Her Royal Highness

by Rachel Hawkins

  “Similar social circles and all that. She wasn’t always as bad as she is now, though. In fact, when we were small, I quite liked her, but then when she turned thirteen, it all went a bit bratty, to be honest. Sebastian’s always been a mess. He got banned from an entire city block in London when he was only twelve. Or so the rumor goes.”

  “And this is the family you want to marry into?” I say.

  “Seb is a fixer-upper, and there is nothing I cannot improve,” Sakshi replies.

  Weirdly, I totally believe her. Sakshi could probably lead entire armies into battle armed with her confidence alone.

  And sitting at this table, battle seems like a feasible thing to plan.

  Dr. McKee stands at the opposite side of the room, just next to a large suit of armor and right under one of those thick windows with the wavy glass that barely let sunlight penetrate the room.

  “Ladies,” she says with a warm and genuine smile, “I cannot tell you what a thrill it is to be welcoming you to Gregorstoun. I’ve waited six years now to be able to actually address a roomful of students as ‘ladies.’”

  Saks leans close. “They hired Dr. McKee to bring Gregorstoun out of the Dark Ages,” she whispers. “So of course she started campaigning for women to be admitted, but it took years. Because patriarchy.”

  I nod. That makes sense.

  Dr. McKee is still talking, but to tell the truth, jet lag still has me firmly in its grip, so I’m struggling to follow along until I hear her say, “The Challenge.”

  Then I perk up.

  “The Challenge is one of the hallmarks of a Gregorstoun education,” Dr. McKee goes on. “In years past, it was used as an opportunity for some sort of outdated show of masculinity, so to fit both our changing times and our new commitments to the sort of school we’d like to be, we’ve decided that the Challenge will be a bit different this year. For one, you’ll be in pairs rather than working in larger teams.”

  It is so stupid, so totally elementary school of me, but as soon as Dr. McKee says “pairs,” my stomach drops a little. Sakshi seems nice, and I wouldn’t mind pairing up with her, but maybe she already has a close friend, someone she’s known for more than an hour, who she wants to pair up with.

  Unless we’re going to be paired randomly? That might save me the humiliation of trying to find a partner, but it still doesn’t seem ideal.

  And then Dr. McKee smiles and basically ruins my life. “And to make this a more immersive experience, your partner will be your roommate.”

  I can’t help but glance down the table at Flora, who’s already looking back at me with a bored and vaguely irritated expression.

  Me and Veruca Salt? Out in the wilderness together?

  “Of course, the Challenge won’t begin for another month,” Dr. McKee goes on with a smile. “So you’ll have plenty of time to plan out your strategy along with the rest of your schoolwork.”

  The rest of the meeting is reminders about rules, instructions on how to best balance “academic life with social pursuits.” And then we’re dismissed back to our rooms to “have some downtime” before school officially starts tomorrow.

  I wave good-bye to Saks as I head up the stairs, my limbs heavy and my eyes gritty. All I can think about is flopping onto my bed and sleeping, even though it’s barely 5 p.m.

  But when I get to my room, Flora is already there, standing by the foot of her bed, looking out the window.

  She’s also on her phone, even though one of the lectures we just got involved turning our phones over to the main office. We can have them on weekends, but not during the school week, something I remind myself to email Dad about.

  But then, I guess rules don’t apply to Flora.

  “Well, she’ll have to get over it,” Flora is saying now, one arm crossed over her stomach as she keeps looking out the window. “I told her that was one of the requirements of me going to school here.”

  There’s a pause, and she glances over her shoulder at me, lips pursing briefly. Then she turns back to the window.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m safe as houses up here, and you didn’t have to have security detail. Neither did Seb. So why am I the exception? And I warn you, if you say it’s because I’m a girl, I’m going to leak it to the papers that you slept with a blankie until you were eleven.”

  I don’t want to eavesdrop, but you kind of can’t not when you’re sharing a room with someone, and curiosity has me edging a little closer to the window to see what she’s looking at.

