Page 1 of Want It All

‘Are you sure this is it?’

The boundary wall was made of aged sandstone and stood at least three metres high. The rideshare driver put his car in park and stared at the wrought-iron gates, which were wide and topped with spikes. To our right, bronze letters fixed to the sandstone bricks spelled out two words.

Banksia House .

My fingers tightened around my phone. ‘This is it.’

‘That is some gothic novel bullshit right there,’ the driver muttered. ‘Will they open the gates?’

‘The instructions said to wait here. Someone will come and get me.’

The driver turned and shot me a doubtful look.

He was fair-haired and hazel-eyed, and his relaxed citrus scent – light, sweet, and faint – told me he was a beta.

Though citrus was a scent I didn’t love, I inhaled deeply, raking it in.

I wouldn’t be scenting anyone for months; scent-blocking medication and scent-cancelling sprays were non-negotiable requirements for attendance at Banksia.

‘It looks like an institution,’ he said.

‘It’s part of the South-East Coast University,’ I returned absently, checking my bags and gathering up what I could comfortably carry. ‘So you’re not wrong, I suppose.’

‘Mate, I’ve been to the SECU campus, and it doesn’t look like this.’ He turned around to study the iron gates once more. ‘Are you rich or something?’

My stomach lurched with sudden nerves. I wasn’t rich, but I assumed everyone else here would be. Banksia House gave out two scholarship positions per year, and I had one of them. All the other students would have paid their eye-watering tuition fees up front – and they would have done it happily.

Banksia House was the only school of its kind in the country, catering exclusively to postgraduate Humanities students.

Its entrance requirements were beyond insane, its fees high enough to bankrupt small countries, its standards punishing to the point of cruelty.

And yet, Banksia received thousands of applications per year, because it was also the best, by any measure.

Every year, its graduates emerged as the bright new stars of their fields, because they’d already studied under the biggest names in their discipline.

Though Banksia retained a core group of tenured staff, part of its allure for students was its practice of employing professionals to teach on a yearly basis, offering salaries large enough to routinely attract Nobel Laureates, bestselling authors, Cannes-winning producers, and Archibald-Prize artists.

If you were a student at Banksia House, you knew you were walking out with the skills, knowledge, and contacts to make an impact on the world.

And I was here.

‘Or something,’ I said at last.

The driver turned to eye me again. ‘Look, you’re not being trafficked or anything, are you? I’d prefer not to have that on my conscience.’

‘You can sleep soundly. No trafficking, I promise.’ I opened the car door and pushed my bags out, wrestling with my larger tote. ‘Thanks for checking, though. I appreciate it.’

‘Well,’ he said, tapping an address into his GPS, ‘make sure you carry some scissors around, yeah? Just in case there’s a wife in the attic.’

‘I’d stab Rochester first,’ I muttered, and closed the car door behind me.

The air was heavy with eucalyptus and salt; the coast wasn’t far away. The driver waited until I’d hauled my bags away from the car, then reversed and swung around, offering me a wave and a last, doubtful look. I waved back, trying to pretend I wasn’t trembling with apprehension.

A noise came from behind the gates. A moment later, they swung open, revealing a car idling behind them.

The car was some kind of vintage classic, the sort that was a huge inconvenience to own in Australia and must have cost a fortune to maintain.

I knew nothing about cars, but even I knew that whoever owned it had more money than they strictly should.

The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out, older, with dark eyes and a kind expression. I inhaled, but caught no hint of his scent on the slight breeze. ‘Rosemary Morris?’

I gave an awkward wave. ‘That’s me.’

‘I’m Harry. I’ll drive you up to the house. Would you like some help with your bags?’

I nodded gratefully, and he gathered them up, packing them into the boot.

My messenger bag was a comforting weight across my chest, so I left it on, even after sliding into the passenger seat.

There were no seatbelts – a mark of just how old the car must have been; even before the Unveiling, cars had seatbelts – and I failed to push away the feeling of vulnerability as Harry settled into the driver’s seat and the engine rumbled to life.

‘The drive isn’t too long,’ Harry called over the noise, his tone apologetic. ‘But it’s a bit hard to manage with luggage. We organised a bus for the students who arrived yesterday, but thought that might have been a bit overwhelming for you, being the only one to come today.’

