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- Herausgeber: Independant autor
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
At just twelve years old, Nola Grimm is not like other adolescents. Gifted with extraordinary intelligence and observational abilities that defy comprehension, she sees patterns where others perceive only chaos. A boarder at the prestigious Thornfield Academy, Nola conceals behind her reserved appearance a mind that solves the most complex enigmas with disconcerting ease.
When her father is hired to restore a mysterious cabinet designed to house an ancient artefact at Rosewood Manor, Nola finds herself plunged into a centuries-old conspiracy. With the help of Silas Morn, a fourteen-year-old hacking prodigy, she discovers the existence of the Order of the Raven—a secret society possessing knowledge that transcends our understanding of the world.
But the Order is divided, and certain factions covet a power that could threaten all of humanity. As portals to other dimensions begin to open and children with special gifts mysteriously disappear, Nola realises that she is much more than a witness in this affair—she might be the key to everything.
In a race against time, the extraordinary young investigator must unravel the secrets of her own lineage and confront entities whose existence defies the laws of physics. For what Nola does not yet know is that her destiny was written in the stars long before her birth...
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Nola Grimm
Table of contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Prologue
Yorkshire, England – One week before the beginning of our story
Twelve-year-old Nola Grimm carefully observed the Yorkshire moors from her window at Thornfield Academy. Unlike the other students who simply saw a wild and desolate landscape, her extraordinary mind perceived subtle patterns in the arrangement of hills and rocky outcrops – as if the terrain itself formed a code that only she could decipher.
Her unusually keen green eyes lingered on a barely visible stone circle in the distance. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine, the first sign of emotion on her typically impassive face. Without knowing why, she felt that this ancient circle was important. That it was calling to her.
The specially modified phone on her desk vibrated softly. A message from Silas Morn, the fourteen-year-old hacker who had become her most reliable collaborator over the past few months. No one at the Academy knew about this connection – not even the Headmaster, Dr. Blackwood, despite being so attentive to his prodigy's activities.
"Found something interesting in the archives," the message read. "References to an 'Order of the Raven' linked to Rosewood Manor. Property currently inhabited by Lady Victoria Hartwick, officially 93 years old, but documents suggesting she might be MUCH older. Continue research?"
Nola reflected for a moment. Her analytical mind was already evaluating the potential implications of this discovery, calculating probabilities and connections with the precision of a supercomputer.
"Continue," she replied simply. "Also search for any mention of the Grimm name in connection with this Order. I found cryptic references in my father's
personal journals."
She put away the phone and turned to her desk
where her schoolwork lay spread out – university-
level
mathematical equations she had solved in minutes, a comparative literature essay she had completed two weeks before the deadline, and personal notes on a system of observation and deduction she had been perfecting for years.
But her attention remained fixed on that distant stone circle. An unusual intuition for this young girl who normally favoured pure logic whispered to her that she would soon stand at the centre of that circle. And that her life would be forever changed by it.
A new message from Silas: "Just hacked into Rosewood Manor's private servers. You won't
believe it – tomorrow, your father's restoration firm has been hired to work on an antique cabinet meant to house an artefact called 'The Hartwick Dagger'. Coincidence?"
Nola Grimm allowed herself a rare smile. "There are no coincidences, Silas. Only patterns we haven't yet learned to recognise."
She observed the distant stone circle once more, feeling the first threads of a complex web being
woven around her. An investigation was coming – more important and more dangerous than any she had conducted so far. And as always, her ability to see patterns invisible to others would be her most powerful weapon.
"Prepare for a dive into mystery, Silas," she added
in a final message. "I believe we've just discovered the tip of an iceberg whose scale no one suspects."
Miles away, in a room with walls covered in screens and servers, Silas Morn smiled as he read the message. When Nola Grimm spoke like that, adventure was never far behind. And despite all the risks they had already faced together, he couldn't help but feel that familiar excitement.
The game was afoot. Nola Grimm's investigation into the Order of the Raven and the mysterious Hartwick Dagger was about to begin.
Chapter 1
The November sky stretched like a grey veil above Thornfield Academy. A biting wind swept across the Yorkshire moors, making the royal blue banners snap against their polished steel masts with a crisp, repetitive sound. The grass of the grand equestrian arena, an almost artificially dark green, contrasted sharply with the faded beige of the Victorian grandstands where spectators huddled in coats bearing the school's coat of arms. The academy flag – a stylised oak on an azure background – twisted furiously under the assault of the gusts.
Nola Grimm, perched atop Hurricane, her ink-black stallion, observed the obstacle course with absolute concentration. Her green eyes, almost unsettlingly intense, registered every detail: the exact height of the bars (1.27 metres for the main vertical), the angle of the oxers (precisely 35 degrees), the distance between the combinations (7.5 metres, three perfect strides for Hurricane). Her fingers, gloved in brown leather, automatically adjusted her black riding helmet, then tucked a rebellious auburn lock behind her ear. The leather saddle creaked slightly beneath her with each movement of the imposing horse.
Wisps of condensed air escaped from Hurricane's nostrils, forming ephemeral little clouds in the cold air. The smell of damp earth, polished leather, and freshly cut grass mingled with the subtler aromas of tea and pastries escaping from the thermos flasks and baskets the spectators had brought.
"Number 23, Nola Grimm on Hurricane, fourth year but competing in the higher category," announced Mrs. Weatherby's nasal voice through the loudspeaker, which crackled unpleasantly. "Followed by number 24, Penelope Rothschild on Duchess."
A murmur swept through the stands like a wave, a background noise composed of dozens of hushed conversations, rustling of expensive clothing, and the clinking of porcelain teacups. A small figure stepped forward, moving towards the starting line beside a girl with perfect blonde curls. Their identical riding uniforms – strictly buttoned black jackets,
impeccable beige jodhpurs, shining boots reflecting the rare sunbeams filtering through the clouds – could not hide their fundamental differences.
