I move toward him, doing my best to ignore the overly affectionate couple before me—the way they grope each other, gaze into each other’s eyes, and kiss like it’s their first—even though, unbeknownst to one of them, it could very well be their last. Painfully aware of that small, familiar knot of cynicism that now resides in my gut—the one I’ve named Jake after the person who put it there. Remembering how we used to be like that, grope like that, kiss like that, until Jake woke up one day and decided he’d rather grope and kiss my best friend, Tiffany.

“Sunderland Manor?” the Creepy Guy says in an accent so thick it takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking English.

“Yeah, um, I mean, yes, that’s me.” I shake my head, not faring much better with the native tongue. “I’m a Sunderland Manor—uh—student.” I nod.

“So, ’at’s it?”

I glance around and shrug, unsure how to answer. Unsure how any self-respecting artist in the making would take the time to painstakingly piece together a portfolio, hoping to gain entry into the newest, most exclusive art academy for youths (as claimed by the brochure), only to either miss the flight or just bail completely. But then, maybe they didn’t need it as much as me. Maybe their lives are Jake and Tiffany free.

I sweep my long, dark hair aside and switch my army green art bag to my other shoulder. Still remembering the look on Nina’s face when I chose it over the one she bought for the trip. I mean, even though I promised my dad I’d do my best to accept her, the fact that she gave me a turquoise bag covered in pink hibiscus flowers pretty much proves she’s not trying all that hard to accept me.

“Name, please?” he says, or actually, snaps; it sounded way more like a snap, like he’s in a big hurry or something.

“Um, Danika.” I nod. “Danika Kavanaugh?” I say it like a question, as though I’m looking to him to confirm my own name. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Nice to know I’m as big a dork in the UK as I was in the U.S.

He nods, checks the box next to my name, and barrels right out the double glass doors, just assuming I’ll follow—which I do.

“Um, what about my bags?” I ask, my voice high-pitched, overeager, in the most pathetic, please like me kind of way. “They said they didn’t make it—do you think they’ll deliver them—or will we have to come back?”

He mumbles something over his shoulder, something that sounds like “Deliver ’em,” but he’s moving so quickly, I can’t be too sure.

“So, do you know what happened to all the others?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the back of his head, the bald spot glinting like a bull’s-eye and surrounded by a thatch of hair so red it’s suspicious, like he dyes it or something. Doing my best to keep up with this skinny old guy, who moves awfully fast for someone of his advanced age, gasping and wheezing with the effort, I say, “I mean, aren’t there supposed to be a few more of us?”

And just after I ask it, he stops so abruptly I bang right into him. Seriously, like straight into him. So embarrassing.

“’Fraid it’s too late for ’em now, miss,” he says, totally unfazed by the way my carry-on bag just nailed him in the back. Not missing a beat as he eases it off my shoulder and adds, “Not with the way the mist is rolling in like ’tis.”

I squint. My eyes crinkled, nose scrunched, gazing all around and not quite getting what he means. Yes, it’s a bit overcast, cloudy, and gray, but hey, it’s England, that’s pretty much a given, right? And the thing is, I don’t see any fog. Not even a trace. So I turn to him and say just that, sure I misunderstood due to his accent and all.

But he just looks at me, gaze stern, fingers flapping at me to hurry up and get in. “Fog got nothing on the mist,” he says. “Come along now, got to get moving before he gets any worse.”

I huddle in the back of the van, pulling my navy peacoat tightly around me as he slams the door and settles in. Digging my fingers deep into the right-side pocket and fingering the small coin my grandmother stitched into the seam many years ago, back when it still belonged to my mom, long before she died and it was passed on to me. Squinting out the window, with my forehead pressed against the smudgy glass, thinking that if I just look hard enough I’ll see this mist he’s so worried about. But I don’t. So I make one last attempt when I say, “Looks pretty clear to me—”

But he just grunts, hands gripping the wheel in the ten and two position, eyes on the road when he says, “That’s how the mist works—’tis never what he seems.”

I fall asleep.

I mean, it’s not like I can remember the drive, so I guess that’s what happened. All I know is that one minute we were pulling out of the municipal airport parking lot, and the next, it’s like I’m in another world, jolted awake by a series of bumps in the road—a bad combination of really deep potholes and really bad shock absorbers.

“Is that it? Up ahead?” I squint into the distance, still unable to see any trace of that mist he’s been mumbling about. Making out a large stone structure at the top of a hill that looks just like one of those creepy manors you read about in old gothic romance novels—the kind I like best. Like it’s one of those drafty, foreboding homes filled with priceless antiques, hidden secrets, strange servants, resentful ghosts, and a lonely, plain-faced governess who can’t help but fall for the tall, dark, and handsomely brooding master no matter how hard she fights it.

I reach over the seat and grab my bag, fumbling for my sketch pad, wanting to jot down my first impressions, document everything I see from beginning to end. But the road is too bumpy and my pencil gets dragged off the paper repeatedly, so I quit before I can really get started, and settle for gawking instead.

We pull up to a large, imposing gate, and the driver leans out the window, presses a button, and says, “She’s here.”

Which, frankly, I find a bit odd.

I mean, She’s here? Shouldn’t he have said, We’re here?

Aren’t they expecting a group of us?

Five talented, lucky young artists chosen from a pool of thousands.

Five fortunate souls who not only aced a rigorous, multilayered application process but also had to submit a portfolio of paintings created specifically for this very event—a portfolio of paintings representing our dreams.

And I don’t mean dreams as in goals. I mean the nocturnal vision kind. Since I’ve always had an active dream life, always had those kind of superpower, Technicolor, lucid dreams, the moment the brochure arrived in the mail I knew this was the school for me. Figuring I had a pretty good shot at making it, and it seems I was right.

But no matter how vibrant my dreams may be, I never dreamed of a place like this. A place with a drive so long and winding and steep, lined with lushly colored roses atop sharp, thorny stems that practically reach out and scrape the paint right off the side of the van. When we reach the top, I leap out and crane my neck all around, determined to take it all in.

Stone facade, gargoyles, flying buttresses, odd little carvings of winged creatures and gremlins—it’s just…spectacular. Totally and completely perfect. It’s everything I’d hoped for and more.

“Plenty of time for that later,” the driver says, tossing my bag over his shoulder and heading for a door that’s opened by a stern-faced woman, her long, gray hair coiled into a tightly braided spiral at the back of her head, dressed in a stark black dress with a white lace collar and apron to match. Her skin so pale and translucent, it’s as though she’s never known a single day in the sun.

“Now just look at ye. Ye must be Dani?”

I nod, wondering how she knew to call me by my nickname when I filled out all the forms as Danika.