  It’s the guy from earlier, the red-faced one in the dark suit, and he’s putting suitcases in the trunk of a black SUV. He’s got a cell phone pressed to his ear, too, and as I watch, he drops a suitcase, flinging his free hand up in the direction of the school, and, I’m guessing, Flora.

  Her lips curve in a slow smile as she lifts her hand to wave at him, but he’s not looking.

  Then, sighing, Flora turns away from the window, flouncing onto her bed. She’s got the same boring white sheets and green blanket I do, and I can see she’s added some throw pillows. She’s also completely taken over the top of the dresser, and I frown as I look at the expensive scented candles, framed photos of Flora and a bunch of similarly gorgeous girls in big hats and gorgeous dresses, and . . . a porcelain hand?

  Apparently a ring holder, since all the fingers are decorated with various sparkly pieces.

  While Flora keeps chatting on the phone (To a prince, a part of my brain whispers, who will one day be a king, and who is her brother because she is a princess, you are living with an honest-to-god princess), I unzip my duffel and pull out the big Ziploc bag I brought with my favorite rock samples.

  Yes, maybe it’s a wee bit dorky to have favorite rocks, but whatever. I found some of these on trips with my dad, and others are from gem and mineral shows I’ve dragged him and Anna to. They’re a nice reminder of home.

  Moving over to the dresser, I don’t look at Flora as I begin moving some of the candles to the side closer to her bed.

  “Alex, let me call you back,” I hear her say. “I have a turf war to attend to.”

  Great.

  I ignore her, though, keeping my focus on my task as I place my favorite piece of hematite an inch away from her stupid hand statue.

  Leaning against the dresser, Flora studies me.

  “Are you a witch?” she finally asks. “Into crystals and all that?”

  “No,” I answer, putting my citrine just to the left of the hematite. “I’m a geologist. Or I’m going to be.”

  “A witch would be preferable,” she says. “Or at least interesting. What’s your name, anyway, O roomie of mine?”

  “Millie,” I say, finally looking up at her. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to looking at someone this gorgeous. Because pain in the ass or no—and she seems like a serious pain in the ass—I’ve never seen eyes like hers, so light brown they’re nearly the same honey-gold as her hair.

  Those eyes are narrowed at me now. “Millie what?”

  Is this some kind of test? “Millie Quint,” I reply. “Sorry, that’s all there is to it. No esquires or the thirds or anything.”

  Scoffing, Flora moves back toward her bed. “And American to boot.”

  “Not just American,” I tell her. “Texan.”

  “Will today’s bounties never cease?” she mutters, leaning down to pluck a magazine out of the leather handbag slumped on the floor.

  I look at her for a minute, then back to my rock collection. Reaching out to run a finger over my favorite one, a hematite sample I got in Arizona last year, I make myself say, “Look, I’m sorry about the Veruca Salt thing. I was just tired, and you were . . . really loud.”

  I’m sure princesses don’t snort, but it sure sounds like that’s what Flora does as she flips through her magazine. “Amazing that you think I’d be offended by someone like you insulting me, Quint
.”

  I clutch the rock harder. “It’s Millie.”

  “Actually,” Flora says, tossing the magazine to the bed and looking at me with a poisonous smile, “it’s nothing to me, because you’re not going to be my roommate long enough for it to matter what I call you. And that’s a promise.”

  CHAPTER 11

  It’s not that I object to physical fitness as a concept. It’s a good one, important for health and happiness, all of that. Yay, exercise. But there’s a big difference between popping into a yoga class on a Saturday morning and Gregorstoun’s idea of exercise.

  For one, it starts at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m.

  For another, it’s running.

  We did laps back at Pecos High, usually when our PE teacher couldn’t come up with any other activities, and I’d never been crazy about that, but at least it had been inside, around the gym where it was warm in the winter, cool in the summer, and there was much less chance of stepping in sheep poop.

  Which is exactly what I’ve just done.

  It’s rainy this morning, my fifth at Gregorstoun, and it’s also the fifth morning I’ve found myself doing our daily run in the rain.