Where Penelope Rothschild displayed the haughty confidence of children born into wealth, her posture perfectly straight and her chin raised, Nola showed the silent determination of an outsider, her slightly tense shoulders betraying constant vigilance. Where one wore custom-made Italian leather gloves, the other had gloves slightly worn at the seams, though carefully maintained. The contrast was all the more striking because Penelope, at fourteen, was a good head taller than Nola.
"What's she still doing here?" hissed a voice from the stands, loud enough to reach Nola's ears. "She shouldn't even be allowed to ride the school's horses."
The sharp, aristocratic tone belonged to Victoria Harrington-Blake, whose father sat in the House of Lords. Her black bob-cut hair framed a face with fine, haughty features.
"Her father repairs furniture, apparently," replied another disdainful voice that Nola identified as Eliza Montgomery, heiress to an international hotel chain. "What a joke. I heard they live in a tiny flat in Hackney. Can you imagine?"
Stifled laughter followed this remark, spreading like wildfire among the students in the back rows. The sound was familiar to Nola's ears – the soundtrack of her two years at Thornfield.
Hurricane snorted loudly, shaking his black mane with a sudden movement, as if offended by these comments. The harness made a soft tinkling sound, producing a crystalline note that contrasted with the surrounding hubbub. Nola stroked his glossy neck, feeling the powerful muscles contract beneath her palm.
"Don't worry," she murmured, her voice barely audible above the noise of the wind. "Constant factors, identified variables."
She lined up at the start, her back perfectly straight, her legs positioned at a precise angle against the powerful flanks of the horse. Her fingers automatically found the small plastic dinosaur in her pocket – a blue pterodactyl her brother Ansel had given her "to protect you when I'm not there." The smooth, cold plastic against her palm brought her familiar comfort.
Her gaze briefly turned towards the stands, analysing the crowd with mechanical precision. She counted twenty-seven parents, eighteen staff members, eighty-three students, three photographers – and Lady Fawley, chairwoman of the equestrian committee, recognisable by her pearl grey suit and matching hat. Around her neck hung a golden medallion that caught the light – a raven with outstretched wings, holding something in its talons. A curious choice for such a conventional woman, Nola mentally noted. The same symbol she had glimpsed in the headmaster's office the previous week.
The whistle pierced the cold air, a shrill sound that made several spectators jump and immediately triggered action.
Hurricane launched forward as if released from an invisible cage, his hooves pounding the ground in a perfect rhythm – one, two, three, four – a cadence that Nola felt all the way down her spine. The wind whistled in her ears, creating a bubble of isolation where only the sound of the strides and her own controlled breathing existed. First obstacle: an oxer at one metre thirty. Nola leaned slightly forward, her hands releasing the reins just enough to allow the horse to extend his neck. The great black horse rose into the air with a grace that belied his imposing mass, his hooves tucked neatly beneath his belly.
"Look at that, she's going to fall at the triple," Penelope predicted loudly enough to be heard, her high-pitched voice piercing the tense silence that had gripped the spectators.
Nola ignored the remark, focusing solely on the sequence she had memorised. After the oxer, sharp left turn, vertical jump of 1.25 metres, then quick succession to the triple combination. This is where all the other competitors had taken a conventional approach, tackling the obstacle from a wide, safe angle.
But Nola did nothing conventional. She guided Hurricane through a tight diagonal that no one else had dared attempt, cutting almost two seconds on this manoeuvre alone. The crowd's breath collectively caught when the great black horse launched towards the first element of the triple from an angle that seemed impossible.
But Nola had calculated. Calculated the angle of incidence, the necessary speed, the compensation for the slight unevenness of the ground that no one else had noticed. Hurricane cleared the three obstacles in rapid succession, his hooves barely touching the ground between each jump.
The water jump came next – 3.5 metres of shallow but psychologically intimidating water. Hurricane soared over it without hesitation, his ears pointed straight ahead, completely focused on the task.
When they reached the final combination, Nola made a decision that even the judges followed with astonishment. Instead of approaching from the left like all the other competitors, she opted for a short diagonal trajectory, risky but terribly effective. Her calculations were precise: it would save them exactly three seconds and four-tenths.
With the last obstacle cleared, Hurricane galloped towards the finish line, his strides just as powerful as at the start. When they crossed it, the digital timer displayed a time fourteen seconds and twenty-seven hundredths below the course record.
A stunned silence greeted her performance. Time seemed to freeze for a few seconds, during which only Hurricane's slightly accelerated breathing and the rustling of the wind in the surrounding trees could be heard. Then, like a dam breaking, applause erupted, first hesitant, then full-bodied, spreading from the judges to the farthest stands.
Even Mrs. Weatherby, known for her legendary impassivity, seemed momentarily speechless, before announcing the score in a slightly trembling voice that resonated through the crackling loudspeakers.
"Nola Grimm on Hurricane: zero faults, time of 58.32 seconds. New course record."
In the stands, Penelope Rothschild let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a hiccup and a grunt. Her gloved hand clenched around her riding crop, making her knuckles turn white. In the judges' box, Lady Fawley had taken out a pair of binoculars and was observing Nola with a troubling intensity, her golden medallion glinting each time she leaned forward.
Nola patted the powerful, sweat-glossed neck, her face remaining impassive despite the satisfaction warming her chest. She dismounted with a fluid movement, her boots landing noiselessly on the sandy ground of the arena. The small plastic dinosaur fell from her pocket, producing a barely audible dull sound on the soft ground. She quickly picked it up, caressing it with her thumb before returning it safely to her jacket pocket. Ansel's gift never left her side.
