Chapter 1: The Gates of Blackwood
I stood before the wrought-iron gates of Blackwood Academy-a magnificent monument to a world I was impatient to enter, and, with time, would be just as eager to leave. These gates were more than an entry; they marked the barrier between the luxury I’d been born into and the anonymity I hoped to find. Even the air felt thick with privilege-perfumed, polished, and expensive.
The embossed acceptance letter, which was pressed against my hand, was not only my ticket to this institution but to the freedom, which I had desired. My scholarship was in part armour and seal of my merit, and in part eclogue. And here I was not Claire Sterling, the daughter of Sterling Tech; I was just Claire, the smart scholarship girl, who had ascended up by brains, rather than breeding.
The empire had been the business of my father, Sterling Tech, and was founded upon cutthroat ambition, stock values and quiet imports. the gentle and disappointed mother had withered “within that gold cage.” It was my escape of that legacy, the Blackwood, with all its lavishness. A second cage, perhaps but one of which, I trusted, I would succeed in getting the better.
The greatness of the academy extended before me: old oaks and winding cobblestone roads, and the Gothic spires which heaped about catching the sun like a blade. It was impressive and sickeningly well-known in its excellence. My battered shoes were conspicuous among the white marble; my ordinary backpack was a revolution in the world of designer bags. I was strategic in order to survive rather than be stylish.
The glances, the judgment the whispers came soon enough. I knew the Blackwood way. I was their lack of order, the scholarship exception in the world that functions off of inheritance. But that was that I desired: to see whether I was strong or not, to make myself what I can make of myself.
The gates parted, and I crossed out of them - she was no longer the heir, she should be consistent spectre in full view. The great hall was lit up by the sun through arched windows; the dust motes were swirling like gold in the air inside because it was almost a cathedral. Wood, antique paper and antique privilege were in the air.
Every single spot was filled with riches-tapestries of banquets and expeditions, suits of armour that glowed like silent guardians. And students were drifting by in custom-built blazers and muted laughter, going with the familiarity of generations that belonged. I clutched my letter tighter. Because it was my passport and my entry to this world.
Then I saw him.
He was smiling and leaning against a grandfather clock, sculpted out of the academy itself high, patient and immaculate, his storm-grey eyes cold and discerning. His smirk was corporal punishment. In that dumb conversation I realized, this boy, this personification of all that I tried to avoid, would be hard to leave alone.
The hall started buzzing once more-perfume, laughter, entitlement. And here I was-Claire, the scholarship girl, a bad peacock, dull in the duck pond of swans-who should fight on account of neither fame nor fortune, but because I want simply to be.
I tightened my grip on the strap of my worn backpack, the familiar weight grounding me against the dizzying opulence surrounding me. My dark jeans and plain grey sweater, which I picked because of their convenience, suddenly became the garment of rebellion in a world of easy money. Even simplicity I saw made a statement here.
The great hall was filled with movement and sound-students sliding through the marble anteroom as though they were born there. I Resorted to wandering around inside of them, and I was trying to seem intentional but each move seemed tentative. Then, in the press I caught sight of him.
He was by a massive grandfather clock, the pendulum of which moved programmatically, very slowly, ridiculing the heart whose pace was thundering. You could not overlook him, since he was tall, composed, the sort of handsome that was meant to make you feel afraid. His black hair was brushed off in an untidy curl, his dove-grey cashmere sweater and his tailored trousers the mute symbol of ancient wealth. And those eyes storm-grey and shrewd and judging they were.
Our gazes locked. A moment, breathless with a current of silent electricity played in its place in the presence of the hall. His gaze was calm and thoughtless, such as enumerates, weighs, and rejects. I felt something hot and defiant before I could quash it.
Then, with this slightest turn of his lips, he talked.
“Well, well.” His voice was readily audible in the fuss-sweet, jocular and mean. I suppose it is another glitter of the scholarship program, I assume.
He dragged his fingers as he admitted something had strayed into his domain, an insect.
The words struck worse than I thought. Nevertheless, I tried a firm breath. In fact, I said with an indifferent air, I would not identify myself with your type of cat. And by the way, I am not here because somebody pulled me here.
His brows went up and the smirk was intensified. “Merit, you say? How quaint.”
He propped his back against the clock and crossed his arms with exasperating nonchalance. And what kind of merit are you supposed to get you through these doors, little scholarship mouse?
The nickname burned. The same kind that will get anybody here,” I answered, and tried to keep it calm. “Intelligence. Drive. A desire to learn.”
