Lenore shrugged.

“Yeah, but you know how it is, right? I’m sure you’ve had a crazy ex or two.” Lenore asked jokingly.

Ms Capri’s breathing stuttered, and went quiet—Lenore furrowed her brows, and opened her mouth to backtrack, “I had an ex, he was like that, too. It didn’t end well.” She whispered—and Lenore felt like the air had been punched from her, but she didn’t interrupt.

Ms Capri stood up, and grabbed the aged newspaper from her desk, sitting down beside Lenore; she unfolded it, and showed Lenore an article—it was a eulogy of an Alfie Penn—a hyde who he died to a werewolf after attempting to kill her. One detail stuck out to Lenore, it wasn’t a full moon when it happened.

Isadora remained quiet beside her, stiff with tension, and looked hopefully at Lenore when she turned away from the article, “so, that’s why you know so much about werewolves like Enid.”

“What do you mean?”

A smile slipped onto Lenore’s face, and tapped the paper, “it wasn’t a full moon.” She said.

“You’re too sharp for your own good sometimes,” Isadora said, voice thick with emotion, “you aren’t…” she trailed off, spinning the rings around her fingers, and Lenore slipped her hand over, careful to avoid the rings, and interlaced their fingers.

“Disgusted, repulsed, horrified? No. It isn’t like I haven’t done worse. It was self defense, you or him, and personally, though I might be bias, I’m happy you won.” Lenore said, and Isadora’s face dropped with shock, like she hadn’t heard that before. A bittersweet smile grew on her features. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did he attack you?”

“What do you know about Hydes?”

“A decent amount, I mean, I fought one.” Lenore said, “ugly motherfuckers, though.”

Isadora’s lips parted, shock written across her expression, which quickly turned to amusement, mixed with something Lenore couldn’t place, “anyway,” she said, “his master, she was in love with him, and ordered him to kill me. I was able to fight him off, and that’s about all there is to tell.”

“Honestly, I’ll admit I’m… surprised. I didn’t think you swung that way,” Lenore said, and Isadora laughed at the pure nerve of the question, and shook her head.

“That’s one thing he was good for, made me realise I didn’t like men,” she said, and Lenore couldn’t help the relief that flooded her, nor could she help the smile begging to overtake her face. Instead of showing the pleased expression, she turned down, to the guitar laid on her lap.

“Well, I didn’t actually come here to talk about our shitty ex’s; I figured—” Lenore said, unzipping her guitar case to reveal a slick red and black, sharp edged guitar, its metallic strings shining, “—you might like this, I know you usually teach classical, but I think some variation isn’t a bad thing. I’ll let you borrow her, if you want to, as long as you promise to take good care of her.”

Isadora brushed her fingertips along the polished surface, “are you sure?”

“It isn’t like I can play now anyway, can’t play my guitar, violin, I can only play piano,” Lenore said, “and it isn’t like I don’t playing piano, but violin grounds me like nothing else.”

“You play beautifully, I remember that night, you were fascinating. I hadn’t seen technique like yours in years, but that wasn’t what made your performance so enchanting, it was the history I could see bleeding through every note.” Isadora said, a ghostly smile fluttering onto her face like a lingering memory.

“Yeah, I remember how spikey I was.” Lenore sighed out, shifting her jaw around unsurely. “You intimidated me, I wasn’t used to that.”

“Well, I think I deserved you being spikey,” Isadora said, nudging her shoulder playfully. “I was being purposely triggering… before I realised it wasn’t a good idea.”

Lenore chuckled breathily, and pressed her lips together, a wry shake of her head following suit, “I’m sorry, anyway, I know I’m difficult, and I’ll continue to be, probably. I don’t think I deserve your faith, but thank you for sticking around.”

“Lenore, I have no faith in you,” she said, and Lenore shot her a look, “faith is believing in something with no proof, but I’ve seen you be compassionate, sympathetic, and loyal. I have all the reason in the world to believe in you.”

She couldn’t say anything—her words were stuck in her throat, and she only looked down at the scarred mess of her hands; did she really deserve someone’s trust? She asked herself, and thought it to be a trick, but when she looked up at Isadora, she found an earnest expression. Her defenses crumbled a little.