"Brilliant performance, Grimm," came a male voice behind her, deep and composed with that particular accent of the most exclusive private schools.
She turned to discover Alexander Windsor, heir to a duchy and a final-year student. Tall, broad-shouldered, with perpetually tousled chestnut hair styled with studied elegance, he exuded that tranquil confidence peculiar to those who have never had to doubt their place in the world. His uniform, though regulation, seemed to have been specifically tailored for him, perfectly fitting his athletic figure. At seventeen, Alexander was the most influential student at Thornfield, captain of the fencing team and president of the student council.
"That diagonal on the triple, no one had considered it," he continued, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine interest as he indicated the obstacle with a nod of his chin. "How did you calculate the approach angle?"
"Elementary mathematics," replied Nola, methodically adjusting the saddle strap. "Hurricane's constant speed at 450 metres per minute, angle of incidence at 42 degrees to compensate for the terrain's imbalance. Elementary, really."
Alexander raised an eyebrow, visibly amused by her clinical response. An odour of leather and expensive cologne emanated from him, contrasting with the smell of hay and horse that surrounded Nola. Behind him, a few final-year students watched their exchange with undisguised curiosity.
"You know, half the school finds you unbearably pretentious," he said with disconcerting frankness, his voice low enough not to be overheard by others. "The other half is simply jealous. But there's a small group of us who secretly admire you."
Nola stopped, surprised by this unexpected revelation. An auburn lock escaped from her helmet, which she automatically tucked behind her ear. Her eyes quickly scanned Alexander's face, looking for the slightest sign of mockery or condescension, but found only unusual sincerity.
"Why tell me this now?" she asked, her voice betraying no particular emotion, the perfectly neutral tone she had perfected to mask the constant whirlwind of thoughts that occupied her mind.
"Because I bet fifty pounds on your victory," he replied with a smirk, pulling a folded banknote from his pocket which he briefly waved. "And also because rumours say you solved the case of the stolen exams last month, even though the administration refuses to admit it."
Nola neither confirmed nor denied. The incident had been hushed up – a minister's son involved in a cheating ring wasn't the kind of publicity the academy sought. She had identified the culprit by noticing the peculiar ink used for corrections, present under the student's fingernails three days before the papers were distributed.
The sun briefly pierced the clouds, a golden ray illuminating the medallion that Alexander wore discreetly under his tie, revealed by the wind that had parted his collar – identical to Lady Fawley's. A raven with outstretched wings, its talons gripping what looked like an ancient key. The same symbol, noted Nola, as on the letter opener in the headmaster's office.
"You should be careful," continued Alexander, lowering his voice even further, leaning slightly towards her. "Some people don't appreciate a twelve-year-old girl sticking her nose in their affairs, however brilliant she may be."
With these enigmatic words, he walked away with a nonchalant step, rejoining his group of friends who were waiting near the arena exit. Nola watched him leave, mentally noting the slight stiffness in his gait – a recent injury to the left leg, probably during fencing practice.
Hurricane whinnied softly, a deep, vibrating sound that seemed to resonate in the fresh air, as if to remind her of his presence. Nola shook her head and resumed her way towards the stables, mentally tracing a map of the people wearing the raven medallion. Lady Fawley, Alexander Windsor, the literature professor, and now this strange connection with the headmaster. Patterns, patterns everywhere. Her hand automatically found the plastic dinosaur in her pocket.
The heavy scent of the stables enveloped her – a mixture of fresh hay, polished leather, and that warm, musky smell peculiar to horses. The clattering of hooves on the concrete floor echoed, punctuated by occasional whinnies and the metallic sound of buckets being filled by the grooms. The light filtered through the high windows created dusty rays in which golden particles danced.
Nola led Hurricane towards his stall, passing other riders dismounting after their performance. Some gave her envious looks, others simply surprised ones. Penelope Rothschild, perched on her coffee-coloured mare, shot her a venomous look, squeezing her riding crop so tightly that Nola could see the tendons standing out beneath her skin.
"Enjoy your victory, Grimm," she spat between her perfectly aligned teeth. "It won't last."
Nola didn't respond, continuing on her way without giving her rival a glance. Penelope's threats were as predictable as they were empty – just like her equestrian performances.
She had just begun to unsaddle Hurricane when a prefect in a navy blue blazer appeared at the stall entrance, his gold badge catching the light filtering through the gaps in the roof. Frederick Pemberton, the youngest son of a banking dynasty, recognisable by his tortoiseshell-framed glasses and perpetually bored expression.
"Grimm, the headmaster wants to see you. Immediately."
A murmur ran among the other students, a rustle of voices and suspended movements. A summons to the headmaster's office was never a good sign, especially immediately after a competition. Nola simply nodded, methodically finishing caring for Hurricane – loosening the girth, removing the saddle, checking the condition of his legs – then followed the prefect towards the main building, leaving behind a trail of excited whispers that spread like a wave through the stables.
The wind had intensified, bringing the damp smell of imminent rain and making the leaves of the ancient oak trees lining the main avenue shiver. Dead leaves swirled around her ankles as she walked, the crunch of her boots on the gravel creating a regular rhythm that helped her organise her thoughts. Ansel's plastic dinosaur was clutched in her right hand, a small talisman against the worry that was beginning to rise.
Why did the headmaster want to see her? The exam affair had been resolved without her name being officially mentioned. Unless...
"You won again," observed the prefect, breaking the silence with his characteristic drawling voice. "That makes what, the fifth consecutive time?"
"Sixth," Nola automatically corrected. "Statistical probabilities largely in my favour considering the previous performances of the other competitors and the parameters of the course."
Frederick glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows rising above his glasses.
