I REMEMBERED that day clearly.

The long, daunting halls closing in around us, endless rows of lockers everywhere I looked. Children in their classes with each door we passed, posters, paintings, signs of all things new.

I hadn't chosen to start again at another school, but the move was what my mother had wanted, away from London, away from the bright, bold lights and bustling pavements.

She was holding my hand, talking with the headteacher (yes, yes, and how challenging is mathematics here? Right, well. Okay. We are looking for Luna to achieve high standards. Top grades. Top sets. Oxford. Cambridge. Our goals) her fingers squeezing my own, a firm grip to ensure I didn't wander away.

Mum was always like that. From anyone else's perspective, they probably would have smiled at the image of a mother and daughter holding hands.

But for us it was different.

The headteacher had taken us through the music department to get to the assembly hall – a path that he ensured was a shortcut. And as we walked, I listened.

Soft sounds of the keys wandered into my ears.

I had heard the piano before, of course, like anyone. But this time it was being played by someone in the process of learning. The loose, oddly-strung together melody was slowly forming between every mistake. Each stumble was ignored, each note held on for too long was repeated again, but at the right length. And although it didn't particularly sound like the tune it was supposed to be, I stopped when we reached the door where the lesson was taking place, just to press my hands against the cold glass of the door and watch, where the teacher looked up next to the child playing and smiled.

"Luna," My mother had said, trying to drag me further as I stood firm on the ground. "Luna, let's not distract the child. Take your hands off the glass."

"I want to play."

"Play what?"

"That, Mum." The song began again, this time, with less mistakes. Let It Be – The Beatles. "I want to play the piano."

♦ ♦ ♦

The practise rooms were full up.

Other students had already claimed their spots, the clashing of different instruments shouting back at me as I stood with my piano books in hand. It was certainly a change from my old school, back when I was the only one who used the piano. Day in, day out, it would be there, waiting whenever I felt the urge to play: a slightly decaying off-tune piano on its last legs, the one instrument that none of the teachers could be bothered to look after.

At Oakham...well, it was a race to get to the ones they had. Whoever lost would have to wait it out, or you had to face having to come back again in the morning. And as a self-proclaimed morning-person protester, that was not something I wanted to do.

I am not sacrificing the one lie in I have this week, I thought to myself stubbornly. I wasn't put on this world to waste such a heavenly gift. Guess it's either sitting on my ass and waiting, or never at all.

Huffing, I swivelled around on my heels and turned away, scanning my surroundings for somewhere to wait.

To my left, I saw that the door to the back of the music building was wide open, displaying grass that looked as if it hadn't been cut in days. That would do. There was something about the openness of it all that I needed. Most of the time I felt as if Oakham was too...put together, almost. So pristine and immaculate. Not to mention that there was nobody there, probably because we weren't supposed to go that way; it didn't lead off to anything.

Stepping out and feeling the long grass brush against my shins, I wandered into the small garden, the occasional branch or thistle cracking under the pressure of my feet. In the distance, the sounds of conversations blew with the wind, shouts and laughs from other students walking between lectures.

It was just enough for me to breathe properly again.

As I reached the end of the garden, where a metal fencing stared back at me, I turned back to look at the building now in front. Next to the door that I had gone out of, I saw another door and a window, the room it was displaying dark and unused.

I moved closer, curious.

The door was open, to my surprise, but as I stepped inside, the room looked as if nobody had entered it for a long time.

And there, appearing well-played and once loved, was a piano, scatterings of different classical pieces around it in a halo, tunes that I recognised and had myself.

Behind the piano was a curtain wall – that, I noticed, as I moved the curtain, backed onto one of the stages; which was perhaps the only way into the room from the actual building, as opposed to the back door I had used. Luckily the stage was also empty – maybe because it was an older room, with worn out chairs placed carelessly on the floor, the interior far older and outdated as opposed to the newer, flashy ones in the rest of the music building.

It was perfect.

Searching for any signs in the piano room that someone had just been there, I decided the dust on the keys was a decent enough indication that I was hidden away, so I blew on it, sat down on the stool and began to play.

La Cathedrale Engloutie – Debussy. Translating to The Submerged Cathedral, the song reflected an ancient myth; the sounds of a cathedral, the bells, the chanting, the organ, heard through the sea as it remained underwater. It was my favourite piece, the first of Debussy's I ever played, and, ultimately fell in love with.

My fingers pressed against the keys in its familiar pattern, the feeling of playing spreading a warmth through my body that I had forgotten in the last few days. With each note, I felt the song coming alive again, the piano singing back to me, the bouncing of the keys not too sharp, the pedal answering with each touch of my foot.

In fact, as I continued to play, I realised that no piano I'd played on before had ever sounded like this; so right – so responsive with my intentions of the music. It felt rich with melody – opulent in dynamic.

But I stopped, suddenly, hearing the creaking of a floorboard from the stage behind.

Someone had heard me.

"Hello?" My voice echoed through both rooms.

No response.

"Hello?"

Again, silence.

I stood up, lifting my foot from the pedal so the grand chord I had played slowly faded into silence. But when I moved the curtain, there was nobody there – only the swinging of the double doors at the end of the stage room, plunging me back into my own company. With a sigh, I turned back around.

And that's when I saw it.

Engraved on the piano were two words I now knew well since my arrival at Oakham.

Felicity Gray.

♦ ♦ ♦

When I left the music building it was already beginning to get dark, the clouds lit with the deep crimson of the sun setting, framing the silhouettes of Oakham's archaic buildings on campus.

