Marts
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Oct 16, 2004
- Messages
- 182
- Points
- 43
Previous Chapter || First Chapter
The Advanced Mathematics Conservatory was quiet on the top floor. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, lighting up dust motes dancing over the worn oak desks. It smelled like it always did: old paper, chalk, and the beeswax polish they used on the library shelves.
Beatrix Croft sat in her usual spot, the afternoon sun warming her left side. Trixie didn't slouch. Her uniform was neat, her blazer buttoned, her hair pulled back tightly with a velvet ribbon. She held her fountain pen over her notebook, staring at a half-finished quadratic equation.
She wasn't writing. She was listening to the heavy pendulum of the grandfather clock slicing through the silence. Tock… … Tock. It felt slower than usual, marking every second she wasted.
She glanced at the chair next to her. Empty. Lakshmi’s desk surface was bare.
Lakshmi was twenty minutes late.
Trixie sighed, tapping her pen against the desk. Tk. Tk. Tk. The plastic barrel of the pen against the hardwood was a brittle, irritating staccato. This was irritating. When they agreed to study together this term, Lakshmi had been the disciplined one. Always on time, always prepared.
It wasn't just about being late, Trixie realized, looking around the nearly empty room. There was something wrong about it. It felt... strange. Like walking down a staircase in the dark and miscounting the steps.
She thought back to Monday. Lakshmi had argued with Miss Halloway in History. It was bold, and frankly, a little stupid. Trixie remembered the look on Sterling’s face when she calmly walked into the room. Lakshmi had been told to report for a "private seminar" that night.
But that was Monday. Now it was late Wednesday afternoon.
Trixie frowned, adjusting her cuffs. She had never been in trouble. She knew the other girls whispered about "lines" and "the office" in the dorms, but it always sounded dramatic and exaggerated to her. If you just followed the rules, the school was simple. You study, you behave, and everyone leaves you alone.
Lakshmi was smart. Even if she got in trouble, a seminar was a one-night thing. It didn't explain three days of total radio silence. There wasn't even a note on the conservatory board saying she’d be out.
Trixie capped her pen with a snap. The empty space next to her felt bigger now, more noticeable. It was impossible to concentrate on quadratic formulas when there was a giant, unexplained question mark sitting right there.
Trixie stood up, pushing her chair back. She needed an answer.
Trixie walked through the corridors with her usual confident strides, her heels making soft clicks on the runner rugs.
Her first stop was the faculty lounge. The door was open a crack, and the smell of strong tea and stale pastries drifted out. Miss Halloway was slumped in an armchair, grading papers with a red pen.
"Excuse me, Miss Halloway," Trixie said from the doorway, trying to keep her voice polite but firm.
Halloway looked up. She looked annoyed until she saw who it was. The annoyance immediately smoothed into a polite, professional smile. "Miss Croft. What can I do for you?"
"Do you know where Lakshmi Chaudhari is?" Trixie asked directly. "That’s the third advanced study period she’s missed. We were supposed to be working on a project together."
Halloway seemed to shrink into her heavy wool collar. She put the red pen down. "Ah. Lakshmi. Yes. Headmistress Sterling is handling that matter personally, Beatrix. It... required administrative intervention."
"For three days?" Trixie pressed, taking a step into the room. "That seems extreme for just being argumentative in class."
"It is not your concern, dear," Halloway said, her voice losing its warmth. She picked the red pen back up, a clear gesture of dismissal. "You are here to study, not to manage the attendance roster. Just get back to your work."
Trixie left the lounge, feeling a cold knot form in her stomach. That was a deflection if she'd ever heard one. And not a good one.
She decided to try the main secretary’s office in the North Wing. Mrs. Gable sat behind a high desk surrounded by towering filing cabinets.
"Mrs. Gable, is Lakshmi Chaudhari on the sick bay list?" Trixie asked, leaning against the tall counter. "She’s been out, and I wanted to send her the lecture notes she’s missed."
Mrs. Gable pushed her thick spectacles up her nose and gave Trixie a suspicious look. She flipped open a heavy black attendance ledger. Scritch-flip. Scritch-flip.
"Lakshmi... Lakshmi..." Mrs. Gable muttered, running a wrinkled finger down the page. She stopped. Her finger hovered over an entry. But then, she abruptly shut the book with a dull, heavy Whump that displaced the air on the desk.
"She is not listed in the infirmary, Miss Croft."
Trixie frowned. "But you found her name just now."
"She is listed as absent under 'Administrative Leave. Code 11,'" Mrs. Gable said shortly, pulling the ledger closer to her chest like she was protecting state secrets. "That is all I can tell students."
"Code 11? I’ve read the student handbook. There is no Code 11."
"As I said," Mrs. Gable snapped, her eyes darting nervously toward the polished oak doors of the Headmistress's inner office, "it’s an administrative matter. Stop asking questions about things that don't concern you, Croft."
Trixie walked back into the corridor, the air suddenly feeling colder than before. Halloway was being evasive. Gable was frightened. A fake code had been invented just to shut her up. Someone was trying very hard to hide something. And the only person who knew the truth sat behind those double oak doors at the end of the hall.
Trixie stood outside the double oak doors of the Headmistress’s office, the brass handles gleaming under the hallway lights. Most students approached these doors with a sense of dread, shuffling their feet. Trixie just felt impatient. She straightened her blazer. She was Beatrix Croft. She followed the rules, and she was entitled to a straight answer.
She knocked. Three firm, confident taps.
There was a beat of silence. Then, a calm voice from inside. "Enter."
Trixie opened the heavy door. The office smelled of beeswax and old paper. Headmistress Sterling sat behind her massive mahogany desk, pen in hand, looking at a stack of documents. She didn't look up immediately.
"Headmistress Sterling," Trixie began, feeling a little bolder than she expected. "I apologize for the interruption, but I haven't been able to get a clear answer from anyone else."
Sterling slowly raised her eyes. Her gaze was cool, assessing. "And what is the question, Miss Croft, that requires my immediate attention?"
"It’s about Lakshmi Chaudhari," Trixie said, stepping further into the room. "She’s been missing from classes for three days. Miss Halloway said you were handling it personally, and Mrs. Gable mentioned a 'Code 11' absence, which isn't in the handbook. I'm just trying to understand what's going on. We have a project due.”
Sterling set her pen down with a quiet click. She didn't look angry. In fact, a flicker of surprise crossed her face, as if this was the first she'd heard of the issue's severity.
"Is that so?" Sterling murmured, leaning back in her chair. "Three days... I confess, with the upcoming board review, my attention has been divided."
She looked at Trixie, her expression softening into professional concern.
“You are right to be concerned, Beatrix. A Code 11—it's an old administrative term for a sudden family emergency that requires immediate departure. It seems the paperwork hasn't caught up with the urgency of the situation."