"Do you always talk like a computer, or is it just to impress?"
Nola didn't answer. This question was regularly asked of her, in different forms, and she had long since stopped responding to it. How could she explain that her mind naturally worked this way, in terms of probabilities, variables, and constants? How could she make others understand that the world appeared to her as a vast system of equations in perpetual resolution?
They crossed the main courtyard, paved with smooth stones glistening with moisture, framed by neo-Gothic buildings with ogive windows. Grimacing gargoyles watched their progress from the gutters, their grey stone darkened by centuries of weathering. The clock in the main tower struck four, its deep chime resonating across the campus.
The administrative building, with its imposing Victorian façade, stood at the end of the avenue like a fortress. Two stone lions guarded the entrance, their jaws frozen in an eternal roar. Frederick bounded up the steps four at a time, his shoes squeaking slightly on the wet marble.
Nola followed at a more measured pace, mechanically counting the steps – seventeen exactly, as always. Her mind was already analysing all possible scenarios for this unexpected summons, the probabilities rearranging themselves like pieces of a complex puzzle.
The entrance hall smelled of beeswax and ancient wood, a rich and reassuring perfume of tradition and history. Portraits of former headmasters lined the wood-panelled walls, their severe gazes following visitors. The polished parquet creaked softly beneath their steps, each creak amplified by the particular acoustics of the place.
Frederick stopped before a massive oak door on which a brass plate indicated "Dr. Arthur Blackwood, Headmaster." He knocked three sharp knocks, the sound echoing in the silent corridor.
"Enter," ordered a deep voice from the other side.
The prefect opened the door, stepping aside to let Nola pass.
"I've brought Grimm, as requested, Headmaster," he announced with evident deference in his voice.
"Thank you, Pemberton. You may go."
The office was exactly as Nola remembered from her last visit: vast, impressive, laden with history. Mahogany shelves covered the walls, overflowing with ancient books in worn leather bindings. A Persian carpet with complex patterns covered a large part of the parquet floor, its once-vibrant colours slightly faded by the years. The smell of old books, Earl Grey tea, and pipe tobacco hung in the air, despite the official ban on smoking within the confines of the establishment.
Dr. Blackwood stood in front of the fireplace where a modest fire crackled, his tall, thin silhouette standing out in silhouette. At sixty-two, he maintained a remarkable presence, his back perfectly straight, his steel-grey hair cut short with military precision. His three-piece tweed suit gave him the appearance of an Oxford professor from another era.
"Miss Grimm," he said, his deep and cultivated voice filling the room. "I congratulate you on your performance today. Please, sit down."
He indicated a leather armchair positioned in front of his imposing mahogany desk. Nola stepped forward and sat, her gaze automatically noting the changes since her last visit: a new book on the coffee table – "Secret Societies of Medieval Europe" – a half-empty cup of tea near the inkwell, and, more intriguing, a medallion placed on a blue velvet case. A raven with outstretched wings.
The headmaster took his seat in his massive armchair, the ancient leather emitting a slight groan under his weight. His long, bony fingers joined in a thoughtful gesture, forming a miniature cathedral in front of his face with its sharp features. Behind him, through the ogive window, one could see the clouds gathering, promising an imminent shower. The regular ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room seemed to amplify the silence.
"I imagine you're wondering why I summoned you, Miss Grimm," he began, his pale grey eyes studying her with clinical intensity.
"One dominant hypothesis and three secondary possibilities, Headmaster," replied Nola without hesitation, her back perfectly straight against the chair's back. "But I prefer not to speculate without sufficient data."
A fleeting smile passed over Dr. Blackwood's thin lips, slightly creasing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
"Still as methodical," he noted, lightly tapping the edge of his desk with his fingertips. "It's a quality I appreciate, though rare in students of your age."
He leaned forward to open a drawer, took out a thick cream envelope which he placed in front of him. The red wax seal that had closed it had been neatly broken. The envelope bore the Rosewood Manor letterhead, embossed in elegant golden letters.
"I received this request yesterday," he said, his voice measured and precise. "Your father, Mr. Jack Grimm, wishes you to be exceptionally authorised to leave the academy for a week to accompany him to Rosewood Manor."
Nola maintained her neutral expression, but her mind was racing. Her father had mentioned nothing of this during their last weekly call. Rosewood Manor – a historic property in Derbyshire, partially converted into a luxury hotel but still inhabited by the Hartwick family whose roots dated back to the Tudor era. Known for its collection of medieval artefacts and remarkable gardens.
"I was unaware of this request, Headmaster," she replied honestly.
"I was certain of it," nodded Blackwood. "Your father explains that he has been hired to restore a rare medieval cabinet intended to house an important historical artefact. The project is urgent and he will be accommodated on-site during the mid-term break. Apparently, he wishes you to accompany him rather than stay alone with your young brother and your mother who works extended hours."
The logic was irrefutable. The mid-term break was starting in three days, and the boarding school closed during this period. Normally, Nola returned to London, but if her father had to work at the manor...
"I understand, sir," she said simply.
The headmaster observed her for a few seconds, as if searching for something in her impassive face. The fire crackled in the fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the wood-panelled walls. In the distance, a rumble of thunder announced the arrival of the storm.
"Do you know what Rosewood Manor is, Miss Grimm?" he finally asked, his voice taking on a deeper tone.
"A historic property dating mainly from the Tudor period, although certain sections date back to the 13th century," recited Nola. "Owned by the Hartwick family since 1583, partially converted into a luxury hotel in 1997 while maintaining the east wing as a private residence. Known for its collection of medieval artefacts, particularly those linked to orders of knighthood and esoteric organisations of the period."
Blackwood nodded, apparently not surprised by this encyclopaedic response.
