The Rosenholm Trilogy Volume 1: Roses & Violets E-Book

Gry Kappel Jensen

• Herausgeber: Arctis US
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: The Rosenholm Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 342

Beschreibung

Four girls from four different parts of Denmark have been invited to apply to Rosenholm Academy for an unknown reason. During the unorthodox application tests, it becomes apparent this is no ordinary school. In fact, it's a magical boarding school and all the students have powers. Once the school year begins, they learn that Rosenholm carries a dark secret—a young girl was murdered under mysterious circumstances in the 1980s and the killer was never found. Her spirit is still haunting the place, and she is now urging the four girls to bring justice and find the killer. But helping the spirit puts all of the girls in grave danger . . .

Leseprobe

Gry Kappel Jensen

Roses & Violets

The Rosenholm Trilogy 1

translated from the Danish by Sharon E. Rhodes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

W1-Media, Inc.

Imprint Arctis

Stamford, CT, USA

Copyright © 2023 by W1-Media Inc. for this edition ROSER OG VIOLER © Gry Kappel Jensen og Turbine, 2019

Published by agreement with Babel-Bridge Literary Agency

First English edition published by

W1-Media, Inc. / Arctis Books USA 2023

First English-language edition published by W1-Media Inc./Arctis, 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

electronoic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without

the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

The Library of Congress Control Number is available.

English translation copyright © Sharon E. Rhodes, 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

ISBN978-1-64690-612-3

www.arctis-books.com

Prologue

He lays me down in the grass. The sky spins above me, like when my sister and I played as small children. We spun and spun with our faces toward the sky, arms spread, our dresses forming perfect circles around us.

He repositions my arms, arranges my legs, spreads out my hair. He strokes my cheek, his mouth is very close to my ear, his breath is warm. He sings for me, he tells me that I am beautiful, that he loves me.

He bends over me, a dark figure, a shadow against the swirling spiral of the sky. I know who he is, but I cannot see his face. I want to scream, but I cannot. The rustling of the silver poplars vies with the sound of my pulse whooshing in my ears, the violets bloom around me and the sky goes black.

Part 1Summer

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Strawberries are sweet

And so are you

Traditional love poem, often used in 19th-century autograph books

July 6th 3:45 p.m.

Kirstine

Kirstine listened. It was silent in the house. She forced herself to take a deep breath.

Relax. It’s not the same as stealing.

The letter was hers, after all. It just happened to be lying in the top drawer of the large, oak writing desk. The drawer where her father kept their passports and baptismal certificates and that sort of thing. The drawer that could be locked.

Her sweaty fingers clutched the small, gold key she’d taken from the back corner of the china cabinet, where it was always kept.

“Kirstine, do you want some coffee? There’s still a bit of cake from yesterday.”

The sound of her mother’s voice from out in the garden made her jump.

“No thanks!” She closed the door into the living room and attempted to ignore the small crucifix hanging over the writing desk. Jesus looked down at her reprovingly. The key turned easily, but the drawer stuck. She had to yank it open. It was sitting on top—she recognized it immediately. The thick, white envelope. A stamp with a postmark indicating that the letter was sent several weeks ago. And her name on the front. Kirstine Marie Jensen. Despite this, it was locked away in a drawer. And despite this, someone had opened the envelope and read it. She grabbed the letter and put it in her pocket.

Footsteps on the kitchen floor, someone opening the door to the living room. She hastily shoved the drawer closed.

“Are you in here? Don’t you want to get outside now that the sun’s finally shining?” Her mother briefly scanned Kirstine’s face and body. Was she looking for something? Had she seen something? Kirstine’s heart pounded.

“No. I mean yes. I think I’ll go for a bike ride.”

“Oh, okay. But be sure to get home by dinner time . . .”

Kirstine nodded and edged around her mother. Her hand still clutched around the key, and she could clearly feel the letter in her pocket as she unlocked her bike. She would have to put both the letter and the key back again tonight, after her parents had gone to bed.

Kirstine had just pushed her bike out through the gate when she saw her mother standing in the street, waiting for her. She must have gone through the front door.

“Did you take something from your father’s desk?”