Trixie frowned. “A family emergency? But I spoke to her parents just last week. They didn't mention anything.”
Sterling offered a small, knowing smile. “Family matters can be sudden, and often private, my dear. I imagine they didn't want to worry you.”
Sterling stood up, walking around the desk. It was a gesture of openness, designed to disarm.
“It is unfortunate that the staff were... unhelpful. They were likely just following protocol during a confused situation.” Sterling stopped in front of Trixie, clasping her hands together. “Leave this with me, Beatrix. I will personally make contact with the Chaudhari family this evening to confirm Lakshmi is well and to clarify when we can expect her return.”
Trixie felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. A family emergency made sense. It explained the suddenness, the secrecy. It was logical.
“Thank you, Headmistress,” Trixie said. “I appreciate it. I was just worried.”
“Of course you were,” Sterling said smoothly. “It’s good to look out for your friends. Now, return to your studies. I’ll let you know as soon as I have news.”
Trixie turned and left the office. The explanation felt solid. Plausible. She returned to the conservatory, her mind already shifting back to quadratic equations.
---
Two days later, on Friday afternoon, Trixie was called out of her Latin class. A junior student, looking terrified to be interrupting, handed the teacher a note requesting Beatrix Croft's immediate presence in the Headmistress's office.
Trixie gathered her books calmly, ignoring the curious glances from the other girls. She assumed it was the update on Lakshmi.
Sterling was waiting for her. The atmosphere in the office was completely different from their last meeting. The blinds were partially drawn, casting a softer light. A delicate porcelain tea set sat on a side table, steam curling from the spouts. Sterling herself looked relaxed, almost maternal, sitting in one of the visitor's chairs rather than behind the daunting expanse of her desk.
"Beatrix. Come in, sit down," Sterling said, gesturing to the opposing armchair. There was a warmth in her voice Trixie had rarely heard. "Tea?"
"No thank you, Headmistress." Trixie sat, placing her books on the floor. "Do you have news about Lakshmi?"
"I do," Sterling nodded, her expression serious but reassured. "I was finally able to reach Mrs. Chaudhari regarding the... family situation." Sterling sighed, a small, delicate sound of regret. "It seems it was rather more serious than they initially let on. An elderly relative in Mumbai... well. Lakshmi was needed home immediately."
Trixie felt a pang of guilt for having questioned the staff. A dying grandparent. That explained everything—the suddenness, the secrecy. It was tragic, but it made sense.
"I'm so sorry to hear that," Trixie said quietly.
"It is always difficult," Sterling agreed. She reached toward the small side table and picked up a cream-colored envelope. "However, before the final arrangements were made for her travel, Lakshmi insisted on writing a few brief notes to close her affairs here. She wrote one for you."
Sterling extended the envelope. Trixie took it. Her name, Beatrix, was written on the front in what was unmistakably Lakshmi’s precise, elegant cursive.
"Go on," Sterling urged gently. "Read it."
Trixie broke the wax seal. Inside was a single sheet of the same expensive paper Lakshmi always used.
Dearest Trixie,
I am so terribly sorry for vanishing without a word! Everything happened so fast. Mummy and Baba needed me home immediately—a family difficulty in Mumbai. I hate that I couldn't say goodbye properly, but there simply wasn't time. Headmistress Sterling has been very kind to facilitate my sudden journey.
I am safe and with my family now, so please do not worry your clever head about me. It will likely be some time before I can write again properly, as things here are quite chaotic.
I hope you are managing the Euclidean Variables module without me! You were always the stronger mathematician, so I have no doubt you will thrive.
Your friend,
Lakshmi
Trixie read the note twice. It was perfect. The tone was right—apologetic but composed. The handwriting was flawless. The use of "Mummy and Baba" felt authentic, a small glimpse into Lakshmi's private world. And the final academic compliment, even in the midst of a crisis, felt breathtakingly on-brand for her friend.
Trixie looked up, a sense of relief washing over her. The note didn't ask for anything, it just offered closure.
"Thank you, Headmistress," Trixie said, feeling a weight lift from her chest. "I'm glad she's safe."
"Indeed," Sterling nodded, a flicker of what looked like genuine sympathy in her eyes. "You may keep the letter, Beatrix. I trust this puts your mind at ease."
Sterling stood up, a signal that the meeting was concluded.
"It does. Thank you."
Trixie left the office, holding the letter gently. The weight of the last few days had been lifted. Lakshmi was safe. The staff weren't hiding a dark secret; they were just being clumsy while respecting a family's privacy. Everything had logically resolved itself.
---
The black Bentley glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Croft estate, the gravel driveway crunching softly beneath its tires. Beatrix watched the familiar landscape roll by—manicured lawns, ancient oak trees, the sprawling Georgian facade of the house. It was a world of quiet, ordered perfection, a stark contrast to the echoing stone halls of St. Brigid’s.
This was her world. Safe. Predictable. Purchased.
The car came to a gentle stop. The chauffeur, a silent man named Arthur, opened her door.
"Welcome home, Miss Beatrix," he murmured.
"Thank you, Arthur."
Trixie stepped out, her weekend bag already being retrieved from the trunk. The air here felt different—cleaner, perhaps, but also heavier. The silence of the estate was profound, broken only by the distant sound of a lawnmower.
As she entered the grand foyer, the house was exactly as she’d left it. The marble floors gleamed, the enormous crystal chandelier hung silent and still, and the scent of expensive lilies filled the air. A maid she didn't recognize was dusting a console table.
"Your father is in his study, Miss," the maid whispered, bobbing a curtsy without making eye contact. "Dinner will be at seven."
Trixie nodded. "Is my mother home?"
"Mrs. Croft is in the city, Miss. Charity gala preparations. She won’t be back until Monday."
Of course. It would just be her and Father. This weekend was supposed to be a relief, a break from the vague stresses of school. Trixie went up to her room—a luxurious suite that felt more like a guest room in a high-end hotel than a teenager’s sanctuary. She unpacked her bag mechanically. She placed Lakshmi’s letter on her bedside table. It was a comforting anchoring point in the strange silence of the house.
Dinner was a formal affair, as always. Trixie sat at one end of the long, polished mahogany table, her father, Lord Richard Croft, at the other. He was a man of imposing presence, with silver hair and a face that seemed permanently etched with the weight of important decisions.
They ate in near silence for the first course, the only sound in the cavernous dining room was the screech of silver knives on porcelain. Skree… clink. Skree… clink, and the soft footsteps of the staff serving them. It was a rhythm of forced civility
"How was your week, Beatrix?" her father asked finally, not looking up from his soup. His voice was deep and resonant, the kind that expected short, positive answers.