"Precisely. What you may not know is that Rosewood Manor will be hosting an international conference next week, bringing together experts in medieval history, but also several diplomats and influential figures."
He paused, as if to emphasise the importance of this information. Outside, the first raindrops began to hit the windows, a regular beating that gradually intensified.
"Lady Victoria Hartwick," he continued, "will be presenting the Hartwick Dagger to the public for the first time, a medieval artefact of inestimable value, both historical and... symbolic."
His gaze drifted momentarily towards the medallion placed on his desk. Nola discreetly followed the direction of his eyes, noting once again the perfect similarity with those worn by Lady Fawley and Alexander Windsor.
"I don't see the connection with the leave authorisation, Headmaster," said Nola, her gaze fixed on the medallion.
Blackwood joined his fingers again, the corners of his mouth dropping slightly.
"I am responsible for the safety and well-being of my students, Miss Grimm. Rosewood Manor is not... an ordinary destination. Particularly during events like this one."
He rose slowly and walked to the window, contemplating the rain that was now falling in dense curtains, drumming against the windows with increasing insistence. The storm had darkened the sky, plunging the office into a half-light that only the fireplace and the desk lamp managed to push back.
"Nevertheless," he continued, turning to face her, "I have decided to grant this exceptional authorisation. Your father is a talented craftsman, and this professional opportunity is important for him."
He paused, his gaze intensifying.
"However, I would like you to promise me one thing, Miss Grimm. If you observe anything... unusual at Rosewood Manor, I would like to be informed."
Nola blinked, the only visible sign of her surprise.
"Unusual, sir?"
"You have a remarkable gift for observing details that others overlook," he said, returning to sit at his desk. "This gift has allowed you to resolve certain delicate situations within our academy itself."
He gave her a knowing look, thus confirming that he was perfectly aware of her role in the stolen exams affair.
"I simply ask you to exercise this talent at Rosewood Manor, and to report any... anomaly you might notice."
Nola nodded slowly, aware of the unusual nature of this request.
"That's all I can tell you for now," he concluded, picking up the envelope. "Your father will come to collect you the day after tomorrow. You are excused from classes for the day to prepare your belongings."
He handed her an official piece of paper – her leave authorisation – which she took mechanically.
"Thank you, Headmaster," she said, rising.
"One last thing, Miss Grimm," he added as she reached the door. "Congratulations on your equestrian performance today. It was... remarkable."
Nola simply nodded before leaving, her mind swirling with unanswered questions.
The driving rain created an almost impenetrable grey curtain around the girls' dormitory. The Victorian red-brick building, darkened by moisture, stood like a solitary sentinel at the eastern end of the campus, surrounded by ancient trees whose bare branches swayed violently under the assault of the wind. The stone gargoyles adorning the gutters seemed to weep, pouring cascades of water in front of the ogive windows.
Nola crossed the deserted entrance hall, her riding boots leaving damp tracks on the black and white tiles arranged in a checkerboard pattern. The smell of beeswax and polished wood mingled with the aromas of tea and toast coming from the adjacent refectory. The wall clock showed 5:22 PM, and the unusual silence was explained by dinner having already begun.
The massive wooden staircase creaked under her steps as she climbed to the third floor. The corridor walls were lined with portraits of former students who had become famous – scientists, politicians, artists – all observing the new generations with expressions ranging from severity to encouragement.
Her room, 307, was located at the end of the corridor, slightly isolated from the others – an arrangement she appreciated. Unlike most students who decorated their doors with photos and posters, hers remained austere, bearing only a small brass plate with her name.
Nola inserted her key into the lock, automatically noting the tiny fresh scratches around the keyhole – someone had tried to force the entry, unsuccessfully. She gently pushed the door, scrutinising the interior before entering.
Her room was exactly as she had left it – in appearance. Perfectly made single bed, covered with a blue quilt. Oak desk near the window, books and notebooks arranged by size and subject. Shelves containing an eclectic collection of works ranging from advanced mathematics to the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. Austere wardrobe containing her few carefully folded clothes.
But her practised eye immediately spotted the anomalies: the cryptography book moved by a few millimetres, the dust on the windowsill slightly disturbed, the invisible thread she had stretched between her desk and the bookshelf now broken.
Someone had entered her room.
Methodically, she checked her secret caches – the loose floorboard under the carpet, the hidden compartment in the spine of her hollowed-out dictionary, the double-bottomed box under her bed. Everything was intact. The intruder hadn't found what they were looking for, whatever that might be.
Nola removed her still-damp riding clothes and put on a clean uniform – grey pleated skirt, white shirt, navy blue jumper emblazoned with the Thornfield crest. She combed her auburn hair, still tangled from the wind, braiding it into a single tight plait that fell to the middle of her back.
The silence of the room was suddenly broken by three quick short beeps coming from her desk. Nola froze, comb still in hand. This particular sound could only mean one thing: a message from Silas.
She approached her laptop, a basic model provided by the school for academic work. To anyone examining it, it would seem perfectly ordinary – but Silas had modified it. A hidden partition, invisible to routine inspections, housed an encrypted messaging system that only the two of them could access.
Nola plugged in a USB drive containing the decryption key and quickly typed a sequence of keystrokes. The standard screen disappeared, replaced by a minimalist interface displaying an encoded message:
RW-M_ALERT:73.21.9 VIPER_NEST:CONFIRMED RAVEN_KEY:MOVEMENTS WATCH_SHADOWS:19.11
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, quickly deciphering:
ROSEWOOD MANOR ALERT:HIGH PRIORITY VIPER'S NEST:PRESENCE CONFIRMED RAVEN KEY:IN MOTION WATCH THE SHADOWS:IMMINENT DANGER
Her heart accelerated slightly, though her face remained impassive. Silas had information about Rosewood Manor – even before she knew she would be going there. How was that possible? She quickly typed:
SOURCE?DATA?SPECIFICS?