July 6th 4:05 p.m.

Kirstine

The westerly wind whipped in her face. She pedaled so hard that her thighs burned and her knees ached.

She’d screamed at her mother. Loud enough that the neighbors must have heard. It wasn’t like her, but it was her letter, they had no right to hide it from her. And now she was running away from it all.

Kirstine swung her bike to the right, toward the forest. She stood up on the pedals for the last stretch and then threw the bike against the ancient, moss-covered stone wall encircling the small, white church. Then she walked past the church and into the forest. The wind made the treetops sigh, but it was quiet among the trunks. The air smelled of pine needles, dead leaves, moss, water, earth. She followed the path a short way, but then turned in among the trees to follow her own route, the one the mushroom pickers didn’t know about. It had been a rainy summer, but today the sky was clear and the sun shone through the deep-green branches. She felt the water rising up through the thick layer of moss with each step, her sandals getting wet in the process. She stopped, pulled the sandals off, and continued barefoot. It was a strange feeling, walking through the moss of the forest floor as the ice-cold rainwater rose up between her bare toes. Her mother had looked alarmed when Kirstine began shouting at her. No, not alarmed. Afraid.

There was a small hill in the middle of the clearing where the heather was in bloom and chanterelles grew in late summer. At the top of the hill were five large stones, some of which had fallen over hundreds of years ago, and no one now living knew their original purpose. Kirstine sat on the largest stone—it lay on its side and had almost disappeared into the heather and grass. She pulled out the envelope. She’d first seen the letter on the kitchen counter alongside brochures and the local paper one afternoon a few weeks ago. She hadn’t thought anything of it until her mother hurriedly swept it away and took the stack of mail with her into the living room. That’s when she’d gotten the feeling that the letter was for her. She finally opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. It was printed on thick paper with a grooved texture she could feel between her fingers, and there was an embossed logo of a rose at the top of the paper. In gold letters, the envelope read: Rosenholm Academy.

June 17th

Dear Kirstine Marie Jensen,

The faculty of Rosenholm Academy for gifted and exceptionally talented youth invites you to an informational meeting to tell you more about Rosenholm’s program and, potentially, admit you to the first-year class this fall.

Rosenholm Academy is located on Zealand and surrounded by natural beauty. We have a long, glorious history specializing in the education and molding of young people possessed of rare and special talents. Rosenholm Academy comprises approximately three hundred students, all of whom live at the school for the duration of our three-year program. The course of study corresponds to the final years of traditional secondary education and is tuition-free.

We hope to see you at the informational meeting on July 7th at 10:00 a.m. Please note that the meeting is only for prospective students—parents are not welcome.

The enclosed information sheet includes the school’s address as well as options for traveling to the school via public transportation.

We look forward to meeting you.

With best wishes,

Birgit Lund Birgit Lund

Headmistress

It took her a long time to work her way through the letter. She let her eyes scan the words again . . . gifted and exceptionally talented . . . Uh, what? If there was one thing Kirstine was sure of, it was that she did not fit that description. That much she had gathered after years of failing school. Special instruction, school psychologists, discussions, reading programs—nothing had helped, and in the end, everyone around her had apparently given up. After a disastrous attempt to finish high school, she’d stopped going to school altogether, and now she only left home to go to her cleaning job at the assisted living facility. And the church functions her parents were always dragging her to. In short, she’d just turned eighteen and had no idea what to do with herself.

Kirstine let her fingers run over the envelope’s beautiful gold embossing. If she hadn’t been sure no one would bother going to so much trouble to trick her, she would have thought it was a prank. But no . . . She’d perfected the art of making herself invisible. She wasn’t bullied, just overlooked.

She checked the date again. The meeting was tomorrow. Forget it. It’s never going to happen.

Her parents would never, ever give her permission. She’d never even been allowed to go to the parties held by her classmates. So going all the way across Funen to some strange school on Zealand? No way. It was just as well they’d hidden the letter in the first place.

