camille Dupont watched the rain trickle down the stones windows of her domitory,tracing rivulets as they raced toward the ledge.from her window , she could the wrought iron gates of saint-valentin Academy the elite boarding school nestled in the heart of provence. the school looked more like a chateau than a place of learning,with ivy -covered walls and bells tower that chimed every hour. camille wasn't like the other girls.while the wore designers perfume and whisper in luxury brand lip gloss,camille preferred ink stained fingers and the smell of old books. she had come to saint-valentin on a scholarship.her mother ran a flower shop in marseille. her father-well, he had left before she learn to say his name.
she adjusted her blazers, stitched three times at the sleeves to make to make it fit, and grabbed her note book. today was literature class,and monsieur beaulieu had promise to discuss baudelaire
as she crossed the corridor, laughter rang out near the staircase.camille paused
there he was. Lucien leclerc.he stood with one hand in is pocket.tossing a gold pen in his fingers like he owned the air around him.his friend circled him like statelites , sons of diplomats, heirs to vineyards,one even rumord to be royalty.
lucien's gaze swept over her, disinterested.
or she thought.
"Dupont," he said smothly, like tasitng a wine."your note book's falling apart did the ink rebel against its pages?"
she didn't stop."Better ink that rebels than a pen that buys its way into poems
he blinked. His friends froze.
camille vanished down the hall, heart beat thudding like cathedral bells.she had not mean't to say out loud.But some thing about him the way he spoke as if the world bent to his voice made her rebel.
she didn't yet that he would hear her words again, days later,and smile to himself.
Not because she was wrong
But because she was the first to ever say it.