The response was almost immediate:
MULTIPLE_SOURCES HARTWICK_DAGGER:FOCUS_POINT GUESTS_LIST:ATTACHED CAUTION:EXTREME
A file appeared in the interface. Nola opened it to discover a detailed list of the guests expected at Rosewood Manor for the coming week:
Baron Klaus Von Stein - Collector, Austria Ambassador Philippe Rousseau and his daughter Sophie - France Dr. Edmund Blackwood - Curator of the British Museum (no relation to the headmaster despite the identical name) Count Alessandro Visconti - Historian, Italy Lady Victoria Hartwick - Owner of Rosewood Manor Professor Mikhail Petrov - Expert in medieval weapons, Russia Princess Astrid Lindgren - Scandinavian royal family Jack Grimm - Antique furniture restorer, England
And a dozen more names, all accompanied by detailed notes on their backgrounds, connections, and potential suspicious behaviours.
Nola frowned slightly. Access to such information exceeded even Silas's usual capabilities. She quickly typed:
HOW_DID_YOU_KNOW?EXPLAIN?
A long moment passed before the response:
NOT_SECURE WILL_EXPLAIN_LATER RAVEN=DANGER BE_CAREFUL WATCH_YOUR_FATHER
The screen abruptly returned to its normal interface, the messaging system disappearing without leaving a trace. Nola remained motionless, staring at the now-ordinary screen, her mind frantically analysing the exchange.
Rosewood Manor. The Hartwick Dagger. The raven symbol. Her father. The headmaster. The identical medallions. Everything was connected, forming a pattern of which she could still only discern the blurred outlines.
Lightning forked across the sky, briefly illuminating the room in a pale light. Thunder followed almost immediately, a deep rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.
Nola rose and approached the window streaming with rain. In the courtyard below, a solitary figure quickly crossed the uncovered space, the collar of his coat turned up against the elements. Even at that distance and despite the curtain of rain, she recognised Alexander Windsor's characteristic gait. He paused briefly in the centre of the courtyard, looked up at her window, then disappeared into the growing darkness.
Ansel's blue pterodactyl was still in her pocket. Nola clutched it in her palm, her thumb caressing the smooth, worn plastic surface.
"Patterns, patterns everywhere," she murmured, her breath creating a halo of mist on the cold glass.
Outside, the storm intensified, as if portending the mysteries awaiting her at Rosewood
Manor.
Chapter 2
Jack Grimm's anthracite grey Volvo estate devoured the miles on the M1 motorway heading north, its windscreen wipers beating furiously against the persistent rain that had been falling since dawn. The low, heavy sky seemed to weigh on the landscape, transforming the English countryside into a watercolour of dark grey and green hues. Patches of fog clung lazily to the valleys, giving the distant hills the appearance of islands emerging from a milky sea.
Inside the vehicle, the characteristic smell of aged leather and beeswax mingled with the subtler notes of black coffee and peppermint. The radio softly played a Mendelssohn violin concerto, the crystalline notes contrasting with the regular drumming of rain on the roof.
Jack Grimm drove in silence, his large, calloused hands firmly gripping the steering wheel. At forty-two, he had the weathered face of a man who had spent long hours working meticulously, early wrinkles at the corners of his eyes testifying to years of intense concentration. His short salt-and-pepper beard framed a square jaw where a tense muscle occasionally pulsed, a sign of nervousness he was trying to conceal. His thick burgundy wool jumper bore the traces of a life devoted to craftsmanship – tiny wood splinters caught in the fibres, a slight varnish stain on the left sleeve.
In the passenger seat, Nola methodically observed the passing landscape, memorising every detail, every road sign, every intersection. Her worn leather-bound notebook lay open on her knees, covered with precise notes on the guests at Rosewood Manor, which she had transcribed from the information provided by Silas. Her fingers lightly tapped the edge of the page, unconsciously reproducing the rhythm of the rain.
"You've been quiet the whole journey," Jack finally remarked, casting a brief glance at his daughter. "Something troubling you?"
Nola turned her head towards her father, subtly analysing the physical signs he was manifesting – the tension in his shoulders, the slight tightness around his mouth, the increased frequency of his glances in the rear-view mirror.
"You're troubled too," she replied simply. "Third check of the rear-view mirror in two minutes. Elevated heart rate visible at the carotid. Shallow breathing."
Jack let out a brief laugh, a deep, warm sound that seemed to momentarily soften his facial features.
"I sometimes forget that nothing escapes you," he said. "This is an important contract for me, Nola. The most prestigious of my career. Lady Hartwick could have chosen any restorer in London, but she contacted me personally."
"On whose recommendation?" asked Nola, her pencil suspended above her notebook.
Jack frowned slightly, slowing down to negotiate a sharp bend where water formed a deep puddle.
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "The steward mentioned that she had seen my work on the Tudor chest of drawers at the Greenwich Museum last year."
"Coincidence or premeditation," murmured Nola, adding this information to her notebook in her neat, compact handwriting.
"What have you been writing in there since we left?" asked Jack, trying to catch a glimpse of the notebook.
"Preliminary data on the guests at Rosewood Manor," she replied. "Baron Klaus Von Stein, Austrian, collector of medieval weapons with a particular interest in artefacts linked to secret societies. Three trials for dubious acquisition of antiquities, no convictions. Ambassador Philippe Rousseau, retired French diplomat, specialist in medieval Anglo-French relations. His daughter Sophie, fourteen, junior chess champion..."
"Wait," interrupted Jack, giving her a puzzled look. "How do you know all this? The guest list is confidential."
