1. Nora

1

NORA

September 1908, Scotland, St. Thorn University

At the very end of Knightsbridge Lane, hidden amongst the silver September fog and oak grove, was the crumbling lonely tower I was being forced to live in.

Gothic arched windows circled the walls, the black bricks masoned together with an artist’s reverence no longer seen in the 20th century. Ivy ran wild, clinging and digging into the very seams of the building, catching the first rays of morning sun through the blanket of mist.

It was cold and unwelcoming, but the entire building was mine. Far less glamorous than the Dean had made it out to be, but I had expected as much from a man who insisted I call him by his first name with a twinkle in his eye.

Tires rolled over brick as the auto bumbled to a stop. Anticipation filled me as I waited for the driver to come around and open my door, and I slid out into the crisp morning, taking it all in.

Rays of sun crested over the line of dark trees, thick oaks giving way to pine. Freshly damp needles scented the air, clean of London’s never-ending machine. To my luck, it appeared that it might turn out to be a clear day still—far from the norm in this part of Scotland.

The silence was filled only by my heartbeat and the birds singing. It was unnerving to be surrounded by such stillness after all this time.

I was accustomed to the smog and oil of the city of dreams, the airships tirelessly floating above, the streets bustling with autos, and the steam from the stacks puffing out endlessly day and night. London was never silent. There was always chatter, shows, murder, or fights. It was a city divided by two monstrous gangs—or so the rumours claimed. But they were merely rumours.

Everyone in their right mind knew that there were no such things as monsters, only humans monstrous enough to earn the title.

“Lady Woulfe?”

I blinked, coming to. My mind wandered too much lately. The bed I slept on the night before hadn’t been very comfortable, and all of my muscles ached. Not to mention, somehow, one set of my clothing had gone missing.

The driver gave me a grim, nervous smile.

“My apologies,” I said. “And Dr. Woulfe suffices as an address.”

“Yes, of course. I am sure the journey from London took its toll on you,” he said. “Is there someone to meet you, madam? The grounds are quite extensive. It’s easy to get yourself lost around here.”

“I’m sure someone will find me at some point.” Or not. The university did their grand duty of accepting me as a professor, but the true acceptance would not happen for some time.

Despite my arguments that I could be housed on the same row as the other professors, the Dean had made it very clear that my womanly virtues would best be retained if I were isolated on the very edge of campus.

“You understand, as a woman in Psychology ? —”

“Doctor,” I corrected him. “I have a doctorate and am a professor.”

“Yes, a doctor in psychology, how even the great minds of our St. Thorn’s men might wander…”

“Do you not have other professors like me?”

“We have students, but no professors.”

I scoffed then and I scoffed now thinking about how absurd our conversation was at the scholarly dinner yesterday evening. Not only did I have a doctorate, I was an investor in several prestigious projects in Europe and the Americas. I hoped that the tides would change in terms of respect, and it was at least a good sign that there were students who were women as well.

He didn’t know me. He didn’t know what I could do.

Not only had that been a source of argument, I’d had to fight the man to allow me to ride a bicycle. He’d brought up the concept that women shouldn’t ride bicycles and the hysteria surrounding it. I’d never heard of something so absurd and demanded he either provide me with a bicycle or he’d have no psychology professor.

He’d conceded.

Other than those frustrating bits of conversation, the dinner party had passed without any other notable incidents. It had been boring enough that my mind had drifted. All I could remember now were those strange imaginings. Waking dreams of demons and blood, firelight and shadows. It must have been something in the wine, or perhaps it was the coping measure my mind had chosen for my disinterest in the party.

I’d met a couple of the other professors in passing, but the rest mostly avoided me. Any moments of discomfort I felt were just a product of a very masculine environment hushing themselves like scolded schoolboys before me, as if I didn’t know how they spoke behind closed doors.

If it didn’t work out here, I could always run off to my new home and do my own research. But I wanted this.

Being a professor was the next step for me. I’d gone to university for years, earned my doctorate, partaken in several funded projects and experiments. My colleagues respected me, even if they could never handle me in any other capacity. I did not restrain my intellect. I did not try to make them comfortable. I refused to shrink myself simply because that’s what was expected.

But, I could be patient, and I would need to be here. The dinner party last night was proof of that.

After inheriting my late uncle’s fortune, I’d decided that the wheel of fate was due to turn. I’d finally taken a colleague up on an introduction to one of the greatest minds in the psychology field, Dr. Bart Bolton, who had then turned me to the university, as they had an opening and he believed I would be the perfect fit.