Let him underestimate me. Let him wonder.
He threw back his head, and looked at me as a museum specimen. “Ah, yes. Intelligence. Something rare-at least to the person who is desperate enough to retain his next meal ticket.
The connotation was intentional and it struck its mark.
The composure of my voice had just started breaking. My motives are my own, I said to myself, and they are definitely not to be discussed with a person whose greatest achievement in the world is being born in the right family.
The shift was immediate. His mouth hardened, this smoothness yielding place to something more stinging, more threatening. He stiffened and came nearer, and his voice went down low to warning.
“Careful, scholarship mouse. The names that are employed at Blackwood are heavier than merit will ever be.
Otherwise, some, I bounced back, my heart pounding, are so trampled by their rights they cannot see past their image.
A heartbeat, and there was a insurrection of silence between us. The smirk reoccurred gradually then.
You have spirit, said he softly and his voice was nearly admiring but had an air of danger. It is a pity to waste it, all on so lowly an occupation. His dismissive mode of gesture towards the crowd was a flick of the wrist. You cannot stumble over your made career on your way to the library.
And so, he walked off, and I was left to stand in the hollow of my heart, where I could hear my heart beat, and the scent of his cologne- something bitter, cool, costly.
The whispers started at once, and low and wondering. I ignored them. The feeling under the chagrin of humiliation was my ache-some other thing, piercing excitement.
I’d wanted to disappear, to blend in. But it seemed that anonymity at Blackwood was already out of reach.
And somehow, I wasn’t sure I minded.
With a grace that was almost derisive he turned, and went away with the crowd. I was still in a state of accent, and the hurt of his words still aching like a bruise. The sound of conversation was again audible around us it had been as a flash in the great play of Blackwood life.
But I could hear his voice in the back of my head, his voice was low, and cutting. his storm-grey eyes, his silent power in his stature-they stuck to me, and I could do nothing to shake them.
Somebody said somewhere, reverently, “Alex.” “Alex Blackwood.” Of course. The name suited him as a handmade tailor suit. The heir. The prince.
And I Claire, the scholarship girl had now made my first ever indelible impress on the marble heart of Blackwood. Not of thankfulness or dumb assimilation, But of rebellion. A spark in the dark. A war quietly declared.
The gates of Blackwood had been opened to me and now I could even feel their iron coming shut.
All around the academy its luxury ran, choking in its excellence. And not in the gilded ceilings, or even in the marble floors, but in the air itself, which smelled of centuries of privilege. All the corridors were mazes of fine oak and rustled inheritances, and they were made to confuse the wrong people.
I entered its hallways as a burglar. The faded leather of my backpack—a memento of utility-was an inviting sight amid an ocean of designer labels. My dog-eared textbooks scoffed at unafflicted tomes that my classmates had in their textbooks, gleaming on their ivory-leaf pages, untried in any way.
I attempted to be composed a semblance of even placidity- but with each glance it was dashed in. The eyes, which followed me, were not just curious, but critical, examining. Their glances darted behind flawless make-up and Gothic rim glasses over the frayed cuff of my sweater, the insignificant cut of my jeans. A silent accusation in every slightest detail.
“Did you see her bag?” a sweet, sharp-voiced girl muttered. “It’s about to fall apart.”
Her shoes too, somebody put in, her voice slopping over with contempt. “Common.”
My teeth clenched, and yet I had to headbang. It was the teeth of riches with a smile that I could anticipate. I grabbed my back pack more tightly. It was not in order to fit in but to survive.
My lifeline was the scholarship, which was difficult to attain and very delicate. Each score, each music was important. It was not merely a question of maintaining my grades; but only a question of making my being here worth the charge. Failure could not be mine only, as it would be their testimony that I was not their type.
And under that strain was still another secret the one thing that would bring everything to a standstill such as should be revealed.
Nobody here was acquainted with my real identity.
It was ironical that I was the one going to Blackwood to find anonymity, to get out of the stifling affluence of my own name. I had bought and sold jewels and restraint and privilege and invisibility. But the anonymity was its jail. I was a scholarship girl to the world a pitied one by one of you, and a scorned one by some.
And perhaps, that was safer. For now. The first subject, Advanced Calculus, was the one which ordinarily caused me to feel steady. Even
numbers were lost in confusion, and to-day were like a symbol that is foreign and is written on marble.
The room followed the same style as the rest of the greatness of Blackwood-oak-boarded walls, leather chairs and the quiet murmur of stifled aspiration. I sat in the row of the back, where no one could look at me.
