Act 2, Scene 1
Danger Strikes at Burton Abbey
Once again, Burton Abbey Boarding school is proved a dangerous place for the vulnerable students as yet another threat is sent their way with only a matter of time before the nameless killer strikes again.
By Nora Takahashi
X X X
My eyes scanned through Nora's new article in the Burton Abbey Gazette with my face as the front page. When Beatrix handed me the paper this morning, I barely recognised myself. I was pale, far paler than usual, with eyes so wide that they bugged from my head. I looked troubled, a far cry from what I'd wanted people to see me as.
At that moment, I'd lost it all. I was already on edge from the phone call, then more frustrated than normal because of Vincent and finally, that led to the breakdown. Though I wasn't awake, I was told that after I'd dropped from exhaustion, the party turned to chaos. Julien had carried me back to my room, knowing that the visions had caused the passing out. Apparently, the other students had thought that maybe had I dropped dead.
Seeing me here, at Elijah's memorial practice in the school theatre, had shocked a few students. They were further unnerved to see the Burton Abbey Gazette in front of me, reading the article about the threat made against my own life. I'd spent my weekend cooped up in my dorm room with Beatrix as we talked about her crush on Lola Abernathy, listened to Fleetwood Mac and spied on people through the window. Honestly, I didn't remember half of it, so drunk on vodka and desperation that I almost forgot about everything that was going on outside.
Being missing for those two days had most definitely sparked rumours among my peers, further pushing the theory that I'd been poisoned, to a truth.
"Hey, you're okay," a relieved voice spoke from behind me.
My heart picked up as I turned, before falling in disappointment to see Francis. I'd unconsciously been searching for Khaleel all day after going a whole weekend without hearing from him at all. I wasn't sure why he was ignoring me again but it was a habit of his to run away from his problems. I half wanted to actually poison myself to spite him but knew it was unethical.
"Yeah, I'm good," I answered distractedly.
Francis continued to stand behind me, running his hand through his hair as though waiting for something. I shook my head and forced myself to assess him. I'd been so distracted all weekend that I wondered how many things had passed me unnoticed while too stuck in my own head to pay attention.
While looking Francis over, it occurred to me how fascinated I was with how quickly he could switch from this fantastically awkward boy to the cunning evil he played on stage. In character, he was someone you couldn't rip your eyes away from. He held himself tall and proud, his voice booming and cut sharp. Now, though, he was softer and more in his head than I'd ever been. Not making eye contact and a neck that was far too stiff.
I felt bad for him; the only time I found Francis Zhao interesting was when he played a character.
"Charlotte." I knew it was D'Angelo who'd called out to me because no one else said my name quite the same. It was between a whine, a demand and a question. "Where is your sheet music?"
"Wherever you put it," I dismissed, turning back to the newspaper.
He huffed. "You mean to tell me that the memorial is in four days and you still haven't practised the piece?"
"If you'd given me the piece, I might have practised," I retorted with a patronising smile that he waved off.
D'Angelo began to fume, with puffed out cheeks reddening from anger and a hand that shook back and forth as he pointed behind me. "Francis. You still haven't given her the sheet music?!"
Francis spluttered. His own cheeks turning rosy. "They're... uh- they're in my room."
"What good will they be in your room-"
I cut D'Angelo off as I stood.
"We'll go get it now, it's fine." Then, I left the Burton Abbey Gazette on the piano stool and pulled Francis by his arm in the direction of the exit. I walked him to the left-wing of Burton Abbey and to the boys' dormitories, though the sight made me feel sick after the party, and held my head high. I felt bad for Francis, so terribly bad that it seemed even D'Angelo prefered his on-stage presence over him.
Francis' room was on the second floor and as it was after school on a Monday, the corridors were full of students putting their books back to their rooms and changing out of their uniforms. We passed them all quietly, a few giving me a double-take at the sight that I was still even breathing. Francis, noticing my discomfort, quickened our pace and pushed me gently into his room.
There was only one bed in his dorm, perfectly made and pushed up against the wall in the corner. The walls were bare except for a calendar hung up beside the window. His desk was completely clean too, not a single book or pen out of place.
Francis instantly went to the drawers connected to his desk and revealed all the papers he'd filed and piled tidily together. He thumbed through a few pages before pulling out the sheet music.
