by Sofia Daniel
“It’s his brother, Anteros. Some say he’s the avenger of unrequited love,” Henry replied with a bite to his voice.
The implication hit me in the gut. He thought my shitty attitude was getting in the way of what he wanted. My nostrils flared, and I glared at him through the corner of my eye. “What would he say about love formed under false pretenses?” Before he could speak, I added, “Where were you that time you went missing for a whole day and returned smelling of marijuana?”
He turned away, and adrenaline surged through my veins. If I had to guess, Henry had been relaxing with the kidnappers over takeout and a joint. Probably taking the time to call Edward and Blake to form part two of their plan to buy my silence with affection. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Mr. Frost had come down to work out the finer details of how to frame me if everything went wrong.
“I don’t know how to make a convincing enough apology to you,” he said in a broken voice. “Isn’t it enough that I’ve been disinherited and pictures of Blake and me are floating about the internet?”
All the anger drained out of me, replaced by emptiness. Perhaps it was time to let go of past hurts.
We returned to Elder House in time for the end of dinner. Charlotte toured the dining room like a circling vulture, swooping down on tables to have whispered conversations with each member of the rugby team.
“Why are they all so fond of her?” I asked Henry.
“We called her Butter Face behind her back,” he said. “Nice tits, but her face was lacking. I can’t think of a reason they’d follow her unless she’s offering blow jobs.”
I shot him a glare, but he shrugged. “When we returned from our… absence, they were still talking about Blake’s video.”
I shook my head, got out of my seat and walked toward Duncan’s table. The scrawny boy would have an idea of what was really happening. Not even Charlotte would offer to blow the entire rugby team. Double standards meant that actions like that invariably backfired on the girl, and some of the players, like Coates and his cauliflower ears, were gross. Duncan sat alone, picking at his rhubarb crumble and custard while leafing through his pile of newspapers.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked.
Duncan’s gaze flicked up over his thick glasses, and his lips quirked with distaste. Probably because I’d gotten Miss Oakley to confiscate his smartphone containing stills from Henry and Blake’s sex tape. “Oh, it’s you.”
That hadn’t been a no, so I slipped into the seat next to him. “Why did Alice go back to that group?”
“Changes are taking place within Elder House.” Duncan flipped open his copy of The Mail on Sunday and leafed through the tabloid’s pages. “Think of it as a paradigm shift. Old gods have fallen and new ones are taking their place. Just as you sat with those tossers last term for protection, Alice has joined Charlotte’s team to avoid becoming the victim of the upcoming bloodbath.”
I glanced up at Charlotte, who wrapped her arms around one of Coates’ battered-looking rugby friends. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t say, but it’s revolutionary.”
My eyes narrowed. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Won’t. The destabilization has been good for me. I finally have cool friends instead of being an outcast.”
I glanced around his empty table. If this was his definition of having friends, there wasn’t much point in continuing the conversation. “Thanks. I won’t trouble you any longer.”
As I walked back to the triumvirate through the maze of dining tables, tremors of dread shook the lining of my stomach. No matter what I thought of Charlotte, she was resourceful. That painful and humiliating walk through the gauntlet had been of her design, and she’d even whored herself to Mr. Carbuncle to make it happen. If she was planning a move against me, I had to be extra vigilant.
I reached the table and retook my seat, reporting back that Duncan hadn’t said anything useful except for vague hints of Charlotte’s plans. A server slid a bowl of rhubarb crumble with cream at my place setting, and I stared into my pudding. If anyone would know what Charlotte had been saying to her supporters, it would be the people at the Saturday Correspondent. Perhaps it was time to power up the burner phone I used to communicate with Jackie.
The next day, our new Latin Master noticed I wasn’t doing any of the work. When I explained that I didn’t know anything about the language, he sent me out of the class. Taking advantage of the time away from the triumvirate, I rushed to my room, sat on the edge of the bathtub, and called Jackie on the burner phone.
“Emilia!” she rasped. “Have you decided to work with us?”
“It’s just a tip off. Charlotte Underwood is up to something nefarious. Did your interns notice her making any plans?”
After a muffled sound of coughing and hacking, Jackie replied. “We’ve been watching her. So far, she’s been promising people tickets to a party to rival the Valentine’s Day Massacre.”
My shoulders drooped. “Is that all?”
“I need you to find out the name of her benefactor,” said Jackie. “Someone’s paid over thirty-five thousand pounds to get her back into the academy and financed all the work she’s had done on her face.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“What?” replied Jackie.
“I told Rudolph I wouldn’t give him any stories and I meant it. But this thing with Charlotte is personal. If something falls on my lap, I’ll pass it on, but I won’t go to any efforts after Rudolph reneged on our deal.”
Jackie let out a long sigh. “He won’t be happy.”
I hung up and shook my head. Did Jackie and Rudolph really think I would go sneaking about on their behalf after his colossal betrayal? If they did, they were as crazy as they were corrupt. The lunch bell rang, and I turned off the burner phone, straightened myself up in the mirror, and headed downstairs.