Kirstine lay on the ground at the center of the circle of stones. She stayed there until she felt the tingling sensation she always felt when she lay there long enough. A prickling heat that spread through her body until she almost felt as if she was lifting from the ground and rising up toward the white clouds drifting across the blue summer sky. A feeling of strength and energy filled her body, driving out the anger. Although she’d never told them about her experiences in the forest, she was sure her parents would not approve. Where do you get this stuff, Kirstine! Stop this nonsense . . . But she didn’t care. When she felt like this, it almost felt as if she could go wherever she wanted, and she just let her body rest against the forest floor like an empty vessel.

Her thoughts swirled around the mysterious letter. Maybe she could tell her parents how she actually felt, what she did and thought about, was afraid of, wished for. Simply explain it all until they understood and supported her and would see her off on the train, rejoicing over the fact that she could stand on her own two feet. Yes, that’s exactly what she would do—except for the part about telling them anything.

Kirstine breathed deeply until she felt she’d fully returned to her body. Then she pulled out her phone and typed the school’s address into Google Maps.

July 7th 3:23 a.m.

Victoria

See me . . .

“No!”

Victoria gasped for air. It was only a dream, only a dream. Breathe . . .

She sat straight up in bed and wrapped her arms around herself. Slowly, she regained control of her breathing, but the anxiety left her shivering. The moon sent a diffuse light through the white curtains fluttering in the breeze from the open windows, and the dreamcatcher over her bed spun around slowly. She let her eyes follow its movement. It was there to protect her.

She’d dreamed about the white shadows again, but this time was different. One of them had come up close, had practically bent over her. Way too close.

She wrapped herself up in her comforter, but the cold wouldn’t loosen its grip. She was still shivering when she went downstairs to make a cup of tea. The large house was silent. The twins slept further down the hall. Despite the many bedrooms, they insisted on sleeping in the same room. Their au pair had her room in the basement, and her parents’ bedroom was at the opposite end of the house. There’s no one here, there’s no danger.

Victoria turned on the light in the kitchen and, as always, avoided looking at the windows when it was dark outside. She didn’t want to see her own image reflected in the glass. She poured water from the instant hot water tap directly over the teabag and counted the seconds as the tea steeped. No one’s trying to hurt you.

It startled her when, inevitably, she did make eye contact with her pale reflection in the windowpane. The white shadow was clearly visible behind her. She closed her eyes. Face your fears . . .

Victoria turned around slowly but kept her eyes closed a moment longer. Then she forced herself to open them. There’s no one else here, you’re alone. Or at least that’s what she tried to tell herself. But Victoria was never truly alone.

July 7th 4:30 a.m.

Kirstine

It was getting light outside the train’s windows. Kirstine imagined the birds competing in song outside, but inside the train you could only hear the monotonous rattling of the motor and the metallic clang of the rails. Her stomach was in knots, and it was impossible to breathe normally, even when she really tried. What was she was doing? Running away in the middle of the night—who does that? She did. Obviously.

There weren’t many people on the train. Diagonally opposite her seat was a young man, asleep with his head leaned back against the seat. His reddish hair lay sprawled over his forehead. His skin was fair with small freckles strewn over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He was older than her, but she wasn’t sure how much older. Somewhere, as the train worked its way through Jutland, he’d gotten on board, chosen a seat, thrown himself down, and immediately fallen asleep. But she couldn’t sleep. The young man shifted in his sleep, and she realized she’d been staring at him. She turned her face toward the window instead and pressed her forehead into the cold glass. It was almost light now.

Almost twenty minutes before they reached Sorø, Kirstine put on her jacket, zipped her bag shut, and sat with it in her lap. She’d read the directions again and again until she knew the stations by heart in case the loudspeaker system was down and she had to read the flickering names of stations and cities flashing past on the information display at the top of the train compartment.

“Next station Sorø.”

She jumped up and edged carefully out between the legs of the people who had boarded as the train crossed Funen. The young man was still asleep as she went past. Just then the train took a turn, and her leg bumped into his knee.

“Wha—?” he blurted out, looking up blearily, as if he had no idea where he was. “Is this Sorø?”

She couldn’t get a word out, but luckily she managed to nod.

“Oh, thanks,” he said. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair before grabbing his jacket and springing out of his seat toward the doors that had only just opened onto the platform.