"I've become Hugo's personal assistant for the week," he told me bitterly while handing over all the music.
"Why?" I raised an eyebrow.
Francis shrugged and placed all of his papers back in order. "Mr Donahue was meant to do all this but he hasn't been the same since all these horrible killings started." The desk was under the window, providing a lovely view of the grey clouds outside.
I smiled at his calendar, bought from a bird charity where every month displayed another photograph of a bird.
"Oh, dear, that's embarrassing," he laughed uncomfortably as red flushed his cheeks. "My grandmother gets me one every year and I haven't the heart to throw it away."
After looking through all the months, I stepped back with a flicker of amusement in my eyes that I tried to tame.
"Well, I mean. It's not as if I don't like birds, though! I do love birds," he spluttered. "I really do, honest. Actually, my room has the best view of them."
He pointed outside his window to a great tree that stood not that far away. Its trunk was thick and branches reaching further than I could see. "At the very top is a nest. Every morning, I wake up early just to see them. It...uh, it reminds me of home."
I never missed home - I hated it there. But, I sympathised with Francis and his struggle.
"So, you like nature?" I asked quietly, not wanting to sit around and chat but also having nothing else to do to distract myself with.
"Yes! I love nature. When I was little, my mother would take me to the meadow to pick flowers. Then, when we got home she'd show me how to press them into books so that I could keep their beauty forever at my fingertips. I miss it. There aren't a lot of flowers around here - pretty ones, that is."
I ran a hand through my hair and breathed deeply. "Don't you ever feel bad for picking the flowers from the ground? You know, since it's sort of killing them?"
"Sometimes death is the only way to preserve beauty."
I narrowed my eyes and took a step back.
"I meant with nature, Charlie. With the flowers, we're talking about flowers."
I pulled out Francis' desk chair and fell into the comfort. From the bouncy plush, I assumed it was a new addition to his room. I gazed out the window and Francis pushed open the glass so that I could hear the rustle of the wind from outside. His gaze was eager, practically halfway out the window to just catch sight of something.
"Do you ever wish that you could play something other than the villain?" I wondered.
He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and thought about it for a second. "I suppose it would be nice to be the hero for once, right? To be the Romeo, or maybe even Banquo or something. It would be nice..."
The song of a bird echoed somewhere far away, the chatter from students as they sauntered around the campus and the fresh breeze all complimented my senses. A group of black and white magpies bounced along the branch of a tree and I saw Francis lean into the window to get a better look, like a child with wide eyes.
I resisted the urge to salute the little birds like my superstitious grandmother had always taught me as a child but instead muttered the rhyme to myself.
One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy.
Francis cleared his throat and turned to me with a hopeful smile. "How long have you played the piano for?"
"Ever since I can remember?" I shrugged.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between as he bent down to get eye level with me.
"Were, uh- were you and Elijah ever a thing?"
"No."
He raised his eyebrows at me, unconvinced.
"I'm being serious," I urged. "It wasn't like that with us."
I wasn't sure why I was defending myself in front of Francis or why he even cared but I had to get my emotions in check now before it was too late. After the mannequin thing, I couldn't trust any window, or door, or person. Francis leaned in closer until I could feel his breath as it fanned across my cheeks.
Right now, so close, he didn't look like Francis Zhao anymore. He looked like the cruel and wickedly handsome villains he played in the theatre. Crouched down in front of me, proving that he had the upper hand. His whole body exuviated confidence and power, and I hated it.
I hated being looked down upon and even if his eyes didn't mean to, they intimidated me. They were sharp, as though waiting for an answer at every moment to questions I wasn't even sure of. His adam's apple bobbed once and then he was closer than I liked.
I placed my hands to his chest and gently pushed away when his eyes flickered to my lips.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, grabbing the sheet music. "I can't."
He stood back to his full height and nodded wordlessly. Now from a distance, Francis looked like he did every day. Like he did in our photography lessons, or during the lunch breaks between rehearsal days when he ate countless carrot sticks. He looked the same as he did yesterday, and the day before and the day before that. The Francis who nervously showed up on the first day of first year and shocked us all by performing on the stage as though he'd written the script himself. Even if his voice was still shockingly high back then, and his limbs too terribly long for him to hold himself up; he had talent.
I backed away from that talent with an apologetic look and when I glanced back to the window, there was only one magpie.