Ok, Wait, until you read this. I almost flipped.

  Dearest Emily,

  We’re thrilled that you’ll be joining us for the summer at Sorell Hall! As we gear up for the upcoming gala and get to know each other better, we’d love for you to create a fun video where you share a little about yourself and let us know what you know about the abbey itself. Feel free to share as much or as little as you’re comfortable with—just let your personality shine through! We can’t wait to see what you come up with!

  To enhance your experience and to help with the video, we’re excited to provide you with a Vireo X-900-z cellular phone…I mean sick!… Right! The newest version! -complete with a new contact number for our communications before you arrive. Plus, we've already input a list of all the staff and administrative contacts at Sorell Hall, ensuring you have everything you need at your fingertips before your stay.

  We’re here to help make your time with us as enjoyable and smooth as possible! We look forward to your visit and ensuring your time at Sorell Hall is as comfortable and enriching as possible.

  Warm regards, The Sorell Hall Preservation Society

  I mean come on, who are these people? What a Ripper. Right? A brand new Vireo X900z! Too legit, this is crazy, never happens, I’m still trying to figure out all the features on this phone's video recorder, but here I go—hitting that record button, let's dive in!

  My name’s Margaret Emily Blackwell...but everyone just calls me Emily. I love my name. I know many people don't like theirs, but I do. It reminds me of bygone days—a simpler time, you know.

  Like hint, hint, maybe a grand old castle or garden parties. This is really funny because of two things... first — I’m like rubbish at parties. And second — I, Margaret, Emily, Blackwell, have just been invited to live at a castle for the entire summer.

  Flamin’ hell! I almost pissed myself!

  Well, it's not a castle, technically, it's a BLOODY majestic abbey on the cliffs of the Isle of Wight in England—Overlooking the ocean, but the devil's in the details, right?

  I’ve been asked to stand in as my Dad's representative at Sorell Hall for a very posh gala in his honor, and then I was asked to stay the summer and see one of his projects come to life. I can remember Dad working on the Heritage Rose Project.

  MATE! I can't believe my bloody luck! The Sorell Hall Annual Gala, the red carpet of England — that’s right. Me. Little Miss strange and weird Emily.

  But it's only thanks to my Dad, which is bittersweet.

  My Dad, Richard Blackwell, was a botanist…and a bloody damn good one. He spent most of his time either in mud over his Wellies or trapped in stuffy conferences that smelled like damp tweed, not you guys at Sorell Hall, the other conferences, you know - moving on, he'd always be dragging me through fields, and forests hunting for plants no one else cared about except, Apparently, Sorell Hall.

  Deep breath, Emily, it's been two and a half years since my Dad was shot and killed at a bloody takeaway shop in Sydney, crazy. Wrong place, wrong time. Stupid kid with a gun, younger than me.

  I don’t bloody know…what happened, but I was told he stepped in to protect a woman and her child and saved them both. I’m really proud of that.

  They called it a robbery gone wrong. I call it bullshit times. But none of that really mattered in the end. All I knew was my father was… gone.

  When he was home, he was home, one hundred percent. Badgie always said he had just enough Welsh in him to argue about tea like it was a legal matter and the weather like he had personally invented it.

  My mum was Jamaican — born in Kingston — and came to the Down Under when she married Dad. I never knew her. She died of cancer not long after I was born, so all I have are pictures and the stories Dad and Badgie tell me.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Sometimes, I think I remember her laugh — bright and warm — but maybe I’m just remembering the way Dad talked about her.

  Dad always said I was a "looker" like her and had her spirit — wild as the wind, stubborn as the sea, and with just a little bit of magic behind my ears.

  I asked Badgie about that one day and she told me mum’s blood carried Obeah — old island magic. Not broomsticks and black cats magic — but something quieter, the kind that shows you things before you even think to look.

  Like knowing a storm’s coming before the sky turns, or being able to feel which flower will bloom first. There are moments when the wind suddenly changes direction or when the ground vibrates beneath me, and I can't help but feel a surge of energy, knowing something incredible is about to happen!

  Anyway I feel that way now.

  I grew up in Richmond, Tasmania, a small historic town just outside Hobart — the kind of place where history clings to everything, and people know your business before you do.

  Badgie says, “Use what you’ve been given, girl about the knowing stuff — and if I ever find anything out juicy about snooty Mrs. Philips, I am to tell her first.

  After Dad, Badgie finished raising me on her own — Dad’s mum — Welsh to her bones, hands always dirty from the garden, and full of sayings that made sense right up until they didn’t.

  —like, “A crow on the roof means news at the door,” or “Don’t trust a wind from the east; it brings nothing but trouble and broken teacups.” I still don’t know what that last one means, but Badgie swore by it.