Nola merely shrugged slightly.
"Internet. Press articles. Logical cross-referencing."
A half-lie. Jack didn't need to know about Silas's existence, nor how he obtained his information. Not yet.
"You shouldn't worry about these things, Nola," sighed Jack. "You're twelve. You should be thinking about..."
"Twelve-year-old things?" she completed, with a hint of irony in her voice.
"I was going to say 'enjoying your holiday'," he corrected with a tender smile. "Ansel was disappointed that you weren't coming home."
At the mention of her brother, Nola's face softened imperceptibly. Her hand automatically found the small blue dinosaur in her coat pocket.
"How is he?"
"He draws constantly. Ravens, mainly. He says they speak to him in his dreams."
Nola's hand froze on the page of her notebook. Ravens. That symbol again. She thought back to the headmaster's medallion, to those of Alexander Windsor and Lady Fawley. To Silas's cryptic message.
"Has he mentioned a dagger?" she asked, her voice perfectly neutral despite the sudden tension that filled her.
Jack looked at her with surprise.
"How do you know that? He has indeed drawn a sort of dagger surrounded by ravens. Eleanor thought it was because of that documentary about knights he watched last week..."
Nola noted this information in her notebook, circling the words "Ansel - visions?" with a precise line. Coincidence? Unlikely. Coincidences were generally patterns that hadn't yet been identified.
The GPS emitted a discreet beep, announcing a change of direction. Jack left the motorway, taking a secondary road that wound between wooded hills. The rain intensified, creating an almost opaque curtain before them. The trees drew closer to the road, their branches in places forming a vegetative tunnel above the road.
"We're getting closer," announced Jack. "About twenty minutes according to the GPS."
Nola closed her notebook and inserted it into her backpack, carefully putting her pencil in the designated pocket. She discreetly took out her phone, checking the screen. No message from Silas since the previous day. Unusual. He generally contacted her before any important journey.
The Volvo slowed to cross a small stone bridge spanning a river swollen by the rains. In the distance, through the veil of rain and fog, a dark mass began to take shape on the hillside. Towers, battlements, slender chimneys gradually stood out against the leaden sky.
Rosewood Manor.
A gust of wind more violent than the previous ones shook the car, momentarily causing Jack to deviate from his path. A massive raven crossed the road just in front of them, so close that Nola could distinguish the metallic reflection of its black feathers. The bird disappeared into the trees, but its image seemed imprinted in Nola's mind like an omen.
"Almost there," murmured Jack, slowing down to negotiate the tight bends of the road that was now climbing towards the manor.
Nola observed the building that was inexorably drawing closer. She counted mechanically – seventeen visible windows on the façade, four towers, three main chimneys, two distinct entrances. A fortress of stone and secrets, standing against the sky like a challenge thrown at time itself.
The blue pterodactyl was clutched in her hand.
The imposing wrought-iron gate opened automatically as they approached, its metallic creaking barely audible beneath the crackling of the rain. Stone gargoyles, their features eroded by centuries of weathering, observed the arrival of visitors from the massive pillars that framed the entrance. The gravelled driveway serpentined through a park of ancient trees, majestic oaks and beeches whose tormented silhouettes stood out against the grey sky.
The Volvo advanced slowly along this path, the tyres crunching on the wet gravel. Through the curtain of rain, Rosewood Manor gradually revealed its true scale – a composite structure where several architectural periods and styles coexisted. The central wing, typically Tudor with its dark half-timbering contrasting with the white plastered walls, was flanked by two older extensions in grey stone, probably Norman judging by the visible Romanesque arches. A more recent Victorian tower rose at the eastern end, topped with a copper dome oxidised to a bright verdigris that stood out even in the diffuse light.
Jack whistled softly between his teeth, impressed by the magnificence of the place.
"It's even more imposing than in the photos," he murmured, slowing down to admire the façade.
Nola, for her part, methodically observed every detail: the sculpted gargoyles that adorned the gutters, spitting torrents of rainwater; the coloured stained-glass windows with their ogive shapes faintly reflecting the grey daylight; the stone chimneys that rose like sentinels above the slate roofs. Her gaze lingered on a carved figure above the main door – a raven with outstretched wings, identical to the medallions she had observed.
The car stopped in a circular paved area in front of the main entrance. No sooner had they cut the engine than a figure emerged from the porch, holding an imposingly large black umbrella. The man who approached them embodied the quintessence of the British butler – tall, thin, perfectly straight-backed, with an impassive face adorned with a finely trimmed moustache. His impeccable black suit contrasted with his immaculately white shirt, and his leather shoes shone despite the ambient humidity.
"Mr. Grimm, I presume," he said in a deep, measured voice, opening the driver's door while holding the umbrella above Jack. "I am Hawthorne, butler of Rosewood Manor. Lady Hartwick has charged me with welcoming you."
Jack got out of the car, shaking the butler's extended hand.
"Thank you. I am Jack Grimm, and this is my daughter, Nola."
Hawthorne went around the vehicle, opening Nola's door with silent efficiency. His gaze, grey and piercing, lingered briefly on her, revealing a sharp intelligence behind his mask of professional impassivity.
"Miss Grimm," he greeted with a slight nod. "Welcome to Rosewood Manor."
Nola exited the vehicle, the damp gravel crunching beneath her boots. The biting wind carried the mingled scents of wet earth, ancient stone, and a subtler fragrance – rosewood and bergamot, probably coming from the gardens hidden behind the manor.
"Please follow me," continued Hawthorne. "Lady Hartwick is currently occupied with other guests, but she wishes to meet you at tea, at four o'clock. Until then, I will show you to your quarters."