As soon as I reached the dining room, I found Blake in one of the middle tables, glaring into a letter penned in calligraphy script. It was the kind of quality writing paper used in high-class correspondence, but from his expression, it wasn’t good news. A shiver of apprehension skittered down my spine. The last time one of the triumvirate received a nasty letter, it had been from the supposed kidnappers. My attempts to help Henry hadn’t ended well for any of us.
A hand landed on the small of my back, and Edward’s cedar and cypress scent filled my nostrils. “Is everything alright?”
I nodded at Blake. “Something’s bothering him.”
Edward guided me to what had become the triumvirate’s new table. “Let’s find out.”
“Anything wrong?” Edward pulled out my chair and gave me a warm smile.
Henry strolled in and took the seat opposite mine.
Up at the new head table, Charlotte glowered down at us. Coates sat at her left and murmured something into her ear, but she didn’t react. Most likely because she was still preoccupied with ensnaring Henry. I raised my chin and gave her a triumphant smile. All the machinations in the world couldn’t get her what she wanted.
Blake sighed and slipped the letter into his pocket. “Mother has told the press I’ll be at Narcotics Anonymous in Kensington Town Hall.”
Henry shook his head and reached for the crystal water jug. “Why wouldn’t you go to one nearer to the academy?”
“You’re missing the point,” Blake snapped. “Why should I go to one at all?”
He gave Blake’s shoulder a squeeze. “At least you’ll have company.”
Blake’s gaze flicked to me, and his lips pursed. “Right.”
Bristling, I snatched a bread roll from the middle of the table. “If you think it’s a huge imposition for me to come along, I’ll stay in the academy. It’s not like I wanted to be part of your path to redemption.”
“Emilia will be at your side,” said Edward.
I curled my lip. “Since when were you my social secretary?”
“Since we own you,” said Henry. “Be quiet and finish your lunch.”
I flashed my eyes at Henry and stabbed my bread roll. He hadn’t been this ballsy yesterday in the back of the limo. Perhaps this was his form of petty revenge for my rejection of his affections. Imagining the roll was his testicle, I tore off a piece with my teeth. Sometimes, he could be such an asshole.
On Sunday morning, I met Blake at the entrance hall. Only the smallest of flames burned in the fireplace because of the warmer weather. Blake stood at the pigeon holes and examined its contents. He wore a navy blazer with stone-colored pants in a fabric that looked like a blend of linen and silk. Only one of the gold buttons of his blazer was fastened, giving him an air of smart-casual chic. I pursed my lips. With his glossy, black hair curving around his high cheekbones, he looked utterly irresistible.
“Are you ready?” I tried to keep the belligerence out of my voice. It was my fault he had to go to Narcotics Anonymous.
“One moment.” Blake stuffed a letter in his pocket and placed the other items back into the pigeonhole.
I glanced at the bank of cabinets on the left of the room. Each person’s mailboxes were arranged in alphabetical order, so what was Blake, whose last name began with S, doing so close to the end? I was about to ask when he raised his hand. “If you’re curious, we can talk later.”
Outside, the sun shone out of a cloudy sky, casting the campus in soft light. Pink blossoms covered the magnolia trees leading to the main teaching block, and a slight breeze carried their sweet scent. A limousine pulled up in the driveway by the steps of the house. Blake swept past me and opened the door.
He sat in the car and stuck his nose in the air, looking like he was striking a pose for the camera. “If you think we are friends after what you did, you can think again.”
The words landed like a slap, and I reared back. Blake had never expressed this level of vitriol in front of Henry and Edward. Tightening the muscles of my stomach, I raised my chin and sat straighter in the leather seat. “I was done with you months ago, when I realized we never had a friendship.”
The limo pulled out from the courtyard, its wheels rumbling over the gravel driveway. I fastened my seatbelt and folded my arms across my chest.
Blake’s haughty expression fell. “If I meant nothing to you, why did you bother to come back?”
I huffed an exasperated breath. He was always the first to flirt and to instigate sexual contact. And now, after declaring he wasn’t interested in me, he became upset when I didn’t fall to his knees and beg to be his friend. The boy was giving me whiplash.
“You’re making me regret my choice,” I muttered.
After clearing the campus, the limo sped down the long driveway that led to the front gates and then through the fields that led to the village. We sat in silence, each staring out of our respective windows, when Blake twisted in his seat and whirled on me. “Why did you do it?”
“Did I poke you in the ribs and ask you to stand in front of the common room and boast about becoming a prince?” My stomach churned at the lie, as I had all but goaded him into proving his worth.
“Who recorded it?” he snapped.
“You would have noticed me if I had a camera. Maybe one of the many people watching you that evening. How about the types always ready to shoot videos of people making fools of themselves to upload the footage to the Mercia-Net?”
“I find that hard to believe.” He turned to stare at the stone-fronted buildings of the village.
“Blake,” I snapped. “You’re the last person who should complain about being filmed doing something incriminating.”
“What?” Annoyance etched his handsome features, and one knee bounced up and down.
I rolled my eyes. Even though I wasn’t being completely truthful, his stupidity grated on my last nerve. “Look at what you did to Charlotte. She trusted you, and not only did you trick her into sucking you off, but you recorded it and then played it to everyone and made it look like I’d done it. And you wonder why someone wanted to give you a taste of what it’s like to have one’s vulnerable moments broadcasted?”
