Chapter Text
St. Dominic’s was a palace built on blood and money, veiled in gold. To the untrained eye, it shimmered with prestige. A fortress with high towers, ancient glass windows, polished floors, and uniforms pressed to perfection. All of it built on the labour of others. On quiet suffering, silent deals, and the desperate calculations of children pretending to be kings.
Here, power was seized, held tightly with sharpened smiles and razor-edged rules. You rose through games. Or you survived through violence. If neither you were crushed.
Riri Timurov understood this better than most.
She stood at the far end of the council chamber, where the artificial light of the ranking boards stopped just short of her boots. Even with the glow of the long table and the hum of controlled tension between student council members, Riri remained half in shadow -an echo of her sister more than a presence. Her uniform, as always, was perfect. Her mask, matte black and seamless, concealed everything below her eyes. Eyes that rarely blinked. Eyes that rarely softened.
She and her sister had arrived first. They always did. It was easier to control a room if you were already inside when the chaos began.
And the chaos, as usual, arrived in the form of Dori.
“Okay,” Dori declared as she burst into the room with her usual theatrical swirl of manic energy, “What morning crisis do we get to fix today?”
She tossed her bag somewhere between a luxury chair and the floor, grabbed a student behaviour report from the top of the stack, glanced over it with dramatic disinterest, then slapped it back on the table.
“Let me guess. Someone tried to blackmail one of ours. Again. God, at least be original.”
Without waiting for a reply, she reached and pulled out a thin paperback from the school’s curated library list, and with a theatrical sigh drove her ornate knife through its spine.
Across the room, Kira remained unbothered. Her voice, when she spoke, cut through the theatrical air with surgical calm.
“The houses are fracturing,” Kira said, gesturing to the pile of folders in the centre of the table. “Spade and Club are locked in a dozen open disputes over the last games. Heart House’s debts have spiraled out of control. And we have multiple reports of Diamond students refusing to follow the standard procedures for house pet regulation. Discipline is slipping.”
“And what’s the solution?” Suki asked, yawning like he hadn’t just dropped a few thousands at a table last night. His hair was perfect as always with his clothing perfectly styled ready for whatever photo op the morning might bring. With some slight interest in something to potentially post on social media, he continues, “Another speech about unity?”
“No,” said Mary Davis.
Riri’s gaze flicked toward her immediately. It had an excuse now. Mary’s voice always carried like it knew exactly where it belonged. Even when Riri didn’t want to look, she found herself listening.
Mary sat with perfect posture, her tailored blazer immaculately styled with the rest of her outfit. Her heart house pin gleamed like everything else about her. She looked like someone who’d had to earn every inch of space she took up, and who never let anyone forget it or be dismissed again.
“We don’t lecture them,” Mary continued, tone smooth but firm. “We give them something they can participate in. Make them feel seen. Let them talk, and we learn something valuable in return.”
“And we do that how?” Kira asked, arching a brow.
“I was going through some archived club proposals,” Mary said, “and with the right framing, we could repurpose the writing club’s inter-house correspondence project.”
“Does that club even exist anymore?” Dori interjected with her usual gleeful malice. And right on cue, she reached again for whatever thin paperback was in reach, flipped it open, and made a dramatic show of slicing through it.
God, at least be original. Does she have any other tricks other than that?
Mary continues like Dori and her interruptions didn’t exist, “Letters. Anonymous letters. Pair students from different houses, strip out names, status, even year. At least one new letter every few days. Make it sound like a gesture of goodwill—something to ease inter-house tensions. People want to feel heard. Give them a pen, and they’ll write their hearts out,” Now looking directly at Kira, “And we can learn a lot from what they spill.”
“And we sell it as what?” Chad asked, looking past his phone. “An emotional support project?”
Mary tilted her head. “Why not? Students want to feel like someone is listening. If they think it’s about connection and expression, they’ll give us everything. Voluntarily.”
Riri wasn’t listening because she cared about the project.
But something in the steadiness of Mary’s voice held her still.
She didn’t stare. Not exactly. But she noticed the way Mary’s nails pressed lightly into the wood of the table like she needed something solid to anchor herself. The rush of adrenaline of finally being heard.
Riri wondered what that felt like.
Her thoughts snapped sharply back as Kira’s voice cut through the room again. It was the smallest shift-the tilt of her sister’s head, the narrowing of her eyes-that caught Riri’s full attention. She blinked once, fully present, every muscle tensing in quiet readiness.