My fingers were still aching from my practise, a heavy feeling set in my chest. I wasn't sure if I'd go back again to Felicity's piano – it felt wrong to play on someone else's instrument, let alone someone who was missing. When I first found it, I'd assumed it was a property of Oakham. Now that it wasn't, everything had changed.

Flat 305 sounded empty when I reached the front door. Immediately I was grateful that the five were likely out and I'd once again avoided another encounter with them. I had noticed that the lights were on inside, but there was nothing else that suggested they were in – letters were still stuffed in the mailbox; the door locked firmly shut.

Just to be sure, as I entered and took off my shoes, I listened, waiting for anything. An indication to run cowardly away. It wasn't my fault I was acting so terrified – they were the ones who creeped me out earlier that day, staring at me knowingly without saying a single word. I shuddered with the thought of it. What sorts of psychopathic people did that?

Regardless, there was nothing to tell me they were there, so I moved from my spot of safety by the door.

My footsteps pattered softly against the floorboards, already making their way to the kitchen for a coffee without me even acknowledging it properly. Caffeine addict? Maybe. Did I care? Nope.

I was just glad to be back in the flat and alone, ready to shut myself in my room and read.

"Luna, isn't it?"

I froze.

Sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, were none other than Celeste and Ayala, staring back at me as if they had been waiting patiently for me to enter. They were considerably more underdressed than when I had last seen them – Celeste wearing a loose silk nightgown and Ayala with a black cardigan, soft pink trousers and matching slippers. It was unusual; to see them so close, in an oddly intimate setting we'd been thrown in as if we were expected to become friends.

But, judging by the emotionless looks on their faces, I guessed that wasn't the case.

Celeste raised her eyebrows, waiting for me to answer her.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, yeah. Luna. Hi."

"So, you're the transfer, then." Celeste replied. Her voice was eerily soft, dancing precariously through the deadly silent air around us.

"Yeah. I'm sorry if it seems like I'm intruding or anything-"

She tilted her head. "You're quite awkward, aren't you."

Ayala smirked.

"Uh, well-"

"That wasn't a question." Celeste played with the bow on her gown, squinting her eyes at me as if analysing my every move. I felt like some kind of insect under a magnifying glass, squirming with the sense of observation looming above. "You're like a little mouse, all timid and feeble."

I didn't really know what to say. They seemed so comfortable, reclined on the sofa, enjoying watching the way I shifted my weight from leg to leg. But I wouldn't dare sit down too. It felt as if I was intruding on their territory, despite the flat being equally my own.

Celeste continued. "What are you doing here, Luna?"

"Just...going to get a coffee and then to bed, really-"

"I don't mean in the flat, Luna." She interrupted. The way she continually spoke my name was beginning to sound like a weapon, as if she was using it against me. L-ooon-ah, she had said; the 'a' at the end short and sharp. Her teal eyes jabbed into my own, unwavering, only half her face lit with the lampshade to her left, the other plunged into its own shadow. "I meant what are you doing at Oakham."

"I play piano." I tore my gaze from hers to look at Ayala, who was roaming her eyes over the muddy stains on my shoes. "Oakham has a really good programme for pianists."

Celeste smiled coldly. "How sweet."

"Interesting that you play piano." Finally Ayala spoke, her voice mellow and surprisingly louder than Celeste's. She tucked a strand of glossy chestnut hair behind one ear, sharing a look with Celeste. "Not many people play piano. Not at Oakham, anyway."

"Oh, really?" I winced at how squeaky I sounded.

"Mmm." She stared at me for a long moment, before shrugging. "You must be good."

Celeste jutted her chin upwards. "Do you think you're good, Luna?"

"I don't know really...I-"

"So you're not good, then."

"No, I didn't say that-"

"You're right. You just implied it." Celeste smiled again, her perfectly aligned teeth peeking out between two plump red lips.

I could feel the sweat beginning to form on my back, their steady, taciturn eyes like heat lamps on my skin.

But just as I opened my mouth to reply, the front door opened, revealing Abel, enveloped in a hoodie. He was completely soaked from head to toe – it had clearly begun to rain during the extremely pleasant experience in which I'd been standing in the living area.

Time had seemed to stop being in the presence of the five; or so it felt, anyway.

Abel pulled his hoodie over his head in one clean motion, his face emerging back again with a frown, hair still dripping wet.

"You're back." Celeste's voice sliced through the air as she stood up briskly and moved past me, her sickly-sweet perfume lingering as she threw her arms around him. "Where have you been?"

Abel's green eyes briefly met my own before he turned his head to the floor, breaking free from her tight hold. He shrugged.

"Oh, well, I missed you." She replied. Then, slowly, she turned to face me, the smile wiping clean off her face.

Now Abel wasn't even looking in my direction.

"You're so right, by the way, Abel." Ayala called, still lounging on the sofa, having observed everything. "Luna here really doesn't deserve the scholarship. She just told us that she wasn't very good at Piano."

Celeste giggled, throwing a patronising pout my way.

There was a long, poisonous pause of silence as they waited for Abel to reply. I wasn't sure he even was going to reply, for he seemed so still, so unmoveable.

And then:

"Did she." He spoke. His deep voice was controlled; smooth. A slow drip of water ran down his face, over his lips, before he wiped it away with the back of his hands. Then, slowly, as he turned his head back to face me, he clenched his jaw. "I'm sure she's better than that."

AUTHORS NOTE: Another update! Yay!

I'm beginning to get into the story a little more now, there'll definitely be more of Abel soon as he's a pretty interesting character.

What did you think of this chapter?

Did you like Ayala and/or Celeste?

Let me know in the comments!

Love from,

Donutized