For the next few days, Zola was in a terrible state. The weather in Country Y was always gloomy, but this year it seemed particularly excessive—the grey sky hung over the city like a soaked quilt, pressing the air down until people could hardly breathe. The drizzle wasn't enough to justify an umbrella, but it kept everything in a constant state of damp. The wind was cold too, as if it had blown straight in from the sea and lodged itself in the gaps between her bones. Zola was down, down, down.
She was almost completely absent-minded that whole week. Passing through the corridor, she ran into Emily several times:
"Zola! Hi!"
"Zola, you look so cute today!"
But Zola acted as if she hadn't heard her at all. Her eyes were empty, like her soul had been pulled out of her body. She just responded with a mechanical "Mm," and twice she didn't even lift her head. Emily didn't say anything on the surface, but her eyes were clearly filled with displeasure.
That Saturday, Emily came to find her again, saying they should go to the common room for coffee and that she'd show her a new bag she'd just bought. Zola was sitting by the window, staring at the wet clouds outside, her thoughts drifting like scraps of paper scattered on water. Emily took a small shoulder bag from the bag beside her chair, its black patent leather shining, the cute rounded silhouette gleaming under the light, the hardware so bright it looked like it could reflect a face.
"Look! I just got it. Do you like it?" Emily's voice was sweet.
But Zola just stared blankly at the table and didn't respond. Emily's expression froze for two seconds, then she forced her smile back into place and cheerfully pulled out her phone, excited to show Zola her freshly done nails. Her nails glittered, each one like a tiny treasure that had escaped from a jewelry shop. Her index finger was a sparkling gold, dusted with fine shimmer, topped with two tiny ice-blue gems like faint stars in a winter sky. Her middle and little fingers were a deep, oceanic gradient of blue and green, the colour shifting under the light—from blue to green, from pale to dark—like the cold shimmer on the back of a deep-sea fish. At the tips, a few tiny silver metal beads were scattered like bubbles caught by the light in the waves.
Her ring finger, though, was the real show-stealer: a "snake-skin" design. Black and white hexagons interlocked to form scales, glossy and matte surfaces alternating, like an elegant yet dangerous little snake curled around her fingertip—luxurious, with a hint of predatory beauty.
Emily held her nails up right in front of Zola's eyes. "Pretty, right?"
Zola still didn't react, just blinked slowly. In that instant, Emily's lips clearly pushed into a pout—that classic, girlish "why aren't you paying attention to me?" sulk. It was a pity Zola didn't see it; anyone with a heart softer than granite, upon seeing that look, would want to bring out their very best and lay it at Emily's feet, just to coax a smile out of a girl like that.
Emily set the bag down gently to one side, as if making up her mind. From beside her she drew out a rather large, exquisite gift box. The outside was a firm black velvet case, tied with a neatly knotted satin ribbon. Emily loosened the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside was a pearl set so beautiful it stole the breath.
The interior was lined with soft, pale beige velvet, making the pearls look almost luminous. In the centre lay a lavish necklace: a full string of akoya pearls, graduated from large to small, cascading naturally. Each pearl was perfectly round and flawless, like drops of milk that had solidified and then been brushed with moonlight. Between the pearls were glittering diamonds, small pear-cut and round stones alternating, like a waterfall of moving light. At each end of the necklace were delicate silver vine-like structures, as if tendrils were holding up the pearls as they grew, every joint set with tiny pavé diamonds, sparkling densely.
The earrings were outrageously extravagant as well: a plump akoya pearl sat in the centre, almost obscenely large. Hanging below were several strands of diamond chains that shimmered when they moved, light spreading through the air like water. The whole set didn't look like something meant for a university student; it looked like something a rich heiress would wear to a ball.
Zola was completely stunned. She glanced left and right around the common room, terrified that someone might see them opening such an obviously expensive jewelry box.
"Th-this… where did this come from?" Her voice almost shook.
Emily tipped her chin up a little and said lightly, "I just mentioned to Marco that you didn't have proper jewelry to wear for that party last time… So he got this. Just casually."
"Do you like it?"
Zola's heart was beating wildly. Of course she liked it—she thought it was beautiful to the point of insanity. But beneath Emily's tone she seemed to catch a faint something—like a hint of sourness, or some unconscious possessiveness. It flashed by so quickly that Zola hardly had time to examine it before dismissing it as her imagination. Emily was a textbook rich pretty girl; how could she possibly be jealous of her? Zola told herself she was overthinking it.