"Fine, Father," Trixie said, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin. "My Latin translation went well, and I think I've mastered the new history module."
"Good. Good." He nodded absently. "Discipline? No issues?"
"No, Father."
There was a pause. Trixie traced the pattern on the tablecloth with her fork.
"Actually... there was one thing," she said, testing the waters.
Her father stopped eating. He didn't look at her, but his fork hovered over his bowl. He set it down slowly. "Go on."
"My friend, Lakshmi... the one I'm partners with in Advanced Math? She had to leave suddenly. A family emergency. She missed three days of class, and I... well, I was worried. The staff weren't giving me a clear answer, so I ended up going to Headmistress Sterling."
Trixie waited for him to dismiss it as school drama. She expected him to tell her to focus on her own studies.
Instead, her father sighed. It was a heavy, weary sound. He picked up his wine glass, looking at her over the rim. His expression was one of calculated disappointment.
"Beatrix," he said, his voice quiet but tight. "I am paying a significant amount of money for you to receive a premier education in a disciplined environment. I am not paying for you to act as an amateur detective."
Trixie frowned, confused by his intensity. "I wasn't trying to be a detective. I was just worried."
"Your friends at that school are temporary. Their situations are their own." He set the glass down with a sharp clink. "Seeking out conflict. Questioning authority when it doesn't immediately serve you... It is unbecoming."
Trixie stared at him. Seeking out conflict?
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes fixing on her. "What did you expect Miss Halloway to tell you? That you were entitled to the private details of another student's file?"
Trixie paused.
"Miss Halloway?" she said softly. "I didn't mention Miss Halloway."
The silence that fell over the table was absolute. Her father blinked, just once, and then waved his hand dismissively, reaching for his bread roll.
"Didn't you? Well, whoever you spoke to first. It’s irrelevant. The point is, you bypassed the proper channels and created a disturbance."
Trixie looked at him, a strange, cold feeling settling in her stomach. She hadn't said Halloway's name. But she didn't have the energy to argue. Her mind was too occupied with the image of Lakshmi's empty desk.
"I understand, Father," Trixie said carefully. "Mrs. Sterling explained everything. Lakshmi's family needed her back in Mumbai. It was all very... logical."
“Yes. Well,” her father said bruskly, eager to move past the slip-up. “I’m glad it is resolved. In future, Beatrix, focus on your curriculum. Leave the administration of the school to those who are paid to manage it.”
He returned to his soup, the conversation clearly over. Trixie ate mechanically, the rich food tasting like ash. She excused herself as soon as it was polite to do so, retreating to the sanctuary of her room.
---
Trixie sat on the velvet window seat of her bedroom, staring out at the darkened grounds of the estate. The house was silent again, the servants having retired for the night. The only illumination came from the small crystal lamp on her bedside table, casting long shadows across the heavy drapes.
Lakshmi’s letter lay on her lap. She had read it three times since dinner.
Dearest Trixie...
It was a perfectly normal letter. Polite. Reassuring. Vague enough to be private, specific enough to be believable.
But Trixie couldn't stop thinking about dinner.
“What did you expect Miss Halloway to tell you?”
Her father hadn't guessed. He had known. He knew exactly who Trixie had spoken to first. Which meant someone from the school had called him. Someone had reported her questioning of Halloway to her father before she even came home for the weekend.
Why? Why call a parent about a student asking where her friend was? Unless the question itself was dangerous.
Trixie looked down at the letter again. Her eyes scanned the familiar handwriting.
I hope you are managing the Euclidean Variables module without me!
She frowned. Euclidean Variables.
That was the last module they had studied. Last term. They had finished it weeks ago. Lakshmi had gotten top marks. They were currently studying Applied Derivatives. Lakshmi knew that; they had complained about the derivative workload just before she disappeared.
Why would Lakshmi ask about a module they had already finished?
Maybe she forgot? Unlikely. Lakshmi never forgot academic details. Maybe she was stressed? Possible.
Or maybe...
Trixie sat up straighter. Euclidean Variables.
In Euclid’s Elements, variables are defined by specific geometric points. A leads to B. B leads to C. But in the advanced extension work they did for fun—the club work—Lakshmi often used a very specific substitution cipher based on geometric proofs.
Trixie grabbed a notepad and a pencil from her desk. Her heart began to beat a little faster.
She looked at the letter again.
*Dearest Trixie,
I am so terribly sorry for vanishing without a word! Everything happened so fast. Mummy and Baba needed me home immediately—a family difficulty in Mumbai. I hate that I couldn't say goodbye properly...*
She tried the first layer. The first letter of every sentence?
D... I... E... M... I...
DIEMI.
Nothing.
She tried the last letter of every sentence.
E... D... Y... I... Y...
EDYIY.
Gibberish.
Trixie tapped the pencil against her chin, frustration mounting. Sterling would have checked for acrostics. That was the oldest trick in the book. Lakshmi was smarter than that.
She looked at the phrase again. Euclidean Variables.
Euclid’s fifth postulate. The parallel postulate. Two parallel lines never meet.
Lines.
Parallel lines.
Trixie looked at the structure of the letter. The handwriting was neat, disciplined. The lines of text were perfectly straight.
She counted the lines. There were twelve lines of body text.
If she treated the lines as unparalleled variables... maybe it was about the spacing? No, the spacing was uniform.
Then she saw it. A tiny anomaly.
In the third line: Mummy and Baba needed me home immediately—a family difficulty in Mumbai.
The em-dash after 'immediately'. Lakshmi never used em-dashes. She was a stickler for rigorous grammar; she preferred semi-colons.
Trixie scanned the rest of the letter. Another em-dash in line six: ...goodbye properly, but there simply wasn't time—Headmistress Sterling has been very kind...
And another in line nine: ...worry your clever head about me—It will likely be some time...
Three em-dashes. Breaking the text into three distinct blocks.
Three blocks. Three variables.
Trixie looked at the word preceding each dash.
Immediately.
Time.
Me.
Immediately Time Me.
That made no sense.
Trixie groaned, tossing the pencil onto the duvet. She was overthinking it. It was just a dash. Lakshmi was stressed, her grammar slipped.
She picked up the letter to put it back in the envelope. The light from the bedside lamp shone through the high-quality paper.
And then she saw the second anomaly.
On the back of the paper, where the pen pressed hardest, there were tiny pinpricks. Not ink, but pressure. As if Lakshmi had rested the pen tip heavily for a split second before writing a letter.
Trixie held the paper up to the light. The pinpricks appeared within specific letters.
First paragraph, second line: The dot of the 'i' in 'vanishing'. It was pressed hard.
First paragraph, third line: The top of the 't' in 'fast'.
Second paragraph, first line: The loop of the 'h' in 'home'.
Trixie grabbed her notepad again. She transcribed the letters that contained the heavy pressure points.
i... s... u... n... d... e... r...