And then I saw him.
Some were close to the front Alex Blackwood sat alone, with a coterie of fancy students always around, with low laughter which was, of course, practised. He was sharing his time in a relaxed attitude. The silver crest of his blazer, on which the Blackwood had glaringly symbolized in silver, flashed the rays of the sunshine.
He looked up as I entered. Our eyes met.
Nothing, not a scintilla of recognition, no tincture of the electrifying instant of the hall-only a cold appraising look and he turned out of it and the lips curled up into a faint, knowing smirk.
The professor started speaking but effectively, crisply but, I heard it drowned out a long way away. It was stuffy with inspection; I was attempting to concentrate. Somebody swore something, somebody laughed. I pictured them thinking just as they had to be telling stories.
Any suspicion I gave, any point I wrote was like a defence. Every silence, an accusation. I had never longed so hard to be out of sight. But there was something odd and threatening come into my being.
Supposing that Alex Blackwood wished to regard me as an amusement, a blunder, he would have to observe me correct him.
After the lecture was over, I ran away to the library. It was another kind of quiet there, sacred, almost. I sat at a table towards the rear which was close to the stuffy odour of old paper. My calculus book had been lying open with fallen pages.
Something slipped into a folded paper. It was ivory paper and the hand was graceful and almost wanton.
Don’t let them dim your light.
No name. No clue. Just that one line.
I gazed at it and my heart was racing. A warning? Encouragement? Pity?
I couldn’t tell. Nevertheless, I slipped it into my note-book. And, as though it had been nothing, some meaningless gesture, it had discovered me. And that meant something.
By the time dusk fell I was on my dorm crossing the manicured lawns, the sky being now an inky bruised gold. I was still followed by the whispers, distant and persistent. And still, behind the pain of aloneness, there had been a few flashes of a determination.
This place would not break me. Not the looks, not the mumbles, not Alex Blackwood and his high-bred contempt.
I had earned my place here. And at a day they would be seeing that.
I did not come here to run away into the marble halls of Blackwood.
I was here to rewrite them.
The admiration surrounding Alex Blackwood was like background music constant, invisible, and expected, as natural as perfume in the air. It was unspoken, always there, following her wherever she went. People didn’t just look at her; they looked up to her.
Until Claire.
He had spotted her first during that hallway confrontation the girl with quiet defiance in her gaze and a rough self-confidence that didn’t belong anywhere in his world. She hadn’t stuttered, hadn’t flinched. She had looked at him as though he were just another hindrance.
It had been…. disarming.
That moment lingered. And now, in Advanced Calculus, he found himself glancing toward the back row more often than he cared to admit. Claire Sterling was careful to remain invisible hair pinned back, movements spare, every gesture precise. Yet there was a magnetism in that very suppression, a kind of restrained gravity that drew his attention again and again.
Whenever she lifted her eyes, they met his directly. No awe. No nervous smile. Only quiet assessment.
It unsettled him. He was Alex Blackwood son, heir, legacy, the incarnation of expectation. People didn’t ignore him. They orbited him.
But Claire didn’t orbit. She resisted.
He told himself that the thoughts wandering toward her during lectures were irritation, nothing more the annoyance of being distracted by someone so insistently indifferent. But beneath that rationalization, something deeper stirred. Something dangerously close to fascination.
And fascination, he thought, was the genesis of ills.
His first irritation was hardening into something more complex a mixture of curiosity and reluctant admiration. Now he was dissecting her in his mind, as though she were a riddle carved in glass: fragile, deliberate, and impossible to overlook. What lay behind those sharp, intelligent eyes? Why that faint scorn for the very system that, by some miracle, had opened its polished marble doors to her?
He found himself asking: who was Claire Sterling, beyond the scholarship and the whispers? What life had shaped her before she crossed into this world of legacy and expectation? And was she truly as indifferent to his presence as she appeared or was that composure another mask, one she had learned to wear to survive here?
He recalled their first encounter quick, tense, a spark of words and challenge. Her voice had been firm, her tone fearless, and beneath the edge of anger there had been something else: resistance, quiet but unmistakable. That was what lingered most. Other girls would have melted under his gaze. Claire Sterling had stood unshaken steel beneath silk.
A voice broke his reverie. “You’re staring, Blackwood,” it drawled.
Marcus Thorne grinned beside him, his tone half-amused, half-accusing.