“You know, I should go,” she breathed out, squeezing Ms Capri’s hand, and hesitantly standing up, “but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Miss Capri said—an unhideable disappointment lingering in her voice, “it’s a full moon tomorrow, I can take you to the wolf cages?”

“Yeah,” Lenore said, dread slamming into her like a freight train, leaving her breathless at the reminder of the full moon, and the transformation crawling impatiently beneath her skin.

–

Lenore awoke in the hazy darkness of her room—stars shining through her frosted window, blurred like flares in crystaled glass; low lantern light, from the staff quatres flickered in the silence of the early morning. Her head thumped painlessly, simply her pulse running up her neck to her forehead.

Weary, though equally on edge—jaw aching from the tightness of it as she slept, she looked around her room, ears catching the high whine of Lorelai’s electronics charging. Her heavy footsteps brushed against the floor, wooden boards whining petutantly beneath her weight. As she wandered aimlessly around her room, skin stained shiny by cold sweats, her joints cracked like shattered bones.

Her fingers curled around her desk drawer handle, and it smoothly opened with a low rumble—she traced the carved design on the front, and pulled it out; the paper rustled as she read the first entry. It was brief—written about the past, when her memories began to fade:

They told me this would help, relive it, write it like how I lived it, I think it’s bullshit. What choice do I have?

They won’t even talk to me anymore, no matter what I do, or how I try to apologise; I try to pretend like it doesn’t hurt, after all, my parents don’t need to worry more, but I would be lying if I said it didn’t.

They sewed wolfsbane in their front yard, they’ve just began to rise from the dirt. They don’t need to use them to keep me away, I don’t want to give them anymore grief.

My therapist told me I should only make amends if it didn’t cause more pain, I know it would.

An apology won’t make her scars fade, and it won’t lessen mine, either.

I will never be purified from the blood staining my hands.

Lenore closed her confessional. It shook under the weight of her hold—and her movements were slow, mechanical as she slid it into the back of the drawer. Her eyes lingered, body stiff, before she pushed the door closed. The click of its lock rung out in the silence. Dawn light, a spill of gold, poured across her room, shining through the pane of glass.

She reached her hand between the thick foliage of her plants, and rubbed the frost from the window. Sun shone through the leafless oaks, and undying evergreens, beaming onto the weathered castle walls. They looked like shadows against the lightening horizon. Lenore bathed in the stillness of morning; she counted the remaining stars in the darkened gradient of sky. They were quickly fading.

Lenore’s shoulder ached as she struggled to pull on her oversized hoodie, but once she did it, a content sigh left her as she practically drowned in the dusty red fabric. After snatching her phone from her bedside table—she left, without once glancing at Lorelai asleep on her bed.

The school seemed to breathe, in almost silence, but inhale and exhaling, muttering, snoring, and students sneaking back from each others rooms slipped through the halls, walls, and gaps in the doors—the aged stairs creaked beneath her feet. The light grace she often walked with had left her, joints aching, and her footsteps came clunkily, loudly on the stairs, no matter how slowly she stepped.

Her limbs ached less, straightening out once she met the wooden floor of the hallway. A darkness hung heavily in the corridor, not illuminated in its usual dim glow. Before she could move, her sharpened senses beckoned her still—she twitched as the hairs on her neck bristled, trailing down to raise the hair on her arms, too. Her pupils dialated to look through the dusty shield of black.

Where the hallway tapered to stop, by the door, a figure stood—that’s when Lenore caught the scent of blood, thick, metallic, and mouthwatering; it wasn’t human, but deer. Her heartbeat rattled in her chest, and the figures head snapped to Lenore. Her claws clicked out defensively.

Through the musty, thick smell of blood—she recognised the sharp smell of perfume, and vampire—she knew it as Ms Zhang’s signature scent. Footsteps grew closer to Lenore, and her jaw trembled, growing on edge as she was approached. As she slowly grew closer, the sheen of blood covering her mouth, hands and chest became clear.

Before she could stop herself, a growl had rumbled up from Lenore’s throat—utterly unnatural sounding, like metal grinding together—something bloodcurdling; Miss Zhang stopped in her tracks, and the silence thickened between them.