“Wait!” Her voice stuck in her throat, and it was impossible for her to shout louder. “Your bag!”

Out on the platform she finally caught up with the young man as he walked away from the train determinedly.

“Your bag!” Shyly, she handed him a brown, leather shoulder bag. “You left it on the train.”

“Aww shit, did I? Thanks a million.” He smiled, looking simultaneously happy and embarrassed. He looked a bit older now that he was awake. “Really, thank you,” he said with a crooked grin. “And you were getting off at Sorø too?

“Yes,” she said, trying to force her voice to a normal volume. “I mean, I’m continuing on by bus.”

“Me too. The busses leave from over there.” He vaguely indicated the direction with a careless movement of his arm. The sun was up now, and the birds were singing in the early morning.

“Which bus are you taking?” he asked when they’d reached the row of blue bus signs.

“Number 14, I think,” she said. But she didn’t think, she was absolutely certain that she would remember the bus number to her dying day after having studied the route so many times.

“Number 14? Huh, that’s funny. Me too. Then again, maybe it’s not so strange. I doubt anyone takes the train to Sorø at this time of day, unless . . . May I ask if you’re on your way to Rosenholm?”

Kirstine nodded. “Yes, for a meeting.”

The young man’s eyes scanned her face as if he was searching for something.

“Yes, well, I know they need people. But I should introduce myself: Jakob.” He extended his hand and gave hers a firm squeeze. “I’ve got Norse Studies there.”

She settled for nodding again. He said it as if it was self-explanatory, and she had no intention of exposing her ignorance by asking what that meant.

“You know it’s only half past six, and the bus doesn’t leave until eight,” said Jakob, studying the old, scratched watch on his wrist. “We might as well sit down.” He pointed at a shelter about thirty feet away from the bus stop. The bus station was desolate. There was just a solitary bus with the motor running and the text Not in service glowing in yellow above the windshield. Kirstine couldn’t remember ever having been on Zealand before, but this was pretty similar to what she was used to at home. Maybe that’s what gave her the courage to start a conversation. Or maybe it was because Jakob didn’t seem nearly as intimidating as he would have if she hadn’t seen him sitting and sleeping and running away from his bag.

“Do you live in Jutland?” she asked.

“No, but my parents live in Skanderborg. The options for getting here are awful, aren’t they? It takes almost an entire night.”

“This is the first time I’ve made the trip,” she said as they sat down in the small shelter.

Jakob turned his face toward her in surprise. “Is that right? You’ve never been to Rosenholm before?”

Kirstine shook her head. Had she just said something stupid after all?

“Did you go to school abroad then?”

“No, only in Thy.”

The remark made him chuckle, and she laughed too, even though she hadn’t said it to be funny.

“Well, there you go,” he said, and he didn’t seem to think she was stupid, just that she’d told a joke.

They sat there without saying anything for a few minutes. The air was chilly and nipped at her cheeks. They hadn’t seen too many cloud-free skies this summer, but on this cold July morning there wasn’t a cloud in sight. She shivered in her thin summer jacket, regretting that she hadn’t worn more layers.

“Just a minute,” Jakob bent forward and unzipped his bag. “I think I have it with me.”

He handed her a wool scarf with a checkered pattern.

“What a summer,” he said, as he invited her to take the scarf with a nod. He was wearing a short, dark wool coat, even though it was, theoretically, the height of summer. She took the scarf and wrapped it carefully around her neck. It smelled faintly of woods and wood smoke. The bus, which had kept its motor running, had changed its Not in service out for a number and rolled slowly over to one of the other bus bays.

“You shouldn’t be nervous about today,” Jakob said, as he followed the bus with his eyes. “They’re really nice at Rosenholm. A little old-fashioned, maybe. Birgit, the headmistress, you know? She seems a bit stern, but she’s super fair. She’s helped me out a lot. And you really don’t need to worry about your age and all that,” he said, casting a quick glance her way so that the heat rose to her cheeks.

Embarrassing! Of course, he’d noticed that she was too old to still be in high school.