As a point, I never cut the strings others pulled on my behalf. St. Thorn’s University would be a stepping stone for me, and for other women as well. I owed Bart a favour, even if he never called upon it.

I was harsh, unyielding, cynical, and perhaps even manipulative because that is what they had made me. Appearances were everything. Having impenetrable armour was necessary.

But the world was changing, even if my uncle never had. His disappointment was a badge of honour. The mighty Woulfe family had fallen to the grim reaper’s blade through a series of seemingly unfortunate circumstances.

All of them were dead.

It didn’t bother me the way it should have. When I thought of my parents, there was sadness, but beyond that there was independence.

The driver set my bags down on the drive. I’d brought as little as possible. “Might I carry these for you?” the driver asked.

“No. Thank you for driving this far out of the way. I am home now,” I said.

I paid him for the fare and then picked up my bags. I’d brought enough clothing to get me through orientation week. By this coming Monday, all of my belongings would start arriving. Boxes of books, clothing, and my academic journals.

I pushed open the gate that sat between two large hedges at the start of the sidewalk with the toe of my shoe. The creak disrupted the quiet morning, scattering birds into scarlet streaks.

I opened the door to the tower and sat my bags down just inside the threshold. The air was stale from years of disuse and neglect. A thin layer of dust coated every piece of furniture and the floors. I noted someone had been kind enough to leave a stack of wood next to the fireplace.

My mother had been dead for fifteen years now, but I still could hear her distasteful gasp as I kindled my own fire in the hearth and filled a waiting kettle. That woman had never lifted a finger in her life, not even for her child. How she and my father had married was probably the greatest mystery of all.

Everything needed a good cleaning, but that would wait until after I had a cup of black tea. I placed a griddle over the growing flames and set the kettle on it before finally looking around, taking in my new home .

The first floor consisted of a den and kitchen. There was a chilled draft permeating through the walls. My footsteps echoed through the quiet as I followed a winding staircase up to the second story. It was an empty room with warped shelves and a writing desk pressed against a window that overlooked a manicured lawn facing the rest of St. Thorn’s. I pushed it open and leaned out, taking in the spires that jettisoned into the glowing sky. Satisfied, I glanced around and smiled to myself.

It was a crumbling, old mess—but it was mine.

I continued up the stairs to the third floor where there was a small washbasin, toilet, and clawfoot tub. It connected to a room where an iron frame bed sat, the blankets in desperate need of being aired out. Another window overlooked the world in a different direction. I opened it too, noting that I could see the university greenhouse and gardens. A maze, it appeared. I hummed, noticing a bit of movement within the glass walls.

Someone else was an early riser too.

The kettle screeched downstairs. I rushed back down the spiralling steps, nearly tripping on a ridge I hadn’t noticed before on the third to last one. I cursed, but caught myself and went to the hearth, pulling the kettle off the fire. I dug tea leaves out of one of my bags and prepared a cup.

My plan for the day was tea, clean the tower, bathe, and then make my way to the university to my new office.

My own office. My own room. Enough money to fund my projects and to give me breathing room for my own research. The science of psychology was evergreen with new discoveries made every day. I was determined to make a name for myself, one that would be remembered forever.

The giddiness I felt at the prospect was accompanied by a thousand nervous, jittering butterflies. I had the next week to situate myself, and then everything would begin.

A knock at the door made me scowl. Who could possibly be up this early and knocking on my door? Who even knew I was here? I set my tea cup down and crossed the kitchen to the heavy door, pulling it open.

Two officers and the Dean stood there, expressions grim. “Dr. Woulfe?” one officer asked.

What is going on? “Yes?” I asked.

“Do you have a moment for questioning?”

I glanced at the Dean, bewildered. “I have just arrived. Literally moments ago.”

“We know,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, sweat beading his brow. “We’ve been waiting for your arrival. There has been an unfortunate event.”

I wasn’t even officially started as a professor. I shoved the annoyance down, keeping it from my tone. “What’s happened?”

“Three professors were murdered last night. ”

My lips parted. Last night? The dinner party was last night, but I’d left early to head back to the hotel I’d been staying in.

“It will not take too terribly long,” Dean Andrews said, his voice strained. “This is a very stressful event to have happened now before our semester has even officially started.”

What an odd way to describe the murder of three professors.

“Yes,” I said. “Well, come in. I’ve just made tea. I’m happy to help however I can.”