Still, she couldn't help staring at the pearls, the reflected light dancing in her eyes as if the jewelry had lit her up for a moment.
"Is… is this really for me?" Her voice was so soft it sounded like she was afraid of disturbing something. Her rational side was struggling. She had grown up with the idea that "you don't accept rewards you haven't earned," especially not something so absurdly valuable.
She instinctively tried to push the box forward, like a child caught doing something wrong. "Emily, I can't accept this… Could you help me give it back to Marco? It's really too much."
Emily's smile stiffened for a second, then her usual sweet expression slid back into place, though a flicker of impatience flashed in her eyes.
Emily still laughed lightly, her voice carrying that familiar spoiled note. "Zola, just take it. To him this really isn't a big deal." She waved her hand dismissively, as if it weren't a pearl set worth a small fortune, but just another cup of coffee. "And you want me to take it back? What does that even look like? I'd be super awkward walking it back to him." She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, her tone half teasing, half complaining. "If you're going to return it, you can give it back to him yourself next time you see him."
Zola froze. She couldn't even begin to imagine herself returning a box of expensive jewelry to Marco in person; the mere thought of that scenario felt worse than sitting ten closed-book exams in a row.
Only then did Emily, as if casually tossing in one last piece of candy, add, "And… I've noticed you've been really out of it lately. Let me take you to a party tomorrow night, okay? You need to relax."
Her voice was as soft as silk, yet it carried a subtle authority—the kind of unspoken dominance that made it very hard to refuse. Zola lowered her head and looked at the pearls in the box. For a moment, the whole common room seemed to fall still. Every pearl was glowing gently. She had only ever seen things like this in magazines. The necklace Emily lent her for the last party had already amazed her, but that wasn't hers—she'd been afraid to touch it, wearing it as carefully as if it were a glass doll that might shatter at the slightest bump. But if these belonged to her? What would that tender, luxurious glow look like on her skin?
Her heart gave a tiny tug, like someone had lightly plucked a hidden string. She knew she shouldn't be swayed, but she couldn't quite pull herself free.
Zola glanced at Emily. Emily was half reclining on the sofa, her expression so innocent it was almost assured—as if she had already decided Zola would take it. That certainty made Zola's heart pound even harder.
"Then… I'll accept it," she finally whispered.
The moment the words left her lips, she felt as though she'd been wrapped in a wave of warmth—and at the same time, as if she'd fallen into something soft from which there was no easy way out.
Zola, in the end, was still a girl who loved beautiful things. After saying goodbye to Emily and returning to her room, she couldn't wait to open the pearl box again. The soft light fell on the pearls; each one looked like solidified moonlight made smooth and tangible. She carefully fastened the necklace around her neck, then lifted the earrings to her ears, standing in front of the mirror and turning her head from side to side. In that moment, she was genuinely mesmerised by her own reflection.
Her bare face, without a trace of makeup, looked clearer and brighter under the glow of the pearls. The necklace rested neatly along her collarbones, as if it had been custom-made for her—it elongated her neck and made her eyes look a little brighter. She couldn't help turning her head slightly, watching the pearls spill out fine shards of light.
"So pretty…" she murmured silently to herself.
But as soon as she opened her wardrobe, her excitement felt like it had been hit by a cold draft. Her clothes were plain to the point of dullness—ordinary sweaters, dark coats, a few dresses bought on sale. None of them matched the brilliance of this jewelry. Only the little dress Emily had given her last time could barely keep up.
Zola changed into that dress again and put on the pearls. The girl in the mirror didn't look like anyone she knew. Even without makeup, she was radiant, as if a soft white light were rising from beneath her skin. She couldn't help thinking: If I walked into the party like this… how beautiful would I be?
She felt a bit like Cinderella. Only, if she really was Cinderella, where exactly was her prince supposed to be?
The party was held in an old building near the college. The living room had an ancient fireplace, high ceilings, and wooden floors that creaked underfoot like a sleeping beast. The moment Zola stepped in, she felt as though she'd wandered into another world. Under the dim lights, a group of overexcited students were gathered in a circle—laughing, screaming, clapping. The air was thick with a mix of perfume, brandy, and the sweet scent of burning wood from the fireplace.
Emily leaned close to her ear. "They're playing Indian Buff."
Zola was completely confused. Emily smiled, her eyes curving. "It's Blind-man's Buff, but like, the really old-fashioned kind. You'll like it."