Alex straightened, irritation flashing in his eyes. “I’m listening to the lecture, Thorne,” he said flatly.
Marcus chuckled, low and knowing. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England. Everyone’s noticed you boring holes into the back of the scholarship girl’s head.”
Scholarship girl.
The words tasted metallic, unpleasant.
“That what they’re calling her?” Alex asked quietly, his voice sharp.
Marcus shrugged. “That’s the story, isn’t it? Painful past, no family wealth, hanging onto that scholarship by a thread. Honestly, I don’t know how she got in. The admission tests are brutal, and she’s no verbal prodigy.”
Alex said nothing, but a chill coiled in his stomach. He remembered the battered backpack, the scuffed shoes, the absence of the glittering brands that marked the Blackwood elite. Yet he had also seen something else the intelligence in her eyes, the calm precision in her manner. She was no charity case. She was a contradiction. A silent rebellion wrapped in restraint.
“She looks like she doesn’t belong,” Marcus continued, smug. “Probably terrified of saying something wrong. That’s why she’s so quiet.”
Terrified? No. That wasn’t what Alex had seen. Her gaze had been steady judging, even amused. She wasn’t afraid. She was calculating. And that made her infinitely more dangerous.
He glanced at her again. Her head was bent over her notes, lips moving slightly as she murmured a formula to herself, entirely absorbed. The sight stirred something in him something between envy and admiration. Her focus was serene, self-contained. His own mind, by contrast, was a storm: pulled by obligation, expectation, and the hollow beat of privilege. Claire seemed to move in a quieter world; one he could not enter.
He wasn’t accustomed to being overlooked. He was never the one unaccounted for.
Yet to her, he was no more than another student in a crowded hall a face among many. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
When the lecture ended, she gathered her things with quiet precision no delay, no chatter, no glance around. The soft scrape of a chair, the rustle of paper, and she was gone swallowed by the current of students in the passageway.
Alex watched until she disappeared.
A puzzle, he thought. Claire Sterling was a riddle one he could not yet decide whether to solve or to let haunt him.
Alex stayed seated for a moment longer, a strange dissatisfaction settling over him. He had another class across campus, yet he didn’t move. His eyes lingered on the empty seat Claire had left behind. Somehow, her absence felt heavy a quiet space that demanded his attention.
He, Alex Blackwood the admired, the envied, the one everyone noticed had just been ignored by a scholarship girl. Utterly. Completely. And it bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
Worse still, he was already looking forward to seeing her again tomorrow. To meeting that calm, steady gaze. To feeling that subtle challenge she carried in every look. It wasn’t the kind of attention he was used to not adoration, not awe. It was something sharper, alive with defiance. It had sparked something in him he didn’t fully understand part irritation, part intrigue, and, against his better judgment, genuine curiosity.
For the first time in a long while, Alex Blackwood felt that Blackwood Academy had just become far more interesting.
The ornate grandfather clock in Professor Albright’s office chimed, each echo filling the silence between them. Alex stood by the mahogany desk, jaw tight, staring at the antique maps on the wall as if they might offer a way out.
Across from him, Claire sat with calm composure, hands folded neatly in her lap, her dark hair a sharp contrast against the pale wood of the chair. The air between them felt thick, heavy with unspoken resistance the kind that had been building ever since Albright announced the new history project.
By some cruel twist of fate, they had been paired as partners.
“I still don’t understand why I have to be paired with you,” Alex said at last, his voice carrying that cool arrogance that came as easily to him as breathing. He turned, meeting her steady gaze. “My family has a reputation for academic excellence a legacy of scholarship. I hardly need a tutor.”
Claire’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And I,” she replied, her voice calm but firm, “don’t need a self-appointed leader who thinks his last name equals intelligence. My understanding of history comes from study, not inheritance.” She gestured toward the shelves lined with old books. “If you spent less time admiring your reflection in the brass of Blackwood’s crest, you might have read the syllabus. It clearly says the pairs were randomized, Sterling not chosen to suit your ego.”
Alex let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Randomized? Hardly. Albright knows better. He knows who can deliver results. I have the resources, the connections, the drive. And you,” he stepped closer, his tone low, “are a distraction.”
Claire’s eyes flashed. “A distraction?” she repeated, standing now, matching his height and defiance. “Because I don’t flatter you? Because I have an opinion you can’t control?” Her voice sharpened, but her composure didn’t crack. “You’re the distraction, Sterling. Your arrogance smothers everything around you. I prefer to work with focus to research, to build something real. Not to be overshadowed by your privilege and pride.”