‘Sorry to put you out. My flight was delayed.’

‘It’s no trouble at all. We were watching the storms over Melbourne and thought your plane might not be able to take off. You’re our only first-year student from Victoria this time.’

I stared out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Banksia House manor, but the drive was bounded by high hedges, still covered in the blossoms of late summer. ‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Five years,’ Harry answered. ‘I trained in horticulture at the main SECU campus, then was invited to apply for a groundskeeper role here.’

‘Are the grounds large?’

‘Two hundred acres in total. The manor block is only a couple of acres, though, and that’s where most of the work is.’

Two hundred acres with sea views in the heart of the New South Wales south coast . I didn’t want to think about how much the land would be worth.

‘Are you from Melbourne, Rosemary?’

‘Just Rose is fine,’ I said. ‘My family lives just outside Melbourne, but I was actually born not too far from here, in Wollongong.’

We chatted about Melbourne for a few minutes – Harry had a sister who lived there – but as the car crested a rise, I fell silent.

There were pictures of the Banksia House manor on its website, of course, but they were oddly elusive – a corner here, the front doors there, a snap of one side of the gardens.

The pictures gestured at what the manor was, but never captured it in its entirety, leaving it a mystery – even for those applying to call it home for years to come.

The rideshare driver had been right. It was some gothic novel bullshit, and it took my breath away.

Four storeys of stained sandstone rose before us, with hundreds of high windows glittering like eyes, and a motherfucking turret nestling to one side.

The manor’s wide entrance doors were accessed by a stone staircase that spilled before them like a ridged tongue, and I was fairly sure I could see a clock tower rising from the back of the building.

The grounds, however, were purely Australian, almost in defiance of the European style building at their centre. Grey and white-barked eucalypts swayed in the breeze, native grasses spilled silvered shades of green over the earth, and wattle flowered in yellow flames around the drive.

The contrast was enough to make my head ache.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Harry said proudly.

‘It’s … incredible,’ I managed. And my home for the next three years, at least.

Fuck, I hope there’s plumbing .

Harry pulled the car up at the foot of the staircase. ‘I’ll take you to your room.’

I forced myself to leave the car, clutching the strap of my bag. From here, I could see the cliffs a few kilometres away, and the glittering sea stretching all the way to the horizon.

If there’s no plumbing, the view will make up for it .

Harry grabbed my bags and led me up the staircase.

I hesitated before the yawning double doors, but I shook myself and squared my shoulders.

I’d maintained a high-distinction average across all subjects and had won a national award for my outreach program for high-school history students to get here.

I wasn’t about to be cowed by a doorway .

I still swallowed when I stepped through it, though, and Banksia House manor closed over my head.

The inside was only slightly more modern-looking, with patterned wallpaper and a grandfather clock looming disapprovingly in the entranceway.

Corridors stretched to both sides, and a staircase opened ahead of us, made of polished wood with sweeping bannisters.

The wall to my right proclaimed the Banksia motto: audeamus – let us dare .

I inhaled. It was a reflex, an attempt to identify the scents around me, to categorise them so I knew who smelled safe, and who to avoid.

There was wood polish, and, somewhere, the muted smell of fresh paint. There were traces of wattle blossom and eucalypt from the trees outside, with an undertone of turned, wet soil. From further away, I caught the smell of cooking food – roasted vegetables and chicken.

But there was no human scent with its warm, musky base. Not even a hint of it wound through the air.

I chewed on my bottom lip, feeling a mix of relief and consternation.

‘Your room is on the first level, in the south wing,’ Harry said. Of course this place had wings . I was going to need a map on my phone, because I had zero clue where south was. ‘They group students based on their projected study paths, so you’ll be close to people with similar interests.’

I perked up at that. I’d completed my undergraduate degree online because it had taken me a long time to adjust to my designation, and it wasn’t entirely safe for me on campus.

It meant I’d graduated without any real friends, and my high school best friend, Chloe, had moved back to Singapore with her family two years ago.

I missed her awfully, and I was hoping I could make some new friends a little closer to home.