Zola felt a little scared, but also excited. A boy stood in the centre of the room with his eyes covered, a deep-blue silk cloth tied over them, making him look like a nobleman about to face execution. The others arranged chairs in a large circle and moved quietly around them, their shuffling feet making a soft rustle. Someone couldn't hold back a laugh and had to force it down until their face went blotchy with the effort.
Then—clap—someone clapped their hands. The game began. The blindfolded boy walked among the chairs with the accompaniment of laughter; with each step, people shifted slightly, suppressing giggles, their shoulders trembling. He stopped in front of one chair and gently nudged the edge of the seat with his knee—so light it really was "gentle as a feather tap."
It was the first time Zola had seen someone touch another person with their knee in such a… subtle yet strange way. The girl in the chair was red in the face from trying not to laugh. She answered his "interrogation" in an oddly disguised, deliberately warped voice: "Uh… mm… hmm." The boy had to guess who she was based on her voice. Every wrong guess meant a forfeit. You either had to drink a shot of liquor bitter as medicine, or sing a line of God Save the King in a ridiculous falsetto, or endure a peacock feather tickling your neck until you burst out laughing.
The whole room shook with laughter that just wouldn't be contained. Zola was fascinated by the chaotic, absurd, yet strangely thrilling scene. This was not a world she was used to.
Emily slipped her arms around Zola's shoulders from behind, her voice soft as silk. "See? I told you, you needed to come out. You look stunning tonight."
In the centre of the room, one circle was busy playing; another circle stood along the walls watching, like spectators at some old ritual. The air was filled with wine and woodsmoke, and the laughter echoed again and again beneath the high ceiling.
As soon as they stepped in, Zola noticed a neatly dressed attendant standing by the door. He stood very straight and very still, as quiet as a shadow. Emily, entirely at ease, set her handbag on the tray he was holding, and Zola copied her, handing her bag over too. The attendant's movements were soft and almost soundless. He gave them a slight bow, then stepped back into the shadows, as if he had never been there at all.
Emily leaned in close, smiling brightly with sparkling eyes. "You know… what happens here stays here. House rules."
Her tone was part excitement, part unsaid warning—something with an edge of danger wrapped in sugar.
Before they had even found a place to stand, a cluster of girls had surged over from the far side of the room and swarmed around Emily.
"Sweetheart!! You made it!"
"Emmi, we thought you were in Paris!"
"Oh my god, your nails! Who did them?"
A dozen hands clutched at Emily's arms, wrists, sleeves, as if she were the star at the centre of the stage.
Zola stood behind them, pushed outward by the crush of bodies. It wasn't until Emily turned back that the girls seemed to suddenly remember her.
"This is Zola," Emily introduced.
The girls' faces pulled into polite smiles, but their eyes were empty. It was that kind of courtesy reserved for people they had no interest in—like glancing at a piece of irrelevant furniture. Their attention snapped back to Emily almost immediately, as if Zola were nothing but air.
As more people arrived, the circle of spectators grew livelier. Someone clapped and shouted, "Let's start the next one!"
"Buffy with the Stick! Come on!"
The lights were dimmed a little, and a large open space was cleared in the middle of the room, as if they were about to perform some kind of secret ritual. Emily took Zola's hand. "Come, you'll love this one."
Zola was half pulled, half dragged into the crowd. In the centre stood another boy with his eyes covered, the silk blindfold tied in a neat knot at the back of his head. He was holding a long wooden staff—smooth and straight, much longer than a normal cane, with a silver tip. The others quickly formed a large ring around him, hand in hand. It wasn't an intimate way of holding hands; it felt more like a formation at an old-fashioned ball.
They started to circle around the blind "Buffy," bouncing lightly as they moved, chanting a short, rhythmical tune. The melody was a mix of absurd and old-fashioned, like a nursery rhyme laced with the eerie elegance of an English country house. After one full turn, the song broke off sharply. The room went suddenly quiet. Buffy lifted the staff and slowly extended it horizontally. The tip of the stick drifted, then pointed in a certain direction.
Whoever it pointed at had to step out of the ring and take hold of the other end. The moment they touched the staff, soft, excited laughter rippled through the crowd. Buffy began to grunt—three strange low sounds, somewhere between a bear's growl and an idiot pretending to be funny. They were deliberately theatrical, designed to make everyone hold back laughter. The person on the other end of the stick then had to reply in an absurdly disguised voice. Some people used exaggerated nasal tones, some forced their voices low like men, some meowed like cats. If Buffy guessed their name correctly, the unlucky one had to pay a "forfeit," their punishment.