Is under.
Trixie’s breath hitched. She scanned faster, hunting for the heavy dots.
c... r... o... f... t...
Croft.
Is under Croft.
Wait. Croft? The school wasn't called Croft. The school was St. Brigid’s.
She kept going.
f... o... u... n... d... a... t... i... o... n...
Foundation.
Is under Croft Foundation.
Trixie stopped. Her hand was shaking. The Croft Foundation was her father’s charitable trust. It funded libraries, art galleries... and the new science wing at St. Brigid’s.
She scanned the last few pressure points.
h... e... l... p... u... s...
The message, stripped of its polite camouflage, stared up at her from the notepad.
IS UNDER CROFT FOUNDATION. HELP US.
The air in the room seemed to vanish. The silence of the house was no longer peaceful; it was suffocating.
Lakshmi wasn't in Mumbai. She hadn't gone anywhere. She was under the school. Under the very wing her father’s charity had paid to build.
Trixie looked at the innocent cream envelope. Sterling had handed this to her with a smile. She had watched Trixie read it, daring her to find the lie.
And her father... seeking out conflict. He knew. He had paid for the building they were locked in.
Trixie stood up, her legs feeling unsteady. She wasn't just a student anymore. She was the daughter of the jailor. And she was holding the key.
---
Trixie moved through the silent hallway like a phantom. The house was so quiet it felt pressurized, like deep water. Her socks muffled her footsteps on the plush carpet, but she couldn't dampen the noise inside her own body. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a wet, frantic rhythm that sounded deafening in the vacuum of the sleeping house. It was 2:00 AM. Her father was long asleep in the master suite at the far end of the East Wing.
The door to his study was unlocked. It opened with a soft, well-oiled click.
The room smelled of cigars and leather polish—the same scent that clung to her father’s jackets. Moonlight spilled through the French windows, illuminating the heavy oak desk that dominated the room.
The study was frigid. The cast-iron radiators had gone silent hours ago, the boiler down in the cellar shut off for the night. A stagnant, biting chill radiated from the stone walls, seeping right through her thin silk pajamas, prickly and uncomfortable.
Trixie didn't turn on the light. She used the small flashlight from her bedside drawer, keeping the beam low and cupped in her hand.
She went straight to the desk. Her father wasn't messy, but he wasn't paranoid either. He left papers out because he ruled this house; he didn't expect anyone to challenge his privacy.
On top of the blotter sat a stack of correspondence. Most of it was boring—estate management, investment reports.
Then she saw the crest. The St. Brigid’s crest: a burning lamp entwined with ivy.
Trixie reached out. Her fingers brushed the paper. It was cold to the touch, stiff and high-gauge. Skrr-shhh. The heavy bond stock scraped against the leather blotter as she slid it free, the friction sounding like a shout in the stillness.
It was a letter dated two days ago. The same day she had gone to the faculty lounge.
Trixie picked it up, her fingers trembling.
My Lord Croft,
Regarding the inquiry from your daughter Beatrix:
Miss Halloway reported directly to me immediately following her interaction with Beatrix in the Faculty Lounge on Wednesday afternoon. Beatrix was asking pointed questions regarding the attendance logs and specifically the whereabouts of Miss Chaudhari.
Please be assured the situation regarding Miss Chaudhari has been contained. The other subjects involved in the incident have been processed and relocated to the new facility in the Undercroft.
However, Beatrix's persistent questioning suggests a spiritedness that, if left unchecked, could become problematic. While her academic record is exemplary, her curiosity is bordering on insubordination.
I have convinced her for the moment with the prepared narrative, but intelligence is difficult to suppress indefinitely. I strongly suggest you reinforce the necessity of discretion during her visit home.
Furthermore, as the primary benefactor of the Undercroft expansion, your daughter has enjoyed a protected status. She is exempt from the standard disciplinary protocols (Lines, The Chair, etc.). However, should this "detective work" continue, I cannot guarantee her immunity will remain absolute. Curiosity often leads one to dangerous places.
I await your confirmation regarding the next disbursement for the Phase 2 equipment.
Yours in Service,
H. Sterling
Trixie lowered the letter. The paper rustled softly, a dry, dead sound in the quiet room.
"Miss Halloway reported directly to me…"
The cold in the room seemed to settle into her stomach. It wasn't just a metaphor; a physical wave of nausea rolled through her, making her skin tighten. Her father hadn't guessed at dinner. He had been reading from a report. The teachers were spy-masters. The administration was a surveillance network. And her father wasn't just a donor; he was the paymaster of a prison called the Undercroft.
And worse: "I cannot guarantee her immunity will remain absolute."
It was a threat. A polite, formal threat written on expensive stationery. Sterling was dangling Trixie’s safety over her father’s head to ensure the checks kept clearing.
Her "protected status." That’s why she had never been punished. Not because she was good, but because she was an investment.
But now, that protection was conditional.
Trixie carefully placed the letter back exactly as she had found it, ensuring the edges of the paper aligned perfectly with the blotter.
She backed out of the room, her heart hammering against her ribs, and returned to the sanctuary of her bedroom.
She sat at her desk, staring at the blank sheet of paper she had pulled out earlier. She had planned to write back. She had planned to craft a clever code, to tell Lakshmi she knew.
She picked up her pen, hovering over the page.
Then, slowly, she capped it.
Sending a letter now was suicide. Sterling read everything. If Trixie walked into that office with a letter for "Mumbai"—a place they both knew Lakshmi wasn't—it would be a confession. It would prove she hadn't bought the lie. It would prove her curiosity was alive and well.
It would be the fastest way to lose her immunity and join Lakshmi in the Undercroft.
Trixie looked at Lakshmi’s original letter, deciphered on her notepad. IS UNDER CROFT FOUNDATION.
She knew the where. And thanks to her father’s careless filing, she knew the what. A facility. A processing center.
Trixie’s fear began to harden into something colder, sharper. It was the feeling she got when staring at a complex equation that refused to resolve. You didn't solve it by panicking. You solved it by isolating the variables.
Her immunity was revoked if she continued her detective work. So, she wouldn't be a detective.
She would be the perfect student. She would smile at Miss Halloway. She would thank Sterling. She would act like the naive, spoiled daughter of a donor who believed every lie she was told. She would lower their guard until she was invisible again.
And while they were looking the other way, she would find the door.
She picked up her advanced mathematics textbook—Euclidean Variables. She didn't write a note. Instead, she opened the book to the section on complex geometries and tucked Lakshmi's original letter deep into the binding.
She wasn't going back to St. Brigid’s as a victim. She was going back as a sleeper agent.
Trixie turned off her lamp, plunging the room into darkness. She stared at the ceiling, her jaw set.
