Midnight at the Glasshouse

Nessa first noticed the light as she crossed the northern courtyard.

It was almost midnight, and the academy had long since settled. Frost whitened the roofs and gathered along the stone arches, turning Merrenhaven pale beneath the moon. Ahead of her, the Northern Glasshouse should have been dark.

Instead, a faint green glow moved behind its clouded panes.

The glasshouse had not been used for ordinary student work in years. Professor Elowen occasionally entered to inspect the old preservation beds, but students were only allowed inside under supervision.

Nessa considered returning to her Hall and pretending she had seen nothing. Then a shadow passed across the nearest pane.

Someone was inside.

The narrow door stood slightly open. A dull green key remained in the lock, and warm, damp air slipped through the gap. Nessa pushed the door wider and called Professor Elowen’s name.

Nothing answered.

Rows of stone planting beds stretched beneath the sloping roof. Condensation covered the glass, gathering around the old silver repairs that ran between the panes. The air smelled of wet soil, bitter leaves and something faintly metallic.

The green light had disappeared.

Nessa stepped inside and left the door ajar behind her. Old pots crowded the shelves, while faded wooden labels leaned at odd angles in the soil. Many of the plants appeared dormant, though thin roots had escaped several beds and curled through cracks in the tiled path.

A soft scrape came from the far end.

“Who’s there?”

The glasshouse door swung shut.

Nessa turned and hurried back, but the handle would not move. She tried the key, then realised it was no longer in the lock.

Another scrape sounded behind her, followed by the slow press of footsteps across damp tiles.

Nessa drew a small light into her palm. Its glow reached only as far as the nearest stone bed, leaving the rest of the glasshouse in shifting shadow.

Something moved across the roof.

It travelled silently over the panes, too long and narrow to be a person. Nessa followed its path until it vanished above one of the oldest preservation beds.

The soil inside looked empty.

Then something knocked beneath it.

Three taps. A pause. Three more.

Nessa approached carefully. A thin root had pushed through a crack in the stone and was striking against the side of the bed. Each movement was weak, but deliberate.

Cold air touched the back of her neck.

One of the roof vents had opened. Frost was creeping down the inside of the glass, spreading across the silver seams towards the empty bed. The root withdrew from it, trembling.

Nessa found the vent chain hanging beside the potting bench and pulled. Nothing happened. A dark vine had twisted around the mechanism near the roof, holding it open.

The footsteps began again.

They were closer now.

Nessa climbed onto the bench. The wood shifted beneath her boots as she reached for the vine. It was thick and cold, with pale thorns hidden among its leaves. One caught her sleeve and held fast.

Across the glass in front of her, condensation began to clear.

A figure stood on the other side of the pane.

It was shaped like a woman, although Nessa could see no face. Its outline was made from moisture and pale green light, one hand raised towards the frozen vent above her.

The vine tightened around Nessa’s sleeve.

She tore the fabric free, seized the stem with both hands and pulled. The vine resisted for a moment, then snapped away from the mechanism.

The vent slammed shut.

Warmth returned gradually. The frost stopped spreading and began to melt, running down the glass in narrow streams.

The figure remained where it was.

Nessa looked from it to the old preservation bed. Beneath the surface, the soil shifted. A small green shoot emerged, folded tightly against itself.

When Nessa glanced back, the figure had gone.

The missing key lay on the potting bench.

Professor Elowen found her there the following morning, sitting beside the bed with her torn sleeve wrapped around one hand. Nessa expected anger. Instead, the professor listened without interrupting, then examined the new shoot and the broken vine above them.

“This bed was tended by the same gardener for nearly fifty years,” she said at last. “She checked the vents every night the temperature fell below freezing.”

“What happened to her?”

“She retired long before either of us was born.”

Nessa looked towards the pane where the figure had appeared. A single handprint remained in the condensation.

That evening, frost settled over Merrenhaven again.

At midnight, the glasshouse vents closed by themselves.