“Hey,” he said, as if he sensed her embarrassment, “they took me, right?” He winked at her, and she felt herself begin to smile. If she had dared, she would have asked which year he was in. But he was right, he seemed older than a typical student, even if he was in his final year.

The bus gave up on waiting for passengers and drove away empty.

“Pretty quiet, huh?” she asked, not actually expecting an answer.

“Quiet? It’s absolutely dead. Totally dead.” Jakob’s voice had taken on an apocalyptic tone, which again made her smile.

“It doesn’t really bother me, I’m used to it,” Kirstine said.

“You still live at home? In Thy or wherever it was?” he asked.

She nodded.

“What then, your parents are sitting at home, cheering you on from afar?”

“No, they don’t even know I’m here.”

“What? Huh,” Jakob said.

“It’s a little complicated. They’re pretty strange. It’s because . . . we—my family—we’re very Christian,” she stammered, blushing over the words. What was happening to her? Why was she sitting here and telling this to a complete stranger?

“Okay, shit, like some kind of cult or what?” Jakob asked, looking at her with concern.

“No,” Kirstine started to laugh. “Inner Mission, if you know what that is?”

“No, not at all. No one in my family has followed the Christian faith exactly. But . . . it must be a lot to deal with, right?” He laughed as if he couldn’t quite wrap his head around all the implications of what she’d just told him.

She shrugged. “Well, I never really thought about it when I was a kid.”

“Nah, of course not. Listen, you know, there used to be a vending machine that sold plastic cups of really, really awful coffee. Should we see if still works? That is—if can you even drink coffee when you’re from some scary cult up in Thy?”

Kirstine laughed and stood up to go with him. You have no idea.

July 7th 6:30 a.m.

Chamomile

Chamomile’s mother had, for once, gotten up before her. She could hear her mother rattling around out in the kitchen. She heard the sound of stirring, in at least one bowl, something falling, her mother cursing, and a pan spluttering on the gas burner. As long as she doesn’t set herself on fire in there.

Chamomile tiptoed from her room out to the bathroom. The floor was cold against her bare toes. It might be summer, but it was still cold inside the old house.

After showering, she wrapped a towel around herself and went back to her room. Judging from the noise, her mother was still busy with something in the kitchen, and now she could hear sounds coming from the living room too.

Chamomile opened the old wardrobe with the creaking door and looked inside. She didn’t want to look too fancy, but it was still a special day. A summer dress, maybe? It was summer, even if they hadn’t felt it much. She grabbed two hangers and went out to the living room.

“Mom, which one?”

Her mother stood in the living room, putting a bouquet of garden roses into a vase. She had gathered her red hair into a messy knot on top of her head and was wearing pajama pants, an oversized wool sweater, and an apron. The woodstove was lit, and tea lights stood on the little table set for two.

“Oh, this is nice. But aren’t you going a bit overboard?” Chamomile said.

“Not at all. Now just you wait, I’m making pancakes with loads of syrup. And wear the green dress, it’s such a nice cut for you.”

Chamomile shrugged and threw on the green dress.

“Look at you,” said her mother, zipping the dress up in the back. “What a figure you have. Classic hourglass, I tell you. Marilyn Monroe, go home!”

Chamomile rolled her eyes. What her mother called an hourglass figure was what the meanest of the girls in her old class had called fat. But if today went well, she didn’t need to worry about them anymore. She’d get a whole new set of classmates. Nice classmates, hopefully!

“Let me look at you,” said Chamomile’s mother, spinning her daughter a half-turn around. “You are so beautiful, my girl. Shall I braid your hair? Come and sit down. I’ve made you a special cup of tea. Perfect for today.” Her mother went out into the little kitchen and came back with a steaming cup the size of a small washbasin.

“Here you are. Lemon balm, which is good for restlessness and nerves, and sage, which counteracts indigestion and gas. On a day like this you’d rather not sit down and . . . pfft!” Her mother made a very true-to-nature fart sound with her mouth.

“Mom,” she groaned, but she couldn’t help laughing all the same.

“And then, of course, there’s lots and lots of chamomile. And honey, plenty of that too.”