"Hold on, Lakshmi," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm coming."
Next Chapter
The Advanced Mathematics Conservatory was quiet on the top floor. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, lighting up dust motes dancing over the worn oak desks. It smelled like it always did: old paper, chalk, and the beeswax polish they used on the library shelves.
Beatrix Croft sat in her usual spot, the afternoon sun warming her left side. Trixie didn't slouch. Her uniform was neat, her blazer buttoned, her hair pulled back tightly with a velvet ribbon. She held her fountain pen over her notebook, staring at a half-finished quadratic equation.
She wasn't writing. She was listening to the heavy pendulum of the grandfather clock slicing through the silence. Tock… … Tock. It felt slower than usual, marking every second she wasted.
She glanced at the chair next to her. Empty. Lakshmi’s desk surface was bare.
Lakshmi was twenty minutes late.
Trixie sighed, tapping her pen against the desk. Tk. Tk. Tk. The plastic barrel of the pen against the hardwood was a brittle, irritating staccato. This was irritating. When they agreed to study together this term, Lakshmi had been the disciplined one. Always on time, always prepared.
It wasn't just about being late, Trixie realized, looking around the nearly empty room. There was something wrong about it. It felt... strange. Like walking down a staircase in the dark and miscounting the steps.
She thought back to Monday. Lakshmi had argued with Miss Halloway in History. It was bold, and frankly, a little stupid. Trixie remembered the look on Sterling’s face when she calmly walked into the room. Lakshmi had been told to report for a "private seminar" that night.
But that was Monday. Now it was late Wednesday afternoon.
Trixie frowned, adjusting her cuffs. She had never been in trouble. She knew the other girls whispered about "lines" and "the office" in the dorms, but it always sounded dramatic and exaggerated to her. If you just followed the rules, the school was simple. You study, you behave, and everyone leaves you alone.
Lakshmi was smart. Even if she got in trouble, a seminar was a one-night thing. It didn't explain three days of total radio silence. There wasn't even a note on the conservatory board saying she’d be out.
Trixie capped her pen with a snap. The empty space next to her felt bigger now, more noticeable. It was impossible to concentrate on quadratic formulas when there was a giant, unexplained question mark sitting right there.
Trixie stood up, pushing her chair back. She needed an answer.
Trixie walked through the corridors with her usual confident strides, her heels making soft clicks on the runner rugs.
Her first stop was the faculty lounge. The door was open a crack, and the smell of strong tea and stale pastries drifted out. Miss Halloway was slumped in an armchair, grading papers with a red pen.
"Excuse me, Miss Halloway," Trixie said from the doorway, trying to keep her voice polite but firm.
Halloway looked up. She looked annoyed until she saw who it was. The annoyance immediately smoothed into a polite, professional smile. "Miss Croft. What can I do for you?"
"Do you know where Lakshmi Chaudhari is?" Trixie asked directly. "That’s the third advanced study period she’s missed. We were supposed to be working on a project together."
Halloway seemed to shrink into her heavy wool collar. She put the red pen down. "Ah. Lakshmi. Yes. Headmistress Sterling is handling that matter personally, Beatrix. It... required administrative intervention."
"For three days?" Trixie pressed, taking a step into the room. "That seems extreme for just being argumentative in class."
"It is not your concern, dear," Halloway said, her voice losing its warmth. She picked the red pen back up, a clear gesture of dismissal. "You are here to study, not to manage the attendance roster. Just get back to your work."
Trixie left the lounge, feeling a cold knot form in her stomach. That was a deflection if she'd ever heard one. And not a good one.
She decided to try the main secretary’s office in the North Wing. Mrs. Gable sat behind a high desk surrounded by towering filing cabinets.
"Mrs. Gable, is Lakshmi Chaudhari on the sick bay list?" Trixie asked, leaning against the tall counter. "She’s been out, and I wanted to send her the lecture notes she’s missed."
Mrs. Gable pushed her thick spectacles up her nose and gave Trixie a suspicious look. She flipped open a heavy black attendance ledger. Scritch-flip. Scritch-flip.
"Lakshmi... Lakshmi..." Mrs. Gable muttered, running a wrinkled finger down the page. She stopped. Her finger hovered over an entry. But then, she abruptly shut the book with a dull, heavy Whump that displaced the air on the desk.
"She is not listed in the infirmary, Miss Croft."
Trixie frowned. "But you found her name just now."
"She is listed as absent under 'Administrative Leave. Code 11,'" Mrs. Gable said shortly, pulling the ledger closer to her chest like she was protecting state secrets. "That is all I can tell students."
"Code 11? I’ve read the student handbook. There is no Code 11."
"As I said," Mrs. Gable snapped, her eyes darting nervously toward the polished oak doors of the Headmistress's inner office, "it’s an administrative matter. Stop asking questions about things that don't concern you, Croft."
Trixie walked back into the corridor, the air suddenly feeling colder than before. Halloway was being evasive. Gable was frightened. A fake code had been invented just to shut her up. Someone was trying very hard to hide something. And the only person who knew the truth sat behind those double oak doors at the end of the hall.
Trixie stood outside the double oak doors of the Headmistress’s office, the brass handles gleaming under the hallway lights. Most students approached these doors with a sense of dread, shuffling their feet. Trixie just felt impatient. She straightened her blazer. She was Beatrix Croft. She followed the rules, and she was entitled to a straight answer.
She knocked. Three firm, confident taps.
There was a beat of silence. Then, a calm voice from inside. "Enter."
Trixie opened the heavy door. The office smelled of beeswax and old paper. Headmistress Sterling sat behind her massive mahogany desk, pen in hand, looking at a stack of documents. She didn't look up immediately.
"Headmistress Sterling," Trixie began, feeling a little bolder than she expected. "I apologize for the interruption, but I haven't been able to get a clear answer from anyone else."
Sterling slowly raised her eyes. Her gaze was cool, assessing. "And what is the question, Miss Croft, that requires my immediate attention?"
"It’s about Lakshmi Chaudhari," Trixie said, stepping further into the room. "She’s been missing from classes for three days. Miss Halloway said you were handling it personally, and Mrs. Gable mentioned a 'Code 11' absence, which isn't in the handbook. I'm just trying to understand what's going on. We have a project due.”
Sterling set her pen down with a quiet click. She didn't look angry. In fact, a flicker of surprise crossed her face, as if this was the first she'd heard of the issue's severity.
"Is that so?" Sterling murmured, leaning back in her chair. "Three days... I confess, with the upcoming board review, my attention has been divided."
She looked at Trixie, her expression softening into professional concern.
“You are right to be concerned, Beatrix. A Code 11—it's an old administrative term for a sudden family emergency that requires immediate departure. It seems the paperwork hasn't caught up with the urgency of the situation."
