Previously on When The Wind Turned: Chapter 11 (with full previous chapter list)
Chapter Twelve
By the time they cross into New Hampshire, the light has thinned to blue.
Jeremy drives the final stretch in silence. The rental car hums steadily along a narrowing road bordered by stone walls half-swallowed by tall grass. The trees are different here — narrower trunks, leaves just beginning to turn at the edges. September has sharpened the air.
No one says it, but they all feel it.
They are far.
Frankie watches the road signs as if they might disappear if she looks away. Hanover. Two miles. Briarhaven Village, Briarhaven School.
The road bends gently. A white clapboard church appears first, steeple clean against the fading sky. Then brick — low buildings lit from within, windows glowing gold.
The campus does not announce itself.
They are simply in it.
“Is this it?” Eve asks quietly.
“I think so,” Jeremy says.
He slows as the road curves again. A wooden sign set back among birches reads: Briarhaven School. Founded 1887.
Beyond the main brick hall, a broader stretch of water catches the last of the light. Long rowing shells rest upside down near a boathouse along the Briarhaven River.
They do not stop.
Jeremy follows Gabriel Whitaker’s directions — past the quad, down a narrower road sloping gently toward town. Houses appear, spaced carefully apart. The Dean House stands white and formal. A smaller cottage with a porch swing. Gravel drives.
Frankie follows the route on the screen in the car — noting the names on it, the patches of green and blue, and the symbol indicating the car moving along until the robotic voice of the system announces that they have arrived at their destination.
Then, slightly set back from the road, weathered gray boards against darkening sky:
Brookside House.
Peabody Brook runs somewhere behind it — they can hear it faintly, water moving over stone.
Parked in front of the house, Jeremy turns off the engine.
For a moment, no one opens a door.
“Well,” Frankie says softly.
They step out one by one. The cold surprises them — not bitter, but intentional. Eve pulls her sweater tighter. Noah studies the roofline. Jacob notes the angle of beams and porch light.
Frankie is already thinking:
A week late. Tutors. Syllabi. Math first. Latin manageable. Jacob will adapt fairly easily. Eve needs someone kind. Noah needs structure.
As promised, the key sits in a small metal tin tucked behind the porch light. Jeremy opens the door with a firm push. It resists, then gives.
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