For a moment, silence filled the room again. The air felt charged part fury, part something neither of them could yet name.
Professor Albright cleared his throat with a barely audible sound, which pierced the atmosphere with an almost inaudible impact. He was standing at his desk, serene as usual, with one of those heavy folders containing what there could not well be doubt as to than the information regarding their task. His composure and mutedness was the only constant in the room.
“Mr. Sterling. I happened to mention Miss Sterling, your enthusiasm, he said, and in an even and firm voice.
A weak smile feeling his mouth, but failing to extend to his eyes. Nevertheless, it is an important project. It does not involve date memorizing or storytelling. You are about to examine one of the most important events in the formation of Blackwood one of those when there had been shades of various kinds of motives and secret deals. I want analysis and not repetitions. You will have to enquire into the intentions of history, not about the historical events.
He placed the folder on the desk and struck it once. This is not a job by an individual, neither by a couple who do not know how to work hand-in-hand. You will be working together. The term paper is given out towards the end of the semester. Thirty pages with proper footnotes and a bibliography with sources preferably primary ones although they might not be available. Your findings will also be discussed in the classroom, an oral dissertation on your work.
His eyes turned away toward Alex and then on Claire. During the learning process, each one of you will be graded individually because of the dynamic that I have witnessed but it will all be based on your group effort. In case of failure of the partnership it will be written on both your foreheads. Think of it as an exercise of team work more than intellect.
To Alex the look displayed was one of disbelief. “You’re serious? You are compelling us to cooperate, thirty pages, and a presentation?
Claire spoke before Albright could reply. Her tone was calm but steady. I do take the challenge, Professor. I believe I can handle the work with or without my partner.
Alex sneered, putting his arms across. “Of course you are. Confidence does not mean ability. I am not going to accept mediocre work, and neither will I accept lectures out of the mouth of a person who imagines that reading a few extra books qualifies her to be an expert. He has repudiated her and his voice has changed to entitlement. You can reassign me, Professor, can you. I have long been in support of the library by my family. My dad would, I know he would, he would be more than willing to Mr. Sterling, Albright broke in, with slightly different tones, which were steel under silk.
Excellence is not a saleable item by Blackwood. The alliances were not carelessly made. They were selected in terms of balance and prospects.
Miss Sterling was brought to this position by merit, and not by money. It is on that account she will be estimated as yours will be.
The jaw of Alex got tight, yet he made no reply. The expression of Claire did not alter, but her eyes moved silently with content.
Albright went on and pushed the folder across the desk towards Alex. The authorization to the archives is internal. Being the owner of some of the major sources is limited, yet you now have permission. I have also presented a list of proposed research areas. I am optimistic that there would be improvement in two weeks. Arrange an appointment with me by the close of next week in order to present your preliminary results.
He waited to allow the import of his statements to rest. There are several questions that can be explored about Blackwood. I hope, should you, with attention mindful, treat this, you may learn something not worthless, and not alone of the past, but of one another.
The ticking of the clock was in the background as both Alex and Claire stood there in silence waiting to say something to each other. To his credit, Alex did not have an alacrity to offer in response. Claire just picked her bag, gave the professor a good nod of her head, and walked away.
Sure enough, Alex turned her eyes to the door, with irritation and unwilling interest clashing in his chest.
This would be a very lengthy semester.
The folder was snatched out of her hand by Alex, whose knuckles turned white. His look at Claire indicated that he was going to pay back a silent vow that this would be a nightmare of a partnership. Claire didn’t flinch. Her face was calm but her determination as steel as she looked his glare in steady eyes.
Without saying anything they walked out of the office of Albright. The silence that had been between them was a heavy one, overloaded with all that they did not say. Thunder had not accompanied the storm, but a calm manner at the voice of a professor and the conflict of two obstinate personalities.
The stroll before proceeding to the main hall was strained. Alex walked forward, with a crispness of his well-cut shoes against the carpet, and then his black suit cut a through the mildness of the passage. A step or two behind, Claire went on with her old satchel of leather trudging against her side. Her gaze remained on the floor following all the impressions in the stone like it was her anchor in an atmosphere of overwhelming splendor of school setting.
It is ridiculous, Alex thought on reaching the staircase. He didn’t look at her. “Albright can’t be serious. He is aware that I will be the person who will do all the actual work.