“Lenore?” Her voice echoed quietly down the hall.

“Hello,” she said stiffly.

“What are you doing up this early?” Ms Zhang asked.

“What are you doing up this early covered in deer blood?” Lenore asked, purely to prove a point—she knew why, and Miss Zhang knew that she did, too.

“Point made,” Ms Zhang sighed resignedly.

Lenore didn’t say anything to end their cold war, she only made a sound of acknowledgement in her throat, and a curt nod—the silence stretched between them, until Miss Zhang breathed out heavily; she started walk past her. Before she could pass, Lenore caught her bicep, and her teachers mouth opened to scold or protest her, but she was beaten to it.

“Don’t go that way, some students are sneaking back into their room, go around,” Lenore eased her grip, and dropped her hand to her side. “Unless you want to teach them a lesson,” she gave a half smile, and Ms Zhang laughed breathlessly, and flashed her a teethy smirk.

“It’s tempting, but I shouldn’t.” She said—and they parted ways, walking opposite directions down the hall, but before Lenore could reach the door, or her teacher could slip away from the students sneaking around, something made her pause, “Lenore… I apologise for my behaviour, and the publishing offer still applies, I didn’t shove it up my ass as you so eloquently put. Come and find me after class if you’re still interested.” Lenore didn’t have time to reply before the teacher left quickly.

She lingered there, thinking to herself in the dark corridor, trying relax the nervous thumping of her heart, which tempted a different side of her to rile its head.

Lenore’s hoodie eclipsed her vision, darkening the edges against the pale dawn light; wind nipped her bare skin, at her wrists, where her hands were shoved into her joggers, and at her face—pinkening her soft skin. Fresh air flowed down her throat, and seemed to ground her against the flogginess in her mind.

Her head lolled back, hoodie falling off her head—she looked up, at the sliver of sky, framed by the thick evergreens surround her like cyclone of leaves, pine-needles, bark, and vines. Light shined softly in her eyes—she bathed in the morning, where the moon didn’t bare down on her, and dread didn’t crawl against her skin as she awaited the night.

–

Crackling, soiled autumn leaves crunched beneath her feet, and the forest smelt of decay, and rot—hanging thickly like a blanket in the air; she ambled between the trees, over slithering roots, and under low hanging branches. Mud stuck to her shoes, squelching, trying to make her feet slip from beneath her.

Her fingers ran along the trees, tracing the bark, that swirled like aged scars. Arrow-shaped poison ivy climbed the trunk, its delicate vines wrapping around tightly. They stood looming, and ancient above her—spreading across for countless miles. She absentmindedly wandered around—until something caught her attention.

Lenore paused in her tracks, balancing on a thick root protruding from the ground, an earthy, bloody scent caught her like fish to a hook, slinking through her nose, and capturing her senses. It was deer, through the sounds of early morning—birdsong, wind, rustling of bushes, and the buzzing of cicadas—she could hear blood pumping, running through veins.

Hoof marks lay clearly in the mud.

She breathed in deeply, and her weight shifted—her footsteps came softer, a predatory glaze darkening her eyes, soaking in the light. Everything became brighter, and the voice of the forest fell away, leaving her to stalk the deer. Her body twitched whenever leaves crunched beneath her feet, or a twig snapped.

Lenore weaved beneath fallen trees, vaulting those too low—the softness of moss brushed against her hand, alongside the scratchiness of litchen; her claws shined beneath the light as she slashed through bushes, pushing through once used, now overgrown forest pathways, where a lane remained carved in the grass, but nature had begun to encroach upon it.

Wilted bushes rustled as she pushed into the clearing—where a shimmering lake stood, light rippling off the water like diamonds in the summer sun. It shone an inky black that light couldn’t seem to cut through, only bounce off. It lapped at the rocky shore. Across the lake, a thin, boney deer stood—shedding antlers brushing the branches above it, until it dipped its head down, to gently drink from the pond; those amber eyes, like light at dusk, didn’t once leave her.