  Dr. McKee insists this isn’t rain, but “mizzle,” a combination of drizzle and mist that, okay, sure, may not technically be pelting rain, but still ensures that I’m soaked within about five minutes. It’s also made the ground slippery, which is why my foot slid into said sheep poop as I rounded a corner.

  “Oh, gross,” I mutter, pausing there on the rocky trail, my heart hammering, my skin clammy, my sneaker maybe ruined forever.

  Sakshi stops beside me, still jogging in place, her long black ponytail swinging between her shoulder blades. “Problem, Millie?” she asks, and I gesture to my befouled shoe.

  Her nose wrinkles, but then she just shrugs. “Occupational hazard, I suppose.” With that, she gives a cheery smile and continues her own jog, hair still swaying.

  Suddenly I’m not sure if I like Sakshi very much.

  Perry clearly shares my feelings, coming to a stop beside me, his thin chest wheezing in and out, one hand pressed to his sternum. “They’re trying to murder us,” he wheezes. “That’s what this place really is, I’ve tried to tell people. A Murder School.”

  Looking back over my shoulder at where Gregorstoun sits on the hill, I have to admit it does look a little bit murder-y. It’s definitely very Gothic, all cold stone shrouded in mist. A few of the windows are bright against the gloom, which just has the effect of making the place look even spookier.

  Shivering a little, I nod at Perry. “I mean, I can see it. They definitely don’t show this side of things in the brochure.”

  Perry snorts at that, or at least tries to. I’m not sure he has enough breath for it. “I did wonder how they show this place off for the foreigners,” he says.

  “Little more Fairy Tale, little less Death Castle.”

  He nods. “Fair. Well, shall we?”

  Looking ahead at our jogging classmates, I suck in a deep breath, flick my wet bangs out of my eyes, and nod. “Not claiming us, Murder School.”

  “Two fewer victims for their roster,” Perry agrees, and off we go.

  It’s hard to believe I’ve been here nearly a week now. Also hard to believe just how quickly it started to feel like home.

  Okay, not home exactly. But there’s something about being here that’s made me feel like I’ve finally found a place to be my Most Me. The Millie-est Millie. I actually love going to class in rooms that are hundreds of years old. And while I don’t love running—should one run if a bear is not chasing one?—I have to admit as I look around at the hills rising up into the clouds, this beats the gym at Pecos High by a mile.

  Stopping on the path, I place both my hands against my lower back and take a deep breath, my chest aching from both running and how beautiful everything is. From the smell of the rain and the rocks under my feet. From—

  “You’re not going to start crying, are you?”

  I turn around to see Flora trudging up the path behind me, a cigarette in hand. She’s wearing the same sweatshirt and sweatpants they gave all of us for our “daily exercise,” but hers look a lot better than mine do.

  “No,” I tell her now, even though I had been feeling just the tiniest bit emotional.

  “Singing, then?” she continues, raising an eyebrow. “Definitely not singing, right?”

  “No singing, no crying, just going to keep standing here, minding my business,” I reply, turning back around to face the vista stretching out before me. I suddenly wish I had my hiking boots on and my jeans, my compass in my hand. I could spend hours out there, roaming the hills. This—this is what I came to Scotland for.

  Flora heaves out a sigh from behind me, and gravel crunches, so she’s probably stubbing out her cigarette. I don’t know because I’m not going to turn around and look because I am pretending she isn’t here. This is just me, out here, in Scotland, communing with—

  “Seriously, are you sure you’re not going to sing?”

  Pressing my lips together, I turn to look at Flora, who’s sauntered up to my side. “Yes,” I bite out. “In fact, I’m really trying to enjoy the quiet.”

  I make a point of emphasizing that last word, hoping she’ll get the hint, but Flora just crosses her arms over her chest and resumes looking bored.

  “This isn’t even one of the best spots in the Highlands, you know. Glencoe, Skye . . . those are places worth swooning over.”