“Then it can’t be too bad. Thanks, Mom.”

She let herself be pushed down into a chair as her mother brushed her red hair until it had almost dried in the heat from the woodstove. She enjoyed her mother’s firm yet gentle grip with the hairbrush. She had always brushed Chamomile’s hair like that. Every so often a creaking sound came from inside the woodstove, and the living room was delightfully scented with the woodsmoke and the various bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry.

“Are you doing a French braid?” she asked.

“Mmm,” answered her mother, concentrating. “Sit still.”

When the braid was finished, her mother brought in a towering heap of mismatched pancakes.

“Here, have them with the dandelion syrup.”

“Aren’t you having any?”

“Yes, but later. Just now I want to sit and gaze at my big girl. Where have the years gone? You’re all grown up.”

“What’s going on with you?” asked Chamomile, her mouth full of pancakes. “It’s not as though I’m moving out today. And, by the way, there’s no guarantee they’ll even want me.”

“Of course they will, Mile-Mouse,” said her mother, planting a kiss on her forehead. “I’ve never had the least bit of doubt that you have what it takes.”

“Thanks, but take it easy. You’re a little bit . . . a little much with things like this.”

“Much?”

“Yes, like when you threw a first menstruation party for me and invited all the girls in my class.”

“What?” Chamomile’s mother said, looking both surprised and offended.

“Ugh, Mom, stop. You remember.”

Of the many, many embarrassing experiences of Chamomile’s life to date, the menstruation party took the cake. Her mother had invited eight girls from her class to celebrate the fact that Chamomile had gotten her first period. She’d covered the floor of the living room with a thick rag rug because the table wasn’t big enough for everyone, and then she served red soda (unfortunate coloring), chocolate cake, and herbal tea, which was supposed to be good for bloating and menstrual cramps.

None of the other girls had gotten their periods yet and they sat quiet as mice on the rug, staring at Chamomile’s mother with large, round eyes. Her mother had worn a long sunshine-yellow dress with a fluttering skirt for the occasion. She gave a solemn speech about the moon’s phases and woman’s cycle before pulling out a drum and singing an Indian hymn in praise of woman and nature. Chamomile had truly believed she would die of embarrassment right there on the rug.

“The other parents called and complained afterward. My classmates weren’t allowed to come over anymore.”

Her mother threw her head back and laughed so hard her belly shook. “You know it was only one of the girls who couldn’t come over anymore. The one with the thin hair. It’s all because I’m just so proud of you,” her mother said.

“Yeah, well, we’ll have to see how it goes,” Chamomile said. “I really wish I could’ve prepared better. Can’t you just tell me a little bit about what will happen today?”

“Unfortunately, that is against the rules,” her mother said, clamping her lips together. “And anyway, things have probably changed a bit since I was there. Eat up, we’ll have to leave soon.”

Chamomile sighed deeply and got up to pack her bag. It was no use badgering her mother; it didn’t affect her anyway. The woman was stubborn as a mule.

“Here, put on my good cardigan, it’s cold outside. The one grandma knitted, with the silver buttons.”

She took the sweater. Chamomile’s mother was wearing a wool poncho over her sweater and had stuck her bare feet into a pair of green, glow-in-the-dark plastic clogs. “You’ve got your bag? Then we’re ready.”

The fastest route to the main road ran along the edge of the field and past the old burial mound, but that trip was best made in rubber boots, especially when it had rained as much as it had lately, so today they would go by the gravel road.

“Parents aren’t allowed to come, it said so in the letter,” Chamomile said.

“I know, darling, I’m just taking you down to the bus. Don’t you worry. I won’t do anything to embarrass you,” she said, winking as she tucked a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. There were streaks of gray in her mother’s red hair. It was true enough that time was passing.

They walked out through the kitchen door and, even though neither of them was particularly tall, they had to duck to keep from knocking into the top of the doorframe. It was an old stable door, and the lock didn’t work properly. “It doesn’t matter,” Chamomile’s mother always said, “after all, anyone who comes all the way out here has always been invited first.”

Chamomile stood a moment and let her eyes wander over the old half-timbered house where she’d lived her whole life. The thatch roof needed replacing. There were several bare patches where the straw had fallen out.