Trixie frowned. “A family emergency? But I spoke to her parents just last week. They didn't mention anything.”
Sterling offered a small, knowing smile. “Family matters can be sudden, and often private, my dear. I imagine they didn't want to worry you.”
Sterling stood up, walking around the desk. It was a gesture of openness, designed to disarm.
“It is unfortunate that the staff were... unhelpful. They were likely just following protocol during a confused situation.” Sterling stopped in front of Trixie, clasping her hands together. “Leave this with me, Beatrix. I will personally make contact with the Chaudhari family this evening to confirm Lakshmi is well and to clarify when we can expect her return.”
Trixie felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. A family emergency made sense. It explained the suddenness, the secrecy. It was logical.
“Thank you, Headmistress,” Trixie said. “I appreciate it. I was just worried.”
“Of course you were,” Sterling said smoothly. “It’s good to look out for your friends. Now, return to your studies. I’ll let you know as soon as I have news.”
Trixie turned and left the office. The explanation felt solid. Plausible. She returned to the conservatory, her mind already shifting back to quadratic equations.
---
Two days later, on Friday afternoon, Trixie was called out of her Latin class. A junior student, looking terrified to be interrupting, handed the teacher a note requesting Beatrix Croft's immediate presence in the Headmistress's office.
Trixie gathered her books calmly, ignoring the curious glances from the other girls. She assumed it was the update on Lakshmi.
Sterling was waiting for her. The atmosphere in the office was completely different from their last meeting. The blinds were partially drawn, casting a softer light. A delicate porcelain tea set sat on a side table, steam curling from the spouts. Sterling herself looked relaxed, almost maternal, sitting in one of the visitor's chairs rather than behind the daunting expanse of her desk.
"Beatrix. Come in, sit down," Sterling said, gesturing to the opposing armchair. There was a warmth in her voice Trixie had rarely heard. "Tea?"
"No thank you, Headmistress." Trixie sat, placing her books on the floor. "Do you have news about Lakshmi?"
"I do," Sterling nodded, her expression serious but reassured. "I was finally able to reach Mrs. Chaudhari regarding the... family situation." Sterling sighed, a small, delicate sound of regret. "It seems it was rather more serious than they initially let on. An elderly relative in Mumbai... well. Lakshmi was needed home immediately."
Trixie felt a pang of guilt for having questioned the staff. A dying grandparent. That explained everything—the suddenness, the secrecy. It was tragic, but it made sense.
"I'm so sorry to hear that," Trixie said quietly.
"It is always difficult," Sterling agreed. She reached toward the small side table and picked up a cream-colored envelope. "However, before the final arrangements were made for her travel, Lakshmi insisted on writing a few brief notes to close her affairs here. She wrote one for you."
Sterling extended the envelope. Trixie took it. Her name, Beatrix, was written on the front in what was unmistakably Lakshmi’s precise, elegant cursive.
"Go on," Sterling urged gently. "Read it."
Trixie broke the wax seal. Inside was a single sheet of the same expensive paper Lakshmi always used.
Dearest Trixie,
I am so terribly sorry for vanishing without a word! Everything happened so fast. Mummy and Baba needed me home immediately—a family difficulty in Mumbai. I hate that I couldn't say goodbye properly, but there simply wasn't time. Headmistress Sterling has been very kind to facilitate my sudden journey.
I am safe and with my family now, so please do not worry your clever head about me. It will likely be some time before I can write again properly, as things here are quite chaotic.
I hope you are managing the Euclidean Variables module without me! You were always the stronger mathematician, so I have no doubt you will thrive.
Your friend,
Lakshmi
Trixie read the note twice. It was perfect. The tone was right—apologetic but composed. The handwriting was flawless. The use of "Mummy and Baba" felt authentic, a small glimpse into Lakshmi's private world. And the final academic compliment, even in the midst of a crisis, felt breathtakingly on-brand for her friend.
Trixie looked up, a sense of relief washing over her. The note didn't ask for anything, it just offered closure.
"Thank you, Headmistress," Trixie said, feeling a weight lift from her chest. "I'm glad she's safe."
"Indeed," Sterling nodded, a flicker of what looked like genuine sympathy in her eyes. "You may keep the letter, Beatrix. I trust this puts your mind at ease."
Sterling stood up, a signal that the meeting was concluded.
"It does. Thank you."
Trixie left the office, holding the letter gently. The weight of the last few days had been lifted. Lakshmi was safe. The staff weren't hiding a dark secret; they were just being clumsy while respecting a family's privacy. Everything had logically resolved itself.
---
The black Bentley glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Croft estate, the gravel driveway crunching softly beneath its tires. Beatrix watched the familiar landscape roll by—manicured lawns, ancient oak trees, the sprawling Georgian facade of the house. It was a world of quiet, ordered perfection, a stark contrast to the echoing stone halls of St. Brigid’s.
This was her world. Safe. Predictable. Purchased.
The car came to a gentle stop. The chauffeur, a silent man named Arthur, opened her door.
"Welcome home, Miss Beatrix," he murmured.
"Thank you, Arthur."
Trixie stepped out, her weekend bag already being retrieved from the trunk. The air here felt different—cleaner, perhaps, but also heavier. The silence of the estate was profound, broken only by the distant sound of a lawnmower.
As she entered the grand foyer, the house was exactly as she’d left it. The marble floors gleamed, the enormous crystal chandelier hung silent and still, and the scent of expensive lilies filled the air. A maid she didn't recognize was dusting a console table.
"Your father is in his study, Miss," the maid whispered, bobbing a curtsy without making eye contact. "Dinner will be at seven."
Trixie nodded. "Is my mother home?"
"Mrs. Croft is in the city, Miss. Charity gala preparations. She won’t be back until Monday."
Of course. It would just be her and Father. This weekend was supposed to be a relief, a break from the vague stresses of school. Trixie went up to her room—a luxurious suite that felt more like a guest room in a high-end hotel than a teenager’s sanctuary. She unpacked her bag mechanically. She placed Lakshmi’s letter on her bedside table. It was a comforting anchoring point in the strange silence of the house.
Dinner was a formal affair, as always. Trixie sat at one end of the long, polished mahogany table, her father, Lord Richard Croft, at the other. He was a man of imposing presence, with silver hair and a face that seemed permanently etched with the weight of important decisions.
They ate in near silence for the first course, the only sound in the cavernous dining room was the screech of silver knives on porcelain. Skree… clink. Skree… clink, and the soft footsteps of the staff serving them. It was a rhythm of forced civility
"How was your week, Beatrix?" her father asked finally, not looking up from his soup. His voice was deep and resonant, the kind that expected short, positive answers.
"Fine, Father," Trixie said, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin. "My Latin translation went well, and I think I've mastered the new history module."