Her blunted pencil scraped across the page of her sketchbook, forming crude shapes, before linking them together through curve lines, shading, under the pressure her hand placed upon the pencil. It quickly came to life, jumping from the page, from the edge of its ribs, water lapping to the shore, and grass tickling at its hooves.

“Lenore?” Miss Parker asked, holding a basket full with clippings in one hand, and a book in the opposite.

“Quiet,” Lenore said softly, gesturing to the deer watching them, “I’ve been stalking him for twenty-minutes; it’s a good scene, I don’t want him to run.”

“Okay,” Ms Parker said, laying her book, and basket down, taking a seat beside Lenore, glancing between her sketchbook, and the animal standing opposite them, “how are you doing? I haven’t seen you since…”

“Yeah, I’m fine, average really,” she mumbled, drawing the deers reflection in the glassy water.

Silence fell between, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable—only the scratching of her pencil against paper, and the gentle lapping of the water against the pebbled shore hung in the air. The shadowy figures of crows flew above them; a strange fear gripped Lenore, and her mind drifted back, to that fateful night, to what Fester had told her—that removable of abilities was possible, not only that, but proven.

Her lungs seized—and her blood grew hot, like something crawling through her, flailing, and panicking—breathing became difficult, akin to inhaling through a straw; her eyes only moved from her subject back to her sketchbook, but once she looked back at the deer—it had moved. Muscle rippled in its malnourished form, beneath skin, fur and fat as it walked along the shore, those glassy, instinctual eyes unmoving from her.

Her hand paused its scrawling.

A twitched rippled through Lenore.

They stared at another—unblinking, and she felt an odd kinship with the animal, more than with the woman beside her, or most people she knew; once she finally looked away, the animal bolted, hooves slamming against the ground, trees rustling as it ran through the thicket. Her sketch lay on her lap; she finished the trees, alongside the glassy water before closing it.

Miss Parker fiddled with a flower, spinning it between her fingers, “I removed the mistletoe,” she said, catching Lenore’s attention, who offered her a tight smile, though a distance lingered behind her eyes.

“Thanks,” she murmured, “I apologise for scaring you that day, I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t worry about it… I heard about what happened with Wednesday, are you alright?” Ms Parker asked, and Lenore offered a half smile, shrugging casually, and winced as her shoulder flared up.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, just hurts a little,” she said, becoming acutely aware of the stitches stretching in her back.

“Lenore,” she chuckled disbelievingly, “I know what happened, I doubt it hurts just a little.”

Lenore laughed weakly, “it isn’t as bad anymore, I’ll survive.” Goosebumps raised across her skin when she remembered Isadora’s soft, warm touch; she shivered, despite her feverish temperature.

“It is a little cold, isn’t it?” Miss Parker said, assuming she shivered from the bladed wind, “you’ve got class anyway, I should know, I’m teaching you,” she stood up, and dusted the dirt from her trousers. Lenore grunted quietly as she stood up, feeling the strange sting of stitches woven into her skin pull taut.

“Yeah, we should get back.” Lenore said.

–

Lenore settled in the corner, leaned tiredly against the desk, sunlight shining brightly through the glass ceiling onto her face; plants, and juvenile trees grew high overhead, vines slunk up their trunks, and hung from the ceiling—she glanced over, Miss Parker had told the truth, the pearly white beads of mistletow berries weren’t there any longer.

Ms Parker flashed her a bright smile from the front—then, it wavered, and her face fell into something thoughtful; she glanced around, and quickly walked towards Lenore—she leaned down, and hushed her voice. “We’re looking into Wolfsbane, and its affects today, is that a problem?” She asked. Lenore felt her breath catch, but she shook her head.

“No, it’s fine,” she said—hearing voices filter through the glass walls, flashes of figures walked past, distorted by the glass before they pushed open the door, and walked in, laughing with their friends; Lenore shrunk away, looking down at the notebook on her desk.

“Alright,” Ms Parker said, walking away to the front—brightly greeting the class with her usual sweet charisma; she leaned against her desk, and began to write smoothly, in looping, sweeping handwriting, ‘Wolfsbane.‘ “Wolfsbane, our wolves in the class will likely be familiar, what can anyone else tell me about it?”