Punishments might be: downing a sharp, burning shot of brandy; being ordered to perform five seconds of tap-dancing; being tickled on the neck with a peacock feather until they laughed out loud; or being forced to throw a ridiculously over-the-top compliment at someone in the circle. If Buffy guessed wrong, he himself had to take the forfeit and remain blindfolded. Only a correct guess allowed him to take off the blindfold. The rules were absurd enough that it felt like a game invented by high society to kill time on long winter nights.
The first round began. Hand in hand, the ring of players moved around him, their steps tapping out a quiet rhythm on the wooden floor. The music stopped. Buffy slowly raised the staff, and the air tightened until you could almost hear the collective heartbeat. The tip of the staff circled, wavered, then stopped, pointing at a tall, slender girl.
The crowd broke into a round of gleeful jeers.
"Go!!"
"Let's see how she hides her voice this time—"
Freya wore a fitted black velvet mini dress, a hint of mischief tugging at the corner of her eyes. She walked lightly out of the circle, fingers closing around the front end of the staff, her gaze shining like a cat's. Buffy let out the first grunt, a low, drawn-out sound somewhere between a moan and a chuckle, sending a shiver through the air.
Freya deliberately put on a sticky, sultry fake voice. "Oh—hello—"
The room exploded. Someone wolf-whistled, someone clapped, and the air turned thick with an almost alcoholic sense of innuendo. Buffy's second grunt was even more exaggerated. Freya raised an eyebrow and upped the performance. "Don't touch me… unless you know who I am."
The crowd went wild, laughing so hard they doubled over. It wasn't simple amusement anymore; it was the heady, slightly delirious energy of a party, where humour, libido and recklessness all blurred together.
Buffy's third grunt sounded, and he smiled.
"Freya."
Having been identified, Freya had to take her punishment. The girls behind her were in hysterics. "Wine! Wine! Wine!" Someone handed her a small glass of dark red wine. Freya tipped it back in one go; the edge of her lips stained red, bright as a poppy. Buffy took off the blindfold, and the room erupted into applause. The game moved into a higher gear.
All of this felt dreamlike and new to Zola. She had never seen strangers—men and women—act out flirtation, teasing, and impulse so naturally in a simple game.
Emily leaned close again, her voice soft and faintly laced with wine. "Fun, right?"
Zola didn't get the chance to answer before a cup was pressed into her hand. "Try a little."
Zola wasn't much of a drinker. She lowered her head and sniffed; it smelled of fruit, bitterness, and a hint of perfume-like sweetness. But Emily's eyes were shining, as if she were waiting for Zola to step into this world.
So Zola took a small sip—and immediately squinted as the burn and sweetness hit her all at once.
"You're so cute!" Emily laughed, pushing the cup back toward her. "Just a bit more."
Before Zola could react she'd already been coaxed into a second sip. The alcohol wasn't strong, but the intoxication came quickly, like warmth crawling up her veins. Heat pooled in her chest, her face flushed, and the tips of her ears turned pink. The music, the laughter, the murmur of suggestive whispers—all of it seemed louder and brighter. She suddenly felt as if the very air in the room was lifting her up, making her float—weightless, warm, buzzing. Her usual restraint and self-consciousness slowly dissolved in the alcohol. She even started laughing along with the others. Emily wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Good girl."
In the second round, the tip of the staff slowly turned and turned until it finally stopped in front of Zola.
Emily shrieked. "Oh my god! It's you!!"
The crowd let out a collective "Waaah!" as if someone had rolled out a new toy. Zola's heart gave a violent thump. Panic seized her limbs, but under all those eyes, she still stepped out of the circle and gently took hold of the other end of the staff.
In that moment she felt as though she were standing under a spotlight.
Buffy let out the first "Hmm—". The whole room burst into laughter. Emily yelled from behind her, "Make a funny voice!!!"
Zola's mind was completely blank. Still, she forced herself to say something in a trembling, fake-cute, utterly un-Zola-like voice: "…meow?"
The moment that little "meow" came out, the room erupted. One girl laughed so hard she squatted down; a boy nearly spilled his wine.
Buffy's second grunt was even more theatrical. Zola was cornered into doubling down on the cat act. "Meow—meow???"
Emily was laughing so hard tears were coming out. After the third grunt, Buffy suddenly lifted the staff. "It's… Zola."
The room cheered like a crowd at a betting table when someone wins big.
