Helena

Helena forced herself to breathe. She'd held her breath all the way to the head of the train. The quarrel with that boor—who spoke the most horrible English she'd ever heard—was nothing compared to the distress of opening her eyes and finding him standing in front of her.

It had been as though her nightmare had followed her into reality to continue tormenting her.

Tears burned her eyes, nearly driving her mad. She was brave, when awake. If she must cry, there were better reasons, considering everything her mother was going through.

She realised the train was slowing down and hurried to get her luggage together. She was certain she would never see him again once she got off the train in Saint Michel de la Croix.

Only the people who lived in the town and the castle's students got off in Saint Michel and that jerk didn't belong to either category.

He greeted me in Italian. He can't be one of the new students. She wrung her hands in anguish while glancing nervously out the window, impatient to see the station. He's too tall to be a fresher, she decided, while the screech of the brakes expanded through the air.

She started pushing down on the door handle well before the train came to a full stop. She got off hastily and pulled down her old suitcase without caring if it bounced on the ground, then dragged it to the nearest bench and sat down. She didn't want to look up. Something violent and irrational prevented her from looking at the train.

Sure, she was probably letting her nightmares influence her, but she didn't want to risk seeing him or hearing his voice again.

I am Marco.

She shivered remembering the exact sound, so firm and deep, so warm and terrible.

Only when she heard the train leaving did she lift her eyes and see she was not alone.

A tall boy with curly hair stood on the platform. He wore a short blue coat, expensive-looking jeans and a pair of canvas shoes with soles so white they'd probably never touched the ground before. A large designer suitcase rested at his feet. He had his back to her but there was no need for him to turn; Helena recognised him.

Thank goodness her fear was now gone but her annoyance and dislike of him persisted. Odd: she very rarely got into arguments and couldn't recall ever having held a grudge against anyone.

Anyhow, the boy called Marco was far away and seemed to be just as determined to ignore her as she was him.

Minutes went by and Helena began to wonder how long it would be before they came from the castle to pick her up. Evening had begun to settle. She shivered and wrapped her coat tighter.

Marco was still in the same position, his back turned to her. Even that was inexplicably irritating.

She decided to collect her things and move to the front of the station. That way she could get in the car more quickly, whenever it arrived.

Once she reached the front of the building, she dropped her suitcase and rubbed her hands together. Even though it was the thirty-first of August, the evening air was already biting. For a while, she stared down the deserted road. Then, suddenly, a car rounded a bend and the headlights hit her full on. She was overjoyed when she recognised the radiator grill shaped like a Greek temple–typical of a Rolls Royce. Soon the vintage car, a 1939 Wraith, pulled up in the parking lot and the driver's door opened. When a lanky boy wearing an old-fashioned trench coat got out, his bushy hair flying off in all directions, Helena wanted to scream with joy. She didn't even wait for the car door to close before embracing him tightly.

"Deacon! Deacon! Deacon!"

"Yup. I can confirm that's my name."

"How good it is to see you!"

"Helena! Sorry to mention it, but you're not lettin' me breathe."

She let go a little and Deacon took a deep breath. "Another bit and you'd have done me in!" He took a step back. "Wow! You've become a real beauty!"

"You, too! You look taller! And your hair is..." She glanced upward and her smile cracked as she struggled to find the word. "Longer."

"Very diplomatic," he sighed, ruffling the shapeless mass on his head. "But I'm not offended." He brought his hands to his waist. "I've even lost weight!"

"That's impossible. You were already so skinny!"

"Nonetheless, five kilos less and six centimetres more," he sighed. "Anyhow, I'm ready for another year in hell."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" She smiled encouragingly.

"Actually, another passenger. We're stuck with him."

Helena's smile faded. "Another? Who?"

"A new kid." A light flashed in his eyes, then he lowered his voice. "Maybe it's that guy over there starin' at us."

Helena turned abruptly and spotted Marco not far away. He was staring at them. Before Helena could say anything, Deacon set off in his direction.

The boy with the crazy black hair, having hugged the girl from the train, was now coming towards him. He didn't appear to want to pick a fight; in fact, he was smiling. When the kid got closer, Marco realised that the expression on the newcomer's face had a strange effect on him, evoking a sense of familiarity, as though they'd already met.

"Are you Mr. Cinquedraghi?" he asked with a markedly Irish accent. The sound of his voice also added to that bizarre sense of familiarity, so much that Marco's first instinct was to stretch out his hand and declare that Mr. Cinquedraghi was his father. After all, the Irish boy couldn't be any older than he was.

However, knowing this kid must be his driver—and that certain distances had to be maintained—took precedence over all other considerations. Not to mention that having a social advantage over the boyfriend of the 'mad girl from the train' was far too tempting.

"Yes, I am," he declared. "And you are my driver?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I presume you are my driver," he said more clearly.

"I'm Deacon Emrys. I am to take you to the castle, sir." He walked towards the car before him.

"You have forgot something, Deacon Emrys," Marco said, stopping him. Deacon opened his blue eyes wide and Marco pointed to his suitcase. "You not expect me to carry it?"

Deacon smiled without hesitation. "Of course, sir! How forgetful of me! I'm sorry, I'd never dream of havin' you carry your own suitcase."

Marco watched the thin and lanky boy turn red trying to drag the suitcase, pick it up and place it in the boot. All this was apparently a huge effort. However, Marco didn't do anything to help. Instead, he stood next to the car waiting for the boy to open the door for him. Deacon hurried to please him.

As he sat down, the 'mad girl from the train' got in the front passenger's seat. A moment later, Deacon took his place behind the steering wheel and turned to her. "Buckle up, Helena. We'll be at the castle in less than ten minutes, Mr. Cinquedraghi," he announced. He hid his shortness of breath behind an almost grotesque joviality.

"There is no hurry," answered Marco, seeking the girl's eyes in the rear-view mirror. "I want to enjoy this."