Lorelai, seated metres away Lenore, glanced over at her, something between softness, and anger in her eyes—the class fell silent, and she slowly raised her hand, “there are two plants called Wolfsbane, the more common one is also known as Monkshood,” she explained, earning a shocked look from Miss Parker, who quickly concealed it, and wrote that on the board.

“Very good, Miss Ali,” she said, smiling proudly, she turned to address everyone else, “I didn’t expect much from anyone, so we’ll open up the conversation up to our more knowledgeable students; can anyone tell me the affects of wolfsbane on humans?”

“Tingling, numbness of the mouth, nausea and vomiting,” another werewolf, whom she had never interacted with, explained through a yawn, clearly tired from incoming full moon. Ms Parker smiled at her, writing it down on the board.

“What about internal symptoms of Monkshood poisoning?” She asked, tilting her head at Lenore, lips twitching up expectantly—Lenore sighed, and nodded.

“Stopping of the heart, vomiting, and neurological problems like paralysis and mania,” Lenore explained, earning a subtle nod from Miss Parker, who scrawled it down on the board; her focus wavered as the class continued, discussing what she already knew, and she stared absentmindedly at her notebook, writing shifting around on the page.

Only after minutes had passed, and Ms Parker had searched through her greenhouse, carefully bringing back a toxically bright Wolfsbane plant, did Lenore finally focus in again—the sickly sweet smell of its hooded petals met her nose, and her stomach squirmed uncomfortably. She stared at it, like it had personally wronged her.

Lenore craned her head away, breathing in through her mouth instead, settling her stomach enough to keep the bile down; her fingers tightened around the pen, slowly growing hard enough to snap it—she counted her breaths carefully, tuning back into what her teacher was saying.

“Know we all know what Wolfsbane looks like, let’s talk about the effect on werewolves,” Miss Parker said, leaning forward on her desk, looking around her students as she thought of who to ask, “Miss Ali, tell me, how does Wolfsbane affect untransformed werewolves?”

Lorelai glanced over at Lenore, and cleared her throat, “it’s symptoms are worsened, and they act more like allergies, they can cause more mental symptoms, too, like mania, aggression, and unpredictability.” Lorelai said, looking down at her lap, something solemn on her expression.

“Correct,” Ms Parker said, and clicked her tongue. “Lenore, how can they affect transformed werewolves?” She asked.

“They don’t typically cause death, they’re even sometimes used in medication as in small doses they can cause werewolves to untransform; in higher doses, though, they can cause an allergic reaction, and extreme mania, aggression, inability to control themselves, and minor hallucinations.” Lenore said, “they’re especially dangerous for younger werewolves as they affect them more, and consistant exposure can cause permanent damage, resulting in an inability to control themselves, and a hunting instinct that continues even once they return to their humanoid form.”

Miss Parker stared at Lenore—stunned entirely into silence, alongside the class, who had turned to look at Lenore, who slunk away under their gazes—aggression rising in her chest; she grinded her canine’s together, gripping the desk tightly.

“Well, Lenore, I didn’t know that last part, and I don’t think anyone else did, either. Be sure to the write that down everyone,” she chuckled lightly, lessening the tension that had grown thick in the classroom—pens scratched against paper, and class continued like nothing happened.

–

Lenore rushed away from botany class quickly—the haunting blue of the Wolfsbane remained burned behind her veins, and she couldn’t get her heartrate down, even as she breathed in deeply, and described the shade of the sky, and how the wind felt against her face.

As she walked further into the school, into the depths where the library lay, she worsened—she shivered, muscles rattling beneath her skin, leaving her to shake uncontrollably; she shoved her hands into her pockets to hide it. It couldn’t hide the clattering of her jaw, though. The air thickened as she descended the spiral stairs, leaving footsteps in the thick, chalky dust.

It seemed to cling, and lay on everything, on the frames of decades old paintings, to the grooves between the brickwork; her nails left needle-thin scratch marks on the banister—it coated her hand in dust, bursting up into the air. Her throat dried, like she was breathing against sandpaper.