“Come on.” Chamomile’s mother stuck her arm through hers, and in that fashion they walked across the yard as an orange cat meowed at them reproachfully. “You’ll just have to wait, Mismis,” her mother called. “We have a bus to catch.”

They walked along the gravel road and turned onto the slightly larger paved road. It cut straight across the landscape so that it rose and fell with the rolling hills. The sun had yet to gain much strength, and in all the low points a mist hung over the road like a magic veil hiding mysterious secrets. From the road, they could see the large burial mound over which five mighty and ancient oak trees had reigned in safety from the hundreds of farmers that had plowed the field around the mound since they’d first sprouted.

Once they reached the main road, they waited at the edge. There was no official bus stop, but the driver always pulled over if he saw them standing there. As they waited, the sun crept farther up in the sky, heating the earth so that it steamed around them.

“Good luck today,” her mother said when the bus finally came. She squeezed Chamomile’s hands and suddenly looked serious. “Chamomile? Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Of course,” she said, giving her one last squeeze. “Take it easy, Mom, it’s just a school. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Her mother nodded and quickly dried her eyes as she attempted a smile, but, when Chamomile had found a seat on the bus and waved goodbye to the small, round lady in the glow-in-the-dark clogs, she got the sense that there was something important her mother had not told her about Rosenholm Academy.

July 7th 8:41 a.m.

Kirstine

Jakob breathed heavily; he must have been deeply asleep. Kirstine could feel his breath against her neck. The feeling filled her body with a dizzying lightness. She couldn’t possibly sleep. She sat with her face pressed against the glass, gazing out at the landscape. The sun shone on the waving fields, dotted with more burial mounds than she remembered ever having seen in all her childhood. The earth must be rich here.

They drank bad coffee and talked while they waited for the bus. Jakob had told her about his parents—he’d just been visiting them. She didn’t understand half of what he said, but she had just nodded and let him talk. There was something about their having had completely different expectations for him, that they didn’t support his choice, and it all had something to do with Rosenholm, though she did not understand how exactly. He’d spoken to her as if she was a completely normal person and not a weirdo. As if she was a grown-up and not little Kirstine who never understood anything.

That Kirstine was in the past now. She could feel it. This here was The New Kirstine. The girl who laughed out loud without being embarrassed. The girl who listened with interest and produced small, understanding comments along the way so you felt like entrusting her with all your worries. The girl who sat with a handsome young man’s head on her shoulder.

“Rosenholm,” said the driver, and Jakob sat up with a start and dragged a hand over his face.

They stepped out into the most delightful sunshine. It was still morning, but no longer cold, and Jakob stopped to take off his coat. A lark swooped high above them, trilling its notes.

“We only have to walk a little ways. Once we round that bend, you’ll be able to see the school,” Jakob said, pointing.

Rosenholm—it sounded fancy, and yet she didn’t really know what she’d expected. Not this. Rosenholm was practically a castle. A small white castle with ancient red tiles on the roof, four small towers—one in each corner—and a small suspension bridge leading over a moat. A long avenue of old, knotted chestnut trees led up to the school, but first you had to walk through a large park filled with, among other shrubs and trees, mighty rhododendrons, tall silver poplars, an ancient magnolia tree, and a gigantic copper beech.

“Oh wow,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s nice, right?” Jakob smiled, looking as proud as if he had built it himself.

They walked over the small wooden bridge and the gravel crunched under their feet as they approached the gate into the inner courtyard. An impressively large, antique-pink climbing rose grew up the wall in front of them, sprinkling its petals over the courtyard’s cobblestones. A clock on the wall above them said it was almost nine.

“I wasn’t supposed to get here until ten,” she said. “Maybe I should just wait out here.”

“No, come on. I’ll introduce you to Birgit and show you around a bit.” He opened a large, ancient door into a great hall where a wide staircase led further up. Inside the hall it seemed very dark, especially after they’d walked through the sun-filled park. There were tall wooden panels along the walls and up under the ceiling were four words written in large, cursive letters. Earth, Growth, Blood, Death, she read.