"Good. Good." He nodded absently. "Discipline? No issues?"
"No, Father."
There was a pause. Trixie traced the pattern on the tablecloth with her fork.
"Actually... there was one thing," she said, testing the waters.
Her father stopped eating. He didn't look at her, but his fork hovered over his bowl. He set it down slowly. "Go on."
"My friend, Lakshmi... the one I'm partners with in Advanced Math? She had to leave suddenly. A family emergency. She missed three days of class, and I... well, I was worried. The staff weren't giving me a clear answer, so I ended up going to Headmistress Sterling."
Trixie waited for him to dismiss it as school drama. She expected him to tell her to focus on her own studies.
Instead, her father sighed. It was a heavy, weary sound. He picked up his wine glass, looking at her over the rim. His expression was one of calculated disappointment.
"Beatrix," he said, his voice quiet but tight. "I am paying a significant amount of money for you to receive a premier education in a disciplined environment. I am not paying for you to act as an amateur detective."
Trixie frowned, confused by his intensity. "I wasn't trying to be a detective. I was just worried."
"Your friends at that school are temporary. Their situations are their own." He set the glass down with a sharp clink. "Seeking out conflict. Questioning authority when it doesn't immediately serve you... It is unbecoming."
Trixie stared at him. Seeking out conflict?
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes fixing on her. "What did you expect Miss Halloway to tell you? That you were entitled to the private details of another student's file?"
Trixie paused.
"Miss Halloway?" she said softly. "I didn't mention Miss Halloway."
The silence that fell over the table was absolute. Her father blinked, just once, and then waved his hand dismissively, reaching for his bread roll.
"Didn't you? Well, whoever you spoke to first. It’s irrelevant. The point is, you bypassed the proper channels and created a disturbance."
Trixie looked at him, a strange, cold feeling settling in her stomach. She hadn't said Halloway's name. But she didn't have the energy to argue. Her mind was too occupied with the image of Lakshmi's empty desk.
"I understand, Father," Trixie said carefully. "Mrs. Sterling explained everything. Lakshmi's family needed her back in Mumbai. It was all very... logical."
“Yes. Well,” her father said bruskly, eager to move past the slip-up. “I’m glad it is resolved. In future, Beatrix, focus on your curriculum. Leave the administration of the school to those who are paid to manage it.”
He returned to his soup, the conversation clearly over. Trixie ate mechanically, the rich food tasting like ash. She excused herself as soon as it was polite to do so, retreating to the sanctuary of her room.
---
Trixie sat on the velvet window seat of her bedroom, staring out at the darkened grounds of the estate. The house was silent again, the servants having retired for the night. The only illumination came from the small crystal lamp on her bedside table, casting long shadows across the heavy drapes.
Lakshmi’s letter lay on her lap. She had read it three times since dinner.
Dearest Trixie...
It was a perfectly normal letter. Polite. Reassuring. Vague enough to be private, specific enough to be believable.
But Trixie couldn't stop thinking about dinner.
“What did you expect Miss Halloway to tell you?”
Her father hadn't guessed. He had known. He knew exactly who Trixie had spoken to first. Which meant someone from the school had called him. Someone had reported her questioning of Halloway to her father before she even came home for the weekend.
Why? Why call a parent about a student asking where her friend was? Unless the question itself was dangerous.
Trixie looked down at the letter again. Her eyes scanned the familiar handwriting.
I hope you are managing the Euclidean Variables module without me!
She frowned. Euclidean Variables.
That was the last module they had studied. Last term. They had finished it weeks ago. Lakshmi had gotten top marks. They were currently studying Applied Derivatives. Lakshmi knew that; they had complained about the derivative workload just before she disappeared.
Why would Lakshmi ask about a module they had already finished?
Maybe she forgot? Unlikely. Lakshmi never forgot academic details. Maybe she was stressed? Possible.
Or maybe...
Trixie sat up straighter. Euclidean Variables.
In Euclid’s Elements, variables are defined by specific geometric points. A leads to B. B leads to C. But in the advanced extension work they did for fun—the club work—Lakshmi often used a very specific substitution cipher based on geometric proofs.
Trixie grabbed a notepad and a pencil from her desk. Her heart began to beat a little faster.
She looked at the letter again.
*Dearest Trixie,
I am so terribly sorry for vanishing without a word! Everything happened so fast. Mummy and Baba needed me home immediately—a family difficulty in Mumbai. I hate that I couldn't say goodbye properly...*
She tried the first layer. The first letter of every sentence?
D... I... E... M... I...
DIEMI.
Nothing.
She tried the last letter of every sentence.
E... D... Y... I... Y...
EDYIY.
Gibberish.
Trixie tapped the pencil against her chin, frustration mounting. Sterling would have checked for acrostics. That was the oldest trick in the book. Lakshmi was smarter than that.
She looked at the phrase again. Euclidean Variables.
Euclid’s fifth postulate. The parallel postulate. Two parallel lines never meet.
Lines.
Parallel lines.
Trixie looked at the structure of the letter. The handwriting was neat, disciplined. The lines of text were perfectly straight.
She counted the lines. There were twelve lines of body text.
If she treated the lines as unparalleled variables... maybe it was about the spacing? No, the spacing was uniform.
Then she saw it. A tiny anomaly.
In the third line: Mummy and Baba needed me home immediately—a family difficulty in Mumbai.
The em-dash after 'immediately'. Lakshmi never used em-dashes. She was a stickler for rigorous grammar; she preferred semi-colons.
Trixie scanned the rest of the letter. Another em-dash in line six: ...goodbye properly, but there simply wasn't time—Headmistress Sterling has been very kind...
And another in line nine: ...worry your clever head about me—It will likely be some time...
Three em-dashes. Breaking the text into three distinct blocks.
Three blocks. Three variables.
Trixie looked at the word preceding each dash.
Immediately.
Time.
Me.
Immediately Time Me.
That made no sense.
Trixie groaned, tossing the pencil onto the duvet. She was overthinking it. It was just a dash. Lakshmi was stressed, her grammar slipped.
She picked up the letter to put it back in the envelope. The light from the bedside lamp shone through the high-quality paper.
And then she saw the second anomaly.
On the back of the paper, where the pen pressed hardest, there were tiny pinpricks. Not ink, but pressure. As if Lakshmi had rested the pen tip heavily for a split second before writing a letter.
Trixie held the paper up to the light. The pinpricks appeared within specific letters.
First paragraph, second line: The dot of the 'i' in 'vanishing'. It was pressed hard.
First paragraph, third line: The top of the 't' in 'fast'.
Second paragraph, first line: The loop of the 'h' in 'home'.
Trixie grabbed her notepad again. She transcribed the letters that contained the heavy pressure points.
i... s... u... n... d... e... r...