Zola had to accept her penalty. A peacock feather was dragged lightly from her collarbone up to the edge of her jaw. The ticklish shame of it made her want to jump right out of her skin. Emily clutched her stomach laughing. "Oh my god, you're adorable—!!"
Zola's face burned scarlet, but to her own surprise, there was the faintest trace of… thrill underneath.
By the next round, the chanting had started:
"Zola! Zola! Zola!"
"It's her turn!"
"Blind the princess!"
Emily was grinning wickedly as she tied the silk blindfold over Zola's eyes herself. The moment the silk came down, the world went pitch black. Zola's heart jumped into her throat. She didn't really know anyone here. Honestly, even without the blindfold, it wouldn't make much difference—she could barely tell who was who at the best of times. The darkness made her breathing tighten, but it was oddly exciting.
"Go, sweetheart." Emily gave her a gentle push.
Zola clutched the staff and stepped forward carefully. In front of her she could hear rustling footsteps, soft laughter, and a few faint, teasing remarks. She stopped. A big wave of laughter swept through the crowd. It wasn't malicious; it was the eager, anticipatory laughter of people waiting to see something funny.
Zola gripped the staff harder—and suddenly heard three sounds:
"Hmm—"
"Hmm—"
"Hmm—"
It was clearly a boy trying to imitate a girl's voice. It was too fake, too overdone—so ridiculous that the room exploded again. Even she wanted to laugh. But she had no idea who it was. In her head she could only summon a few English names of boys she'd vaguely heard in class.
She stumbled over her guess. "Um… M… Mike…?"
Not a confident "Michael," nor a crisp native "Maik," just a tiny, unsure "Mike…?"
The room completely lost it. Someone was pounding on the wall laughing; someone else nearly spat their drink out. Zola had no idea whether she was right or wrong; she only felt herself drowning in the sea of laughter.
Then a warm, steady fingertip brushed her cheek, and the blindfold was gently untied. Light rushed back into her world. She blinked.
Standing in front of her was a very tall boy with light amber eyes. Those pale yellow eyes were smiling down at her—not mockingly, but with a kind of amused curiosity, and a warmth that was hard to name. She could clearly see his chest rise and fall, could hear his breathing close to her ear, as if he were standing very, very near.
The crowd was yelling again. "Forfeit! Forfeit! Forfeit!"
And so Zola, blushing and laughing and pushed along by the tide of noise, picked up a peacock feather. Her hand trembled slightly. She closed her eyes briefly, hearing her own heartbeat louder than the laughter. Under the collective, expectant silence of the room, she raised her hand. The feather was soft, like a thread of wind. She drew it lightly from his collarbone upwards. The tip of the feather slid across his skin, followed the faint ridge of bone, and slowly traced its way up to his jaw.
For a split second, his breath caught. It was as if she had brushed against some secret, sensitive place. He drew in a low, sharp breath—a tiny, almost inaudible shiver of reaction he couldn't suppress. As the feather left his skin, he slowly opened his eyes. Those light amber irises locked onto her. It wasn't just looking—it was pinning her in place, holding her there with his gaze.
Zola felt all the blood in her body rush to her face, burning hot and tingling. She wasn't even sure she was still breathing.
The noise of the game breaking up roared around her, but it sounded very far away. The boy reached out—not hurried, but with a calm, irresistible assurance—and gently took the hand that wasn't holding the feather. The warmth of his palm flowed from her fingertips up her arm, like a thin, electric current. Zola's breath stuttered. He lowered his head. Amid the crowd's teasing laughter, he moved with a kind of deadly seriousness, dangerously formal: his lips brushed her knuckles. Light as a feather, but leaving a searing imprint on her skin. It was a greeting that carried a note of possession, like something out of an old aristocratic world.
He looked up, and his amber eyes were so close she could see nothing but gold. He stroked the back of her hand gently, his voice low and edged with a smile.
"I've never seen you before…"
"…but you guessed my name, Mike."
He leaned in a little closer, his breath brushing her ear like a warm, broken gust of wind.
"Pleased to meet you…"
He paused, letting her heartbeat race in that brief gap, growing faster and messier.
Then he spoke, his voice dropping slow and sweet, like honey falling from a spoon:
"…my beautiful little princess."
Zola's knees almost gave way. It felt like a small flame had been lit in her chest—not a blinding blaze, but a quiet fire, burning deeper and deeper. Her breathing was completely out of rhythm. Every inhale carried his scent, mixed with alcohol, heat, danger, and a heady hint of something she could all too easily drown in.