He led Jack and Nola towards the entrance, a massive oak portal adorned with complex ironwork representing medieval hunting scenes. The vestibule into which they entered was as impressive as it was unexpected – despite the traditional exterior, the interior had been tastefully renovated to combine history and modern comfort. The black and white checkered marble floor gleamed under the subdued light of bronze wall sconces. A monumental carved oak staircase rose majestically towards the upper floors, its banister representing entwined vines interspersed with small forest animals.
The walls, covered with dark panelling to mid-height, were adorned with portraits of stern-faced ancestors and medieval tapestries depicting mythological scenes. A complex odour floated in the air – a mixture of beeswax, old books, polished wood, and fresh flowers arranged in imposing porcelain vases.
"Your luggage will be brought to your rooms," informed Hawthorne. "Mr. Grimm, the east wing has been prepared to accommodate your workshop, according to the specifications you sent."
Jack nodded, visibly impressed by the solemnity of the place. Nola, meanwhile, carefully observed the comings and goings in the hall. A man in discreet security uniform stood near a side door, his vigilant gaze regularly sweeping the space. Two chambermaids in black dresses and white aprons quickly crossed the vestibule, carrying freshly ironed linens. Through a half-open door, one could glimpse a reception room where several people were conversing, their voices forming a muffled hubbub punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.
"Has the conference already begun?" asked Jack.
"The guests have been arriving progressively since yesterday," explained Hawthorne. "The official presentation of the Hartwick Dagger will take place tomorrow evening, followed by a gala dinner."
At the mention of the dagger, Nola noted a minuscule change in Hawthorne's posture – an almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, a slight stiffening of his neck. He was hiding something, or at least, he knew more than he was willing to show.
"If you would please follow me," continued the butler, "I will show you to your rooms. We have arranged adjacent quarters for you both in the Tudor wing, as per your request, Mr. Grimm."
They took the main staircase, their steps muffled by the thick red carpet that covered its centre. At the first landing, Nola noticed an empty showcase, elegantly lit but devoid of any object. A small card indicated: "Hartwick Dagger, 13th century - Official presentation on November 15th."
As if he had perceived her interest, Hawthorne slowed near the showcase.
"The dagger is kept in the safe until tomorrow," he explained. "Exceptional security measures have been put in place for the event."
"What is the historical value of this dagger?" asked Nola, her voice perfectly neutral despite her devouring curiosity.
Hawthorne's gaze settled on her, evaluative and curiously intense.
"It is one of the rare authenticated artefacts linked to the Order of the Raven, a medieval secret society that is said to have influenced several major historical events. The dagger bears inscriptions that have never been fully deciphered. Lady Hartwick will be able to tell you more, if you are interested."
The Order of the Raven. Silas's message suddenly took on a concrete dimension. Nola simply nodded, mentally recording this information while continuing to observe her surroundings. At the turn of a corridor, she glimpsed a young girl, probably her age or slightly older, who was discreetly observing them before disappearing behind a door.
Hawthorne led them through a maze of richly decorated corridors, where authentic antiquities and quality reproductions harmoniously cohabited. They finally stopped in front of two adjacent doors in the Tudor wing.
"Here are your quarters," he announced, opening the first door. "Mr. Grimm, your room. Miss Grimm, yours is right next door."
The two rooms, though furnished in a style consistent with the history of the manor, offered all modern comforts – marble bathrooms, discreet heating, electrical outlets skilfully concealed in the woodwork. Nola's room had a bay window offering an impressive view of the formal French gardens that extended behind the manor, currently veiled by the persistent rain.
"Tea will be served at four o'clock in the blue drawing room," informed Hawthorne. "Until then, feel free to explore the manor. Certain wings are reserved for permanent residents and clearly indicated as such. A tablet on your desk contains an interactive map of the areas accessible to guests."
With these words, he bowed slightly and took his leave, leaving them to settle in.
As soon as the door closed, Nola conducted a meticulous inspection of her room. She checked the drawers, the wardrobe, looked under the bed, and carefully examined the paintings hanging on the walls. Her attention was drawn to one portrait in particular – a woman in Renaissance attire, with a piercing gaze and regal bearing. Around her neck hung a medallion depicting a raven with outstretched wings.
A slight noise at the door made her turn around. Jack was poking his head through the gap.
"Everything all right?" he asked. "I'm going to see my workshop. Do you want to come with me or would you prefer to rest?"
"I'll explore a bit," replied Nola. "I'll join you later."
Jack nodded, a warm smile softening the features of his face, tired from the journey.
"Be careful, all right? This manor is immense."
Once alone, Nola took out her phone. Still no message from Silas. She tried to send him a coded notification:
"RW-M:ARRIVED. RAVEN_SIGNS:EVERYWHERE. CONTACT:URGENT."
But the message remained pending, failing to send. She checked the reception – only two bars, weak signal. The thick stone walls of the manor must be interfering with communications.
She approached the window, observing the gardens below. Despite the rain, a solitary figure was walking among the carefully trimmed hedges – an elderly woman, straight as an 'i' despite her years, dressed in a pearl grey suit and holding a black umbrella. As if she had sensed she was being watched, the woman suddenly looked up towards Nola's window. Even at that distance, the intensity of her gaze was striking.
Nola stepped back slightly, but continued to observe discreetly. The woman raised her hand to her neck, touching what appeared to be a pendant, then resumed her walk with a deliberate step.
Intrigued, Nola consulted the tablet placed on the desk. The interactive map of the manor revealed a labyrinth of corridors, drawing rooms, libraries, and gardens. The east wing, where her father's workshop must be located, was clearly indicated, as was the blue drawing room where tea would be served. Some areas appeared greyed out, marked as "restricted access" – Lady Hartwick's private apartments, the kitchens, and curiously, the entire basement.