Is under.
Trixie’s breath hitched. She scanned faster, hunting for the heavy dots.
c... r... o... f... t...
Croft.
Is under Croft.
Wait. Croft? The school wasn't called Croft. The school was St. Brigid’s.
She kept going.
f... o... u... n... d... a... t... i... o... n...
Foundation.
Is under Croft Foundation.
Trixie stopped. Her hand was shaking. The Croft Foundation was her father’s charitable trust. It funded libraries, art galleries... and the new science wing at St. Brigid’s.
She scanned the last few pressure points.
h... e... l... p... u... s...
The message, stripped of its polite camouflage, stared up at her from the notepad.
IS UNDER CROFT FOUNDATION. HELP US.
The air in the room seemed to vanish. The silence of the house was no longer peaceful; it was suffocating.
Lakshmi wasn't in Mumbai. She hadn't gone anywhere. She was under the school. Under the very wing her father’s charity had paid to build.
Trixie looked at the innocent cream envelope. Sterling had handed this to her with a smile. She had watched Trixie read it, daring her to find the lie.
And her father... seeking out conflict. He knew. He had paid for the building they were locked in.
Trixie stood up, her legs feeling unsteady. She wasn't just a student anymore. She was the daughter of the jailor. And she was holding the key.
---
Trixie moved through the silent hallway like a phantom. The house was so quiet it felt pressurized, like deep water. Her socks muffled her footsteps on the plush carpet, but she couldn't dampen the noise inside her own body. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a wet, frantic rhythm that sounded deafening in the vacuum of the sleeping house. It was 2:00 AM. Her father was long asleep in the master suite at the far end of the East Wing.
The door to his study was unlocked. It opened with a soft, well-oiled click.
The room smelled of cigars and leather polish—the same scent that clung to her father’s jackets. Moonlight spilled through the French windows, illuminating the heavy oak desk that dominated the room.
The study was frigid. The cast-iron radiators had gone silent hours ago, the boiler down in the cellar shut off for the night. A stagnant, biting chill radiated from the stone walls, seeping right through her thin silk pajamas, prickly and uncomfortable.
Trixie didn't turn on the light. She used the small flashlight from her bedside drawer, keeping the beam low and cupped in her hand.
She went straight to the desk. Her father wasn't messy, but he wasn't paranoid either. He left papers out because he ruled this house; he didn't expect anyone to challenge his privacy.
On top of the blotter sat a stack of correspondence. Most of it was boring—estate management, investment reports.
Then she saw the crest. The St. Brigid’s crest: a burning lamp entwined with ivy.
Trixie reached out. Her fingers brushed the paper. It was cold to the touch, stiff and high-gauge. Skrr-shhh. The heavy bond stock scraped against the leather blotter as she slid it free, the friction sounding like a shout in the stillness.
It was a letter dated two days ago. The same day she had gone to the faculty lounge.
Trixie picked it up, her fingers trembling.
My Lord Croft,
Regarding the inquiry from your daughter Beatrix:
Miss Halloway reported directly to me immediately following her interaction with Beatrix in the Faculty Lounge on Wednesday afternoon. Beatrix was asking pointed questions regarding the attendance logs and specifically the whereabouts of Miss Chaudhari.
Please be assured the situation regarding Miss Chaudhari has been contained. The other subjects involved in the incident have been processed and relocated to the new facility in the Undercroft.
However, Beatrix's persistent questioning suggests a spiritedness that, if left unchecked, could become problematic. While her academic record is exemplary, her curiosity is bordering on insubordination.
I have convinced her for the moment with the prepared narrative, but intelligence is difficult to suppress indefinitely. I strongly suggest you reinforce the necessity of discretion during her visit home.
Furthermore, as the primary benefactor of the Undercroft expansion, your daughter has enjoyed a protected status. She is exempt from the standard disciplinary protocols (Lines, The Chair, etc.). However, should this "detective work" continue, I cannot guarantee her immunity will remain absolute. Curiosity often leads one to dangerous places.
I await your confirmation regarding the next disbursement for the Phase 2 equipment.
Yours in Service,
H. Sterling
Trixie lowered the letter. The paper rustled softly, a dry, dead sound in the quiet room.
"Miss Halloway reported directly to me…"
The cold in the room seemed to settle into her stomach. It wasn't just a metaphor; a physical wave of nausea rolled through her, making her skin tighten. Her father hadn't guessed at dinner. He had been reading from a report. The teachers were spy-masters. The administration was a surveillance network. And her father wasn't just a donor; he was the paymaster of a prison called the Undercroft.
And worse: "I cannot guarantee her immunity will remain absolute."
It was a threat. A polite, formal threat written on expensive stationery. Sterling was dangling Trixie’s safety over her father’s head to ensure the checks kept clearing.
Her "protected status." That’s why she had never been punished. Not because she was good, but because she was an investment.
But now, that protection was conditional.
Trixie carefully placed the letter back exactly as she had found it, ensuring the edges of the paper aligned perfectly with the blotter.
She backed out of the room, her heart hammering against her ribs, and returned to the sanctuary of her bedroom.
She sat at her desk, staring at the blank sheet of paper she had pulled out earlier. She had planned to write back. She had planned to craft a clever code, to tell Lakshmi she knew.
She picked up her pen, hovering over the page.
Then, slowly, she capped it.
Sending a letter now was suicide. Sterling read everything. If Trixie walked into that office with a letter for "Mumbai"—a place they both knew Lakshmi wasn't—it would be a confession. It would prove she hadn't bought the lie. It would prove her curiosity was alive and well.
It would be the fastest way to lose her immunity and join Lakshmi in the Undercroft.
Trixie looked at Lakshmi’s original letter, deciphered on her notepad. IS UNDER CROFT FOUNDATION.
She knew the where. And thanks to her father’s careless filing, she knew the what. A facility. A processing center.
Trixie’s fear began to harden into something colder, sharper. It was the feeling she got when staring at a complex equation that refused to resolve. You didn't solve it by panicking. You solved it by isolating the variables.
Her immunity was revoked if she continued her detective work. So, she wouldn't be a detective.
She would be the perfect student. She would smile at Miss Halloway. She would thank Sterling. She would act like the naive, spoiled daughter of a donor who believed every lie she was told. She would lower their guard until she was invisible again.
And while they were looking the other way, she would find the door.
She picked up her advanced mathematics textbook—Euclidean Variables. She didn't write a note. Instead, she opened the book to the section on complex geometries and tucked Lakshmi's original letter deep into the binding.
She wasn't going back to St. Brigid’s as a victim. She was going back as a sleeper agent.
Trixie turned off her lamp, plunging the room into darkness. She stared at the ceiling, her jaw set.
"Hold on, Lakshmi," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm coming."
Next Chapter
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