A young orphaned gymnast girl finds herself in a whirlwind of events when she was kidnapped by her aunt at the young age of three and was later sent to a private academy. Little did she know that this academy was also attended by her long-lost broth...
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
Anastasia Angelo stood in the grand foyer of St. Ambrose Academy, her heart pounding in her chest. Around her, the opulence of the academy's entrance hall threatened to overwhelm her. Marble statues stood frozen in time, their faces etched with an eternal frown. Gilded frames adorned the walls, each one housing a portrait of a stern-faced man or woman, their gazes fixed on the present day as if from some distant future.
A uniformed servant approached, a silver tray in his hand. "Miss Angelo," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the cafe-sized space, "your things have been delivered to your room. Shall I show you the way?"
Anastasia nodded, her mind still reeling. London had been her home for her whole life. She had never known another home, never known another family. The thought of being here, in this grand American academy, was both exhilarating and terrifying.
The servant led her down a long, ornately carved hallway. The wood seemed to glow under the gas lamps that illuminated the way. "You'll be sharing a room with Miss Johnson," he said. "She's a delightful girl, quite friendly. I'm sure you'll get along splendidly."
Anastasia managed a small smile. Friendly was the last word she would use to describe herself. Shy, perhaps. Reserved. But friendly? That was a skill she would need to learn, and fast.
The servant knocked on a door at the end of the hall. "Miss Johnson," he called. "Miss Angelo has arrived."
The door swung open, revealing a girl standing in the doorway. She was tall, with long, dark hair and eyes that sparkled with an intensity that matched Anastasia's own. A smile split her face as she saw Anastasia.
"Anastasia Angelo!" she exclaimed, striding forward. "I'm Elizabeth! It's an absolute pleasure to meet you."
Anastasia hesitated, then held out a tentative hand. "Nice to meet you, Elizabeth," she said. "Lily told me about you."
Lily. The name sparked a memory. Lily was a girl from London, one of the few constants in Anastasia's life. They had lived in the same neighborhood, and had become inseparable. Lily had been so excited when Anastasia received the letter from St. Ambrose Academy, certain that her own invitation would follow soon after.
But Lily had been wrong. The letter had come, but there was no invitation for her. Anastasia still remembered the painful sting of disappointment, the realization that she would be leaving London, and possibly Lily, behind.
Elizabeth led Anastasia into the room. It was large, with two twin beds, a vanity, and a small seating area. "We'll be sharing this room," Elizabeth explained, "but I've managed to claim the window seat for myself. You can have the vanity!" She grinned, and Anastasia couldn't help but return the smile. There was something infectiously optimistic about Elizabeth, a spark that seemed to light up the room.
As they settled in, Anastasia couldn't help but feel a pang of homesickness. This room, with its plush carpet and matching drapes, was a world away from the cramped bunk bed she had shared with Lily at the orphanage. But there was no time for nostalgia. She had a new life to build, and fast.