A grunt pushed past her lips as she forcefully opened the stiff, stubborn wooden door into the library—the door fell opened, and she stepped into the musty, dimly lit room; it was blissfully quiet. Dust swirled around in the sunrays spilling through the windows. Wooden floorboards whined beneath her feet. Thick layers of dust had tracks scratched through them where only a handful of books were frequently removed, most of the mounded dust had been left untouched.

Piled in the corner of the shelf, half spilled onto the floor, a collection of sheet music lay; the label describing the section had been scratched away. Lenore’s fingers twitched at her sides, and she couldn’t suppress the compulsion to fix them—she walked over, slowly kneeling down by the shelf. Her knees dug uncomfortably into the floor.

Lenore flicked through the unused sheetmusic—Beethoven, Mozart, Debussy, Bach, Tchaikosky—they weren’t well taken care of, musty, stained, feathered at the edges with rips, and the covers paled with sun bleaching. She ordered them alphabetically, brushing any dirt off them.

“Lenore. You do know that’s my job, yes?” Ester asked, arms folded over her chest, eyebrow raised expectantly beneath her thin, dated classes.

“Maybe do it, then,” Lenore murmured, yelping like a whipped dog when Ester playfully slapped a book around her head—she glared at her, and rubbed the back of her head, “you know corporal punishment has been outlawed for a few years?” She pushed herself up using the shelf, which groaned beneath her weight.

“Don’t get mouthy with me then,” Ester said, earning a roll of Lenore’s eyes—she felt a gaze shift to her trembling hands, and stuffed them in her pocket. “What is it?” She asked, voice softening slightly.

“Nothing,” she said quickly—suspiciously fast, “just the full moon.” She shrugged off the dread shifting like an abyss in her stomach, she looked out the window, to the find the sun still shining brightly outside—her anxiety lessened only slightly. Ester patted her shoulder. Lenore tensed, following the librarian as she walked off, towards the desk tucked in the corner.

“Could I make a request?” Lenore asked, awkwardly scratching at the back of her neck as she stood before the desk stacked with books, stationary, and bookmarks.

“Depends,” Ester said, documenting the name of each new book into an expansive folder on her desk. “Is it book related?”

“Yeah,” Lenore said, “could you get more sheetmusic, there’s only like four books, and they’re all classics; it’s not surprising that no kids use them.” She offered a hesitant smile, an attempt at convincing Ester as she stared thoughtfully at Lenore.

“Since when did you care about other students using sheet music?” Ester asked, shifting down her glasses to stare judgementally at Lenore, who narrowed her eyes in unconcealed confusion, head tilted.

“Since now…” she trailed off, shrugging casually.

“Anything to do with Isadora?” Ester asked, and a pink rose along Lenore’s cheekbones, and she looked away sheepishly—her heart rattled in her chest at her name.

“Why would it?” She asked, hiding the strain her voice poorly—scratching anxiously at her hands. Ester stared at her pointedly, arms folded as she leaned back in her chair.

“No reason,” she said, with a click of her tongue, “it seems what the principal intended is working, socialising you and all, I heard about you helping that boy, Tomoe.” Lenore’s hand screwed into fists—and a weight curled up on her chest, crushing her—a sickeningly feeling struck her as she was reminded that Ms Capri only cared because it was her job. She offered Ester a smile, forced, and wavering at the edges.

“You know, I’ve got homework to do, I should… get to that.” Lenore said slowly, nodding reassuringly to herself—she tucked herself into the classics section again; she opened the window, just far enough to keep air tickling her face, fighting against the exhaustion creeping up on her. Her finger clicked on her pen repeatedly, staring down at the page of her homework.

Her canine’s ground together, eyes scanning along the words, words flashing like neon lights, shifting around the page—she fought to read each word, but they spilled in through one ear, and then out of the other. Her fingers crumpled the paper, before she prompted launched it across the aisle.

An annoyed groan rumbled in her throat, and her head fell against the table, staring at the wood inches from her eyes, pen pressed against her jaw. She shifted a little, and folded her arms under her head, to get more comfortable as her eyes slowly, but surely grew heavier, until they closed. Her body slumped as her muscles relaxed. 

– 

I realised I forgot to format this… so sorry.