  “Well, I’ll be sure and try to visit those,” I say, barely managing to unclench my teeth, “but this is nice, too.”

  Flora snorts. “Where did you say you’re from again?”

  “Texas.”

  “Ahhhh, that’s right, now things make a bit more sense.”

  “What does that even mean?” I ask, and Flora flicks a piece of lint from her uniform.

  “Just that you’re probably not used to views like this.”

  Okay. Well, that’s . . . true, but it still sounded suspiciously mean, so I turn away from her.

  Maybe if I don’t say anything, she’ll go away? Surely being ignored is Flora’s worst fear.

  So I stare and ignore while Flora stands and looks at me, and I can practically hear her mind whirring as she searches for some kind of baiting comment. We’ve mostly stayed out of each other’s way this first week, but there’s definitely tension brewing in our room. I still don’t know what she meant by that whole “not going to be her roommate much longer” comment, and I haven’t bothered to ask.

  Finally, Flora just rolls her eyes and starts half-heartedly jogging up the path.

  “Can already tell this is going to be a thrilling semester,” she calls out, sarcasm practically dripping from her mouth.

  Once the torture portion of the morning is over and I’m showered and back in my uniform, I go to my first class of the day, European history with Dr. Flyte. He appears to be about ninety thousand years old, which is maybe why he’s so good at history—he’s lived it all.

  It’s taken me the past week to begin to understand Dr. Flyte’s accent. He’s English, not Scottish, but every word comes out of a clenched jaw, and he’s never met a vowel he didn’t like to stretch out way past its natural shape. Now, as he stands in front of the class, hands clasped behind his back, his eyebrows about to take flight, I look down at my notebook, scratching out the “????” after “William” to add “the Conqueror.”

  Dr. Flyte keeps droning, and I keep listening as closely as I can, but it’s hard to do when I still want to look around me. This class is in what I guess used to be a study. The windows face the inner courtyard of the house, so not much light gets through. There are only a couple of lamps on in the room, adding to the whole gloomy feel, and while we sit in fairly regular desks, there’s no whiteboard or projector, no flag hanging near the door, no posters reminding us of i
mportant historical dates. It’s like the only effort they made to make this place a school was to drop some desks in and call it a day.

  And I like it.

  Class wraps up, and today’s notes only have a few of those “????s” in them, so I’m considering that a win as I head out into the hall, only to suddenly find myself surrounded by Glamazons.

  Okay, maybe “surrounded” is unfair when there are just two of them, but they’re still extremely tall and extremely shiny of hair, and as I look up at them, I realize they’re the two girls I most often see hanging around Flora.

  “Hi,” I say, pointing between them. “Just need to scooch by—”

  But the brunette moves in closer to the blonde, cutting off my escape.

  So it’s like that.

  “Caroline,” the blonde one says, “isn’t this the sad little American who took Rose’s spot?”

  “Hmmm,” the brunette muses, pretending to think it over. “Do you know what, Ilse? I think it is!”

  A handful of people are still moving past us, and I glance up, hoping to see Sakshi or Perry in the mix. Or really anyone who doesn’t look like a supermodel determined to Mean Girl me.

  But everyone who passes us seems to be very aggressively not looking in our direction, and I realize I’m on my own here.

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t take anyone’s place,” I say, then attempt the scooch maneuver again. “So I’ll just scooooooch—”

  “They only offer one full scholarship a year, did you know that?” Caroline asks. Up close, her features are a little too sharp to call her beautiful, but there’s something about the way she holds her shoulders back, chin lifted, that makes her seem more impressive than she is.

  “I didn’t,” I say now, still looking for a way around them. Being New Millie Who Confronts People has only gotten me into trouble thus far, so it’s back to Millie Who Avoids This Kind of Thing from here on out.

  But I couldn’t help adding, “I earned that scholarship, but I’m sorry that—”

  Scoffing, Ilse steps closer. “Earned. Rose’s family has sent students to Gregorstoun since its inception. This is the first year there hasn’t been a Haddon-Waverly at Gregorstoun.”