“I can even put in a good word for you,” Jakob smiled, winking as if they had concocted some sinister plan together.

“Jakob Engholm!”

Kirstine flinched at the sound of the sharp voice that echoed in the great hall. At the top of the staircase stood a tall woman with short, gray hair and distinctive black glasses.

“Birgit, good morning, here’s someone you have to meet,” Jakob said, taking the stairs two steps at a time. “This is Kirstine,” he said, gesturing toward her as she lagged behind.

The headmistress didn’t even glance in her direction but stared fixedly at Jakob.

“What’s going on? Teachers are to have absolutely no contact with prospective students except as part of the official program.”

“But . . . what? Aren’t you here for a job interview?” Jakob stared at her in confusion.

Job interview? No, he had it all wrong. Kirstine wanted to say something, but the severe-looking woman made the words stick in her throat. Her head just shook faintly from side to side.

“We have no job interviews today,” the headmistress said. “We are, however, holding an informational meeting for prospective students, and you would know that if you’d bothered to empty your faculty mailbox or take part in the meetings with the rest of the faculty.”

She turned away from Jakob and looked at Kirstine. “Am I correct in assuming that you received a letter about an informational meeting?”

She nodded.

“Oh, shit, that’s . . . why didn’t you say so?” Jakob said.

Kirstine just shook her head again. Jakob had actually believed she was here for an interview? And he was a teacher?

“I must have misunderstood, my apologies,” mumbled Jakob, avoiding Kirstine’s eyes. “Good luck today,” he added, and then he turned away without another word.

The headmistress sighed disapprovingly before turning back to Kirstine. “You’d better wait outside,” she said. “Once the others have arrived, you’ll all be shown into the room where the meeting will be held.”

Kirstine nodded and walked down the stairs like a guest who had been turned away at the door. It wasn’t until she was standing in the small, sunny courtyard that she realized she still had Jakob’s scarf around her neck. So much for The New Kirstine.

July 7th 9:47 a.m.

Malou

Towers, spire, a goddamned moat . . .

As soon as Malou saw Rosenholm, she was sure of two things. The first was that it looked like the sort of place that was absolutely not tuition-free—it oozed wealth and power. And the second was that, if it was against-all-odds free to attend, then she would do everything in her power to get in. This was most certainly a place for the elite.

She tightened her high ponytail and smoothed the blond hair with her hand before walking the last stretch down to the school. She preferred to not walk with anyone else and made an effort to lag behind the girls who’d arrived on the same bus, but it wasn’t easy. The girl in front of her slowly ambled along as if she had all the time in the world. She was tall and slender and wearing a simple white oxford with the sleeves pushed up to reveal her golden arms. Her hair was dark and cut short and she wore leather sandals and had a leather bag over her shoulder. The whole ensemble was strikingly simple, but she was sure the shirt alone cost more than Malou’s entire outfit put together.

Malou pulled her top down a bit; the white fabric against her tanned skin looked good. The sun was shining today for a change, and she already felt hot in her blazer. Yesterday she’d spent the whole evening removing all the labels so no one would ever guess it came from H&M.

She frowned. There was sure to be a brand-new MacBook in the girl’s bag. The dark-haired girl looked like someone who belonged at an elite boarding school. The opposite of Malou. But were her grades good? Not too many people had grades as good as Malou’s. Girls like her, who had never learned to fight for anything, got everything handed to them. Malou ate those sorts of girls for breakfast.

She sighed impatiently and overtook the dark-haired girl before walking over the moat and into the small, shaded courtyard. There was a large group. Only girls. Aren’t there any boys at this school?

At that moment, the clock on the opposite wall struck ten and a large door opened. A woman in her fifties stepped out. Her hair was short and steel-gray, she was dressed all in black, and her large glasses created a sharp border around her eyes. Everyone turned toward her, and the scattered murmuring among the girls was silenced.

“Welcome to Rosenholm,” the woman said, her voice echoing around the courtyard. “I am the headmistress. My name is Birgit Lund. On behalf of the faculty, I bid you all welcome. We’ll begin in the school’s great hall.”

The great hall really was