Page 5 of The Bleak Beginning

I force a smile, not wanting to worry him. “Yeah, something like that,” I mutter, hefting my bags.

Maxwell purses her lips, a flicker of concern passing over her face before she smooths her expression. “I see. Well, we best be on our way. We need to make it to your dorm room before it gets too late.”

“Don’t worry, Chancellor Maxwell, I’ll make the goodbyes short,” my father says, trying to ease her obvious discomfort. Sheappears to be on the verge of breaking out in hives at the mere thought of being behind schedule.

Dad leans down and envelops me in a warm hug.

“I understand that Chancellor Maxwell may come across as a stickler for the rules, but she has good intentions,” he whispers in my ear as we embrace. “Try not to make things too difficult for her.”

My father’s hug is comforting. His arms around me provide a sense of strength and safety. He may not have been the most involved father, but he was still decent, and in my own way I’ll miss him.

I nod against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne. “I’ll try,” I murmur, though I’m not entirely sure I can keep that promise.

As we pull apart, I catch a glimpse of something in my father’s eyes. Is it worry? Regret? Before I can decipher it, he masks it with a smile.

“You’ve got this, kiddo,” he says, ruffling my hair like he used to when I was younger. “Remember, you’re a Prescott. We’re made tough.”

There’s a weight to his words that I can’t quite place. I want to ask him what he means, but Chancellor Maxwell clears her throat impatiently.

“We really must be going,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

My father nods, giving my shoulder one last squeeze before stepping back. “Right, of course.”

“I hope you get a flat tire on the way home,” I say with fake cheer, knowing deep down that I don’t actually mean it, but a part of me is still resentful.

I watch as my father’s vehicle recedes, becoming smaller and smaller until he disappears around a thick patch of trees. Thefinality of it hits me like a punch to the gut. This is it. I’m really on my own now.

Chancellor Maxwell’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Come along, we have a tight schedule to keep.”

I turn to follow her, my bags suddenly feeling heavier. We walk in silence, our footsteps echoing off the cobblestone path beneath us.

As she continues to ramble about the four dormitories available on campus, I sling the smaller bag over my shoulder and adjust it. I try to pay attention, but honestly, I’m not interested in her list of names. As we walk along the path, she points out two dorm buildings on our right: Oliveri and Whitlock. On our left, there’s a much larger building, twice the size of the other two combined. She tells me that it’s called Ashbourne.

Each dormitory had its own unique path, leading through dense trees and back to the main cobblestone walkway. At the center of it all stands a magnificent fountain, connecting each of them, a masterpiece in its own right. Even in the dim moonlight, it seems to shine with a rainbow of colors. Water spouted from multiple tiers, cascading down into an intricately carved base below. It was reminiscent of the waterfall we passed on our way in, but even more extravagant. I couldn’t help but flinch at the closeness of the water as it swirled and danced in a hypnotic rhythm.

Water and I weren’t the best of friends.

We continue walking around the fountain and I can’t help but burst out laughing at the rundown building we’re approaching.

Honestly, it’s not that impressive even though it’s as big as the last one she pointed out, only not as well-maintained. What was it called? Ashbourne? But this building is a little larger, both in height and width. And if I really try hard, I can imagine it being even more grand in design.

I can’t help but wonder how much worse this place looks during the daytime because, this dormitory definitely isn’t going to win any beauty contests anytime soon.

The gothic structure stands tall, its once-impressive facade now crumbling and covered in thick layers of moss and ivy. The walls are a sickly gray and a few of the windows are broken and boarded up, giving the building an eerie, abandoned look. Its exterior is a dark, decaying shell. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were holes along the pointed steeple large enough to let light through in the daytime.

If it wasn’t for the various bedroom lights and the shadows of other students hidden behind curtains along the different levels, I’d assumed this place is abandoned.

I turned to her and asked, “What’s the name of this building?”

“This is Prescott Dormitory,” she replied.

I shift my gaze away from her and look up at the towering building. It was almost uncomfortable to crane my neck so far back. Of course, the dorm with the same last name as me had to be the most run-down one.

Just my luck.

“Your family has been housed in this dorm for generations,” she added, causing me to choke on my saliva.

How perfect. So the name wasn’t a coincidence.

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