I was so bloody lost.

The winding, enchanting roads of Thistle, Vermont had bewitched all of my senses, my eyes roaming over the snow-covered landscape and diverting me into a series of turns I could not retrace.

This town was straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale, or a Ralph Lauren catalogue; all tall oak trees, alpine white, chunky knit sweaters, log cabins with smoke puffing from the chimneys and the smell of apple cider somewhere off in the distance.

And here I was, the British transplant who’d almost gotten herself killed several times while trying to navigate the Mercedes my father had had waiting for me at the airport. It wasn’t my fault that Americans insisted on driving on the wrong side of the road.

All right, so maybe I should have hired a driver to take me to campus. But I’d promised myself that I’d be more independent, get back to my roots and stop relying on the help to perform tasks in my everyday life that I was more than capable of doing.

But it didn’t mean I still wasn’t going to do them in style, hence the sixty-thousand-dollar sedan and Italian suede stiletto boots that threatened to pitch said car right into one of these Ansel Adams-like valleys.

Pulling over, I tapped on my iPhone to open up directions to Jade Mountain University. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the red-blooded, American campus, with its brick buildings covered in ivy, quad filled with antique wooden benches and the famed clock tower that watched over all of is students. Situated at the bottom of Thistle’s small mountain range, and next to the crystal-clear Jade Lake, the school had instantly caught my eye when I’d begun research on how to escape my stuffy existence in Europe.

Sure, the last two years at the Sorbonne had been educational … eye opening really. On one hand, the rigorous program had solidified my decision to become a chef. But at the same time, the harshness of my professors, not to mention the cutthroat competition presented by my peers, was becoming stifling. Before I immersed myself fully into that world, I needed one last burst of freedom.

Hence my sabbatical to Vermont, and Jade Mountain, which oddly, had one of the best sommelier programs in the world. I’d pitched it to my professors as an experiment in food and wine pairings, an experience that I could not get anywhere else. Thankfully, the university’s reputation spoke for itself and they’d whole-heartedly agreed.

But as I pulled the car into a U-turn, back the correct way according to Google Maps, I wasn’t thinking about reds and whites. Instead, I was imagining freedom. Parties. A normal, young adult experience. Not one where everyone dressed in precious metals and foreign silks, or attended balls and charity events.

Once upon a time, I’d been the typical teenager from the wrong side of the neighborhood. Was it strange that I was starving to get back some of that normalcy?

At Jade Mountain, I could be anyone I wanted to be. Not the daughter of the most famous actor in Britain, not the self-deprecating diva that I seemed to have adopted as my persona.

Finally, I arrive, my car floating through campus like some kind of horse-drawn sleigh through the winter woods.

Walking through the door of the dorm I was assigned on my acceptance paperwork, I’m hit with a blast of warm air, my long camel-colored pea coat suddenly suffocating me. Dragging my Louis Vuitton suitcase over to the elevator, I’m pleasantly surprised when it dings its arrival just seconds after I hit the button. The building is shockingly quiet, no thumping music or laughter heard anywhere. Maybe everyone is in class. Or out with friends. Or simply not moved in yet.

I was two days early for check in, but I’d done this purposely. I wanted a chance to settle in, tour the campus, get my bearings before anyone could shake them. I was not the kind of person who enjoyed being shown up; there was a certain satisfaction in being two steps ahead of everyone else, even if they’d been here two years longer.

Reed Hall looks exactly like every other building on this campus; brick outside, white crown molding and wainscoting on the inside, big, beautiful fireplaces that look as if they’ve been here since the creation of this country. Traditional Vermont, again, as if they pulled it straight out of an L.L. Bean catalogue or something.

My room is on the third floor, the hallway smelling like pine cones and evergreen as I walk down it. Stopping in front of a door that reads 308, I remove the key from my Kate Spade bag and unlock the two deadbolts and finally the handle lock. At least I can feel secure that no one will be trying to break in.

Except, the minute I walk in, I can sense that someone has been here already. There are no boxes, no signs that my roommate has gotten her pick of sides before me. But the faint whiff of perfume in the air, the way it’s charged with the electricity of another human having stood in the same spot … I can feel it.

And then I spot it … the envelope.

Neatly laid on the table just next to the door, the scrawling black ink across the front reads my name, Eloise Mason.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I can’t help the rush of tingles that excites up my spine. It’s probably a note from one of my mates back home, paying someone off to take the piss out of me. Or maybe my father has sent something else in lieu of his love … gifts being his favorite way to gain my affection.

Ripping it open, I read the three sentences scrawled on the thick, cream card stock inside.

No signature. No other instructions. No cheeky smiley face or recognizable handwriting.

I’m no one if not a junky for clues and secrecy … so admittedly, whatever this is, is right up my alley.

And just like that, my plan for a normal, average college semester flies right out the window.