A flicker of something passed through Kira’s expression; interest, maybe. Or amusement. It was impossible to tell to everyone but Riri.
"We’ll trial it,” she said, final as a guillotine. “Until this term ends. Matched by ID, randomized by house. No names. Letters delivered through the Writing Club’s drop box. Mandatory participation.”
A beat. Intentional silence.
Kira spoke again. “Riri will manage the assignments. IDs. Sorting. Filtering.”
She looked toward her sister without speaking. The question was unspoken but understood.
Riri nodded once.
It was done.
The project was approved.
Later, after the others had filed out and the room had dimmed, Kira remained. So did Riri.
Kira sat at the long table, idly sorting the prototype ID cards for the letter exchange each a different house colour: Red for Heart, black for Spade, blue for Diamond, green for Club. She held one between two fingers, letting it catch the light.
"You think it’ll work?"
Riri didn’t answer. Not verbally. But she stepped forward. Two inches closer. Always the precise distance. Not too near. Not too far. The way Kira preferred it.
"Feels wrong," Kira murmured. "Rifling through words meant to be private. But it’s their fault, really if they don’t know. Passing letters through school channels like we’re not watching. Idiots."
There was a pause.
"Remember when we used to write notes?" Kira added. "Before we figured out how to whisper without being caught."
Riri’s hand curled slightly at her side.
Yes.
She remembered.
She remembered being seven and silent, already nearly invisible in the household. The halls too big. The walls too thin. Their father’s voice echoing through every surface. The rules were unspoken but unbreakable, speak only when told, and never when stepmother screamed.
Kira had been older and terrifying and brilliant. The first time she slid a note under Riri’s door, it was on the back of a torn receipt. The words in crooked handwriting in all caps.
“YOU AWAKE?”
Riri hadn’t known how to answer. She wasn’t allowed anything, even a pen, without permission.
But the next morning, she left a pressed flower in return. Hydrangeas, stolen from the courtyard garden.
That had been the start.
No words. Then small ones. Short ones. Then questions.
“DID YOU HEAR HIM?”
“MY MOTHER’S OKAY.”
“DON’T COME DOWNSTAIRS.”
“WHERE DID HE TAKE YOU?”
It had become a code between them, notes slipped through cracks, taped under drawers, hidden in books. They communicated across silence with crooked letters. They spoke through symbols. Pressed flowers. Pencil sketches. Sometimes even copied lines from poetry collections. Everything designed to disappear. Everything written to be burned.
She remembered reading them by candlelight under her blanket, heart pounding. Always ready to destroy the evidence. Always hoping Kira would look at her in the hallway the next day. An acknowledgment. Just once.
It was dangerous.
But it was the only way to be sisters.
And when the world got too loud, when their father’s wrath swallowed every room in the house, the notes were life rafts.
They didn’t plan escapes.
They didn’t dream.
They simply reminded each other: You’re still here. I’m still here. We’re surviving.
“I stopped because we didn’t need to anymore,” Kira said softly. “Because I trusted you. And you trusted me.”
Riri stayed still.
“But they should know better,” Kira added. “Maybe that’s the difference. We were raised smarter. They weren’t.”
Riri didn’t agree. But she didn’t contradict her either.
The silence between them wasn’t absence. It was the weight of years of memories.
That night, Riri returned to her dorm in the quiet darkness, as always.
No one noticed her slip away from the school’s walkways, her movements precise and soundless. A habit. A survival instinct. The kind of practised silence you learned when raised in a house where sound could mean danger. The kind you cultivated until it became indistinguishable from who you were.
She hadn’t spoken once during her classes. Not a word at dinner. She left halfway through the meal, plate untouched and never with food, the weight of her mask too heavy after the long, exhausting performance of being an unspoken force to keep order.
Now, her mask rested neatly on the wall above her desk, joining the others in their solemn row. A personal ritual. She didn’t name them, didn’t decorate them, but each had subtle variations: angles, pattern, colour, size. The current one was lighter. Easier to forget she was wearing. A dangerous thing, forgetting.
The room was clean, almost unnaturally so. It was both spartan and curated. The provided bed, dresser, desk, and bookcase were all kept in order with military precision, but the shelves were full.