On the stairs Claire paused and her voice was cool but incisive. “And you think I won’t? Due to the fact that I am not born into riches? I will do my, Sterling possibly more. Difference is, I am not just interested in what we are studying but I am also interested in putting another addition to my collection of awards.
Alex turned, smirking. “Oh, you care? That’s cute. I believed that you came here on the scholarship to get out of whatever place you went. But history? Really? What do you think you know of the establishment of Blackwood?
There was some tightening of the jaw by Claire, the tone of the voice remained easy. My background also taught me not to quit working on any opportunity I have had. I’ve earned everything here. You, on your part, appear to believe that makes you a brilliant man when you are a Sterling.
She was again climbing, her voice in the stairwell. “You see legacy and prestige. I can see the cracks under it where there were the power games, the backroom deals as to what was done, who made this place where they never had the freedom to enter through its doors.
His shadow came behind her, as Alex followed. You are speaking of exteriors, he said, perhaps, you are concealing yourself, also. The quiet, serious act. The walls you build. Maybe it’s all a mask.”
The very pulse of Claire was speeded up, but that did not hinder her. This is what I am concealing, Sterling? That I work hard? But I do not fit into your world of handshakes and wills? Or you are the ones who are hiding of behind your name, your pomposity, you would be nothing without them.
That one hit him. He stumbled, standstill and then narrowed his jaw. Nobody had ever hardened it to him not and intended it.
He had no idea who I was, you see, she thought.
And you know not me, Claire told me. However, here we are, supposed to collaborate with one another, and that is yet another manifestation of how Blackwood is a preacher of equality, though still operates under favoritism.
They climbed up to the head of the stairs, and the hall turned out to a dazzling marble and humming lips. Alex turned to face her. The anger had also dispersed some since it had given way to the begrudging practicality.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll make it work. I will deal with research strategy of the project - I will have access to confidential documents and family collections. You may get the foot-notes and fine analysis through.
Claire’s eyebrows lifted. You refer to the real work, which renders your large theories to have any plausibility? No, Sterling. We’re equals. I will also manage archives and I will also begin writing parts. You are also welcome to contribute, yet this will be an effort in collaboration, will not be your independent act.
There was a kind of doubtful admiration in the eyes of Alex, who was, on the other hand, irritated. He was not accustomed to being opposed, and by her, in the first place. but there was something about her fire, of her obstinacy, that caused him to stop.
Who knows, perhaps, he thought, perhaps not this would be a disaster Or perhaps it would be the best fight of his life.
We will,” Alex said at last in a kind of low voice - a hint of a threatened battle. We have to begin, however, first. Albright desires to have an update in the next end of the week. That gives us seven days. And penetrating the archives is time, and we can do without wasting any of it.
He drew out the fat folder of his briefcase. It was weighing heavier than it ought to have been of the amount of work they still had to do. These are the areas of research, let us have a glance at them. I am confident that the records of my family will provide some idea of ethical dilemmas Albright continues bringing up.
Claire went nearer, her gaze going up and down the well-typewritten pages. Her fingers had stopped half down the list on a heading. A revolution in the interpretation of the Great Charter of 1788: Interpretations and Revisions.
Her brow furrowed slightly. Half to herself she said, The Great Charter. It is there the things become complicated. The official narrative gilds it with myths of uplifting and unifying nature but there existed rumors, speculations about power gambits and backdoor dealings. Commercial transactions conducted under wraps.
Alex stared at her, and he found himself unwittingly interested. The Great Charter had always been in his thoughts as a milestone in the life of Blackwood the basis of all the loftiness which the academy represented. But he was hesitant because of the manner of the way she talked so calmly and confidently.
Rumors? I said, his manner being somewhat challengeable. Dugging into gossip, now, Miss Sterling, or actual history?
Claire met his gaze evenly. Her lips were twisted in a faint smile of knowing. “Evidence, Sterling. Not just the one that is that of your family, study. Not all the truth is written, some lies are buried, referred to in letters, beyond the documents. You can hear the silences talk, you can tell the silences talk, you know, by just listening well.
Her words lingered in the air. Alex was annoyed, pricked and not to say the least. Interest. She was also questioning all that he had been taught to believe was true, and he despised the fact that it was use of his mind.
He questioned, perhaps, first in his life, to him whether the darkest side of Blackwood was not as innocent as his pictures purported. And, though he would not have ever publicly confessed it, he was intrigued, not only by the truth which they might possibly discover, but by the keen, brave intelligence which was now opposite him.
The hand tussle between them was by no means finished.
In fact, it had only just begun.