  I was that awkward kid who knew too much about soil pH and would rather talk to trees than people. Never quite fit in — anywhere, still don't really.

  Dad used to tell me all sorts of stories about Sorell Hall about how that place never fit in either but its the — spooky ones, I loved! the spooky ones.

  I guess only three “families” have ever held onto it. First, there was some ancient lot back in the Eleven hundreds, who called it Domus Custodes — which sounds impressive until you find out it just means House of the Keeper.

  Apparently, around the same time, a ship’s first mate even mentioned it in his logbook after the captain fell overboard — some kind of sailor’s curse.

  When I was younger, I remember thinking, “Yeah, more like he was probably just clumsy or was hitting the turps.” Honestly, I still reckon that’s probably the truth of it.

  After that, for the next six centuries, the place belonged to an order of nuns who called themselves The Order of the Wise and Worthy - yeah, you heard it, Wise and Worthy — which, if you ask me, sounds like a group that hands out leaflets and throws in a free tote bag if you sign up.

  Ok, all kidding aside — that’s when it officially became an abbey.

  Then, in the mid-Eighteen Hundreds, a generous benefactor (aka someone with more money than the Queen) funded the abbey’s transformation into what it is today — a house of learning and research center.

  That’s when the name changed from The Temple of Revelations (another heavy name from the nuns) to Sorell Hall.

  Oh, and just because history loves a bit of irony — there are parts of the abbey that are open to the public now.

  Imagine, hundreds of tourists and school kids stomping around loudly, leaving their chewy stuck all over the same halls, the Wise and Worthy, once walked in silent prayer.

  Then, two weeks before I finished Year 11, the letter came.

  Sorell Hall, the rich hub where my Dad spent countless days helping restore the gardens, felt it was important to pay tribute to his legacy. That's so amazing. The society decided that I should take his place at the honored role,

  a decision loaded with emotions, I have got to say. I mean, wow, standing in the very place where Dad made his mark and lifelong friendships, I can't even believe it!

  And I can't help but imagine him up, there, laughing, and yeah, he's up, there, I know it because he was a saint, for putting up with me and Badgie…anyway… He's laughing, that I’m soooo excited about something he had to exit stage left for...or is it stage right? ...it's one of those…I know it.

  I have read the invitation at least a hundred and fifty times, waiting for the words to change — like it was some kind of cosmic joke. But no. It was real. This is more than just a massive honor — it is the most thrilling spark in my otherwise pathetic life. Until this moment, I’d void of anything even hinting at an adventure. Summers are the worst!

  I can't shake the feeling that maybe Dad had somehow nudged this opportunity my way from wherever he might be. If that’s true — thanks, Dad. You're an absolute legend.

  When I got the invitation, there Badgie and I were — hugging….jumping up and down, crying… hugging, again, crying some more. It was craziness. Later that evening, before supper, she couldn’t stop grinning like the Cheshire Cat in her garden hat. I have a sneaky suspicion she knew all along. I guess they would have had to ask my guardian first, proper brits.

  Or… maybe she’s a secret double agent who just needed time this summer to save the world.Either way — I love her for letting me go.

  Isn’t it crazy how one little thing — a letter — can change everything?

  All that’s left before me, now is to gracefully handle a dazzling gala, complete with A-list celebrities, draped in their designer gowns and sharp tuxedos and keep my nerves in check, steer clear of that charming actor with the award winning smile trying to catch my attention while I am stuffing my face. Avoid any unfortunate mishaps like throwing up all over some fancy-pants and above all, do my Dad proud.

  Oh man… do I know how to ruin my own party.

  “So, I’ve got a fancy invitation, a brand-new phone, and absolutely zero clue what I’m doing. Stay tuned—because if there’s a way to trip over my own destiny, you're beginning to see, I’ll find it. Next stop? Sorell Hall and a crash course in how NOT to embarrass myself at a fancy gala.” Emily Blackwell

  A grand gala, a historic abbey, and an invitation that changes everything. Emily is the guest of honor, standing in for her father—smile, nod, and survive a fancy dinner, easy enough, right? But now, put yourself in her place. You’re the guest of honor. No pressure, right? Just you, a room full of famous strangers who actually know which fork to use, and a summer trapped in a place dripping with history… and maybe a few secrets. Some invitations open doors to new opportunities… but some doors were never meant to be unlocked.

  What would you do if you were suddenly the guest of honor at a gala in a faraway, posh abbey—one with a history no one wants to talk about?

  Would you be able to survive the gala? Or an entire summer away from home—especially in a place where the past refuses to stay buried?

  If fate came knocking… would you be ready to answer?