Classics worn thin at the spines. Gothic literature in careful stacks. And hidden, discreetly, between two volumes of Dostoevsky and Shelley—sapphic novels, thin and well-read.
Then there were the plants.
A small oasis of color broke the monochrome strict harmony of the room.
Scattered around her shelves, desk, and windowsill were pots in different stages of growth. A vining monstera, reaching slowly down the side of her desk. Lavender, in a handmade glazed pot. A well cared for collection of Madonna lilies. A resilient snake plant. A half-dead cactus she’d adopted from the library bin, struggling still. They didn’t ask anything of her but water and light. No questions except the one asking if she would offer her help in their survival.
She stepped out of her boots, one at a time, placing them beside her desk, and then moved toward the nearest plant, kneeling.
She didn’t switch on the overhead light. Instead, she reached for the small desk lamp, turning the dial low, just enough to cast a soft white across the leaves and soil.
The lavender was thirsty. She could tell by the slight droop of the leaves, the way the stem bowed. She picked up the small ceramic watering can and tilted it carefully.
In the silence, she communicated in the wordless way she always had. With hands. With attention. She pressed one finger gently into the soil, testing. Not dry, but not soaked. Good. Re-centering the pot, she rotated the plant a quarter turn so the light would catch evenly in the morning.
She whispered to the plants sometimes. A remnant of childhood - Kira once joked about it, before they’d gotten too old for soft things. Before jokes became tools to use. Riri didn’t whisper now. But she stayed close a while longer, fingers brushing the edge of a leaf, breathing slow; watching the way the monstera shifted slightly in the draft.
It was almost an hour later when she returned to her desk.
The envelope was already waiting.
She didn’t need to read it again. She’d memorized the generic contents the moment the student council aides began distributing them.
HOUSE: HEART
ID: #*****
That was all it said. No rank or gender. Just a House and a number. A blank identity.
She traced the edge of the paper with the tip of her finger, breath shallow, and not just from the weight of the day. There was something familiar in the format. Something old. The distance. The anonymity. The not knowing.
It reminded her of the past.
Her fingers hovered over the letter. She reached for a pen.
No candles. No fountain pens. Just the Timurov custom stationery. The pen was heavy and absurdly ornate, inked with the family crest like she was some ridiculous diplomat.
She stared at the page.
What did people even say?
How did people begin things like this?
The first draft was too stiff:
“I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing as part of the House Correspondence Initiative, and will strive to participate accordingly...”
She scrapped it before she even got to the second line.
The second was too revealing:
“I don’t know who you are, but it feels strange that I’m writing to someone in Heart House. I hope you are not a house pet. I know how they are treated. I’ve seen it...”
No. Too much. Too soon.
The third was cold, almost mechanical:
“Greetings. As this correspondence is mandatory, I will fulfill my part with efficiency...”
She ripped that one into small pieces.
None of these were right.
She stood, pacing. Then paused and walked back to the monstera, fingers brushing the top leaf again. It had grown. That little split in the center wasn’t there last week. It was growing, even in this place.
She sat again. This time, she didn’t overthink it. The first line flowed freely.
Dear student from Heart House,
This is, as I understand it, the beginning of our assigned correspondence.
I don’t expect you to share anything you don’t want to. I don’t expect anything at all, but I will respond sincerely, should you choose to write back in kind.
I’ve never written to a stranger before—not like this, anyway.
Since we are strangers, perhaps it’s easiest to begin without pretense. Writing to someone without knowing their face feels less complicated than most things I’m asked to do.
If you’d like to share what your House is like, or anything else, you’re welcome to. I don’t often speak freely. I’m not sure I know how people normally do that.
But I’ll try.
Yours,
Student from Spade House
She read it twice. Her jaw clenched once. She almost added a line about plants but thought better of it.
She folded the page carefully, slid it into the envelope, and pressed the adhesive seal with the weight of her palm.
Then she sat back in the chair, gaze tilted up.
The ceiling offered no answers. But for the first time in weeks, her chest didn’t feel like a locked room. Not peace, exactly. Not relief. Just the smallest looseness in her ribs.
She followed her nightly ritual. Washed. Changed. Untied her hair. Slid under the covers, and curled her fingers beneath the pillow like a quiet touch. The masks on the wall kept their silent watch.
For the first time in weeks, her shoulders unknotted slightly. She didn’t sleep well. But she slept.
And that was a start.