He opened his mouth to say something, then promptly clamped it shut. Likely because any arguments in his defense would make him a hypocrite. I might not have put up the camera above the mantle and I didn’t put those words in his mouth, but he had done all the things I had mentioned and worse. He folded his arms and fumed for the rest of the journey, leaving me a jumble of confusion.
Blake was something out of a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem about the girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead. When he wanted to be, he was the best of the triumvirate. He was friendly, fun, flirtatious, and so physically dazzling, it was hard to believe he was real. But then there was his horrid side, which craved chaos and loved to set things in motion so he could revel in the resulting car-wreck.
Despite this, there were glimpses of someone who craved love and attention, which gave him a vulnerability some might find endearing. Right now, all I could see was a gorgeous, empty-headed pain in the ass.
With a sigh, I sat back in my seat and pulled out my smartphone.
Whatever.
As expected, no messages arrived from Mom, but Dad filled my inbox with emails stuffed with goofy photos of him and the twins. I flipped through them, smiling at the cute pictures. Little Tamara had drawn a picture of her family and included a blonde-haired stick figure that was supposed to be me. Warmth spread across my insides. Even though Dad was half a world away and in no position to help, at least he kept me in his thoughts.
As the limo sped through London, Blake turned to me and spat, “You’re two-faced.”
“You’re hurt because I bested you,” I snapped.
“And duplicitous.”
A frustrated breath huffed out of my nostrils, and I turned to meet his accusing, chocolate-colored eyes. “If I am, I learned it from you. How many of those pranks did you help with, only to flirt with me afterward? All of them, most Ill bet.”
The limo pulled into the front of Kensington Town Hall, a blocky, red brick building consisting of octagonal shapes, where dozens of paparazzi jumped to attention and crowded the car door.
“Oh no.” Blake placed his head in his hands. “How may fucking reporters did they contact?”
“Your Mom?” I asked.
“And the palace, most probably. Shit.”
All traces of annoyance vanished. It was easy to bicker with Blake when I couldn’t see the repercussions of my actions, but the sheer number of reporters jostling each other for the glimpse of the royal rebel made my stomach drop. I had done this. And so had Rudolph. If those stills of Blake hadn’t hit the internet, the first scandal would have faded into the background by now.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, scooted across the limo’s leather seat and rubbed his back to a panoply of camera flashes. “Come on,” I said without moving my lips, just in case one of the nosey fucks outside was recording a video of us for later examination. “We’ll get through this together.”
Blake raised his head and turned to me, dark eyes shining with gratitude. “I’m glad you’re here.”
A lump formed in my throat. He should be spitting in my face, not smiling into it. I rubbed my aching chest. If I said too much, I would probably burst into tears. “Sure.”
The driver walked around his side of the vehicle and fought his way through the paparazzi to reach the passenger door.
Tiny prickles of nervousness spread across my skin, and my stomach hollowed. This was a different crowd of photographers to the ones I had following me around when I was with Sergei. They probably either belonged to the tabloids or sold their images to such establishments. Some of them jammed themselves and their camera lenses to the window, filling the limo with light. I stole another glance at Blake, whose skin took on the pallor of dead fish.
Once we had waded our way through the riot of photographers and walked through a reception hall consisting of various shades of brown, we entered a sad-looking room, half filled with well-fed, bright-eyed people I suspected were repor
ters.
The meeting itself was depressing. After the disguised reporters, Blake and I introduced ourselves and got our welcome hugs, we all read from a piece of paper, and the leader facilitated a group discussion. Neither Blake nor I participated but we listened to anecdotes ranging from the sad to the scary to the downright shocking. We exchanged glances. We didn’t belong here, and our attendance felt like voyeurism.
When we didn’t stay for the coffee and chat after the meeting, half the room followed us out.
“Emilia!” shouted a reporter as we stepped out of the town hall into the bright afternoon.
I raised my head and gave the man a bright smile. “Hello. Are you enjoying the weather?”
“Very nice. Did Blake break up your engagement with Sergei Bachmann?”
Plastering on a wistful smile, I said, “Absolutely not. The distance broke us apart in the end. I was always at school and Sergei was about to start a grand tour of Europe.”
“Are you going out with Mr. Simpson-West?” yelled another reporter.
“Blake and I are just good friends.”
Blake placed an arm around my waist. “I’d like there to be more. Emilia is an exceptional young woman and one I would love to get to know better.”
I gave him what I hoped was a bittersweet smile. “I’ve already given my heart to Henry Bourneville.”
“Emilia!” shouted another reporter. “What can you say about the scantily-clad tryst with Bourneville?”
My smile dropped. “It was between two underaged boys that should never have been published by respectable newspapers.”
The driver held the door open, but the reporters and photographers wouldn’t let us through to the limo until we told them we wanted to sit down to answer all their questions.
Despite my efforts to make Blake look good while maintaining the facade of being Henry’s girlfriend, Blake sat in the seat opposite me and sulked throughout the entire journey.