Her Royal Highness

by Rachel Hawkins

  Queen Clara looks a lot like Flora and not much like Seb. Same golden hair and whisky eyes, same way of looking at you like you smell bad.

  I fight the urge to give myself a quick sniff check, and instead stand very still as the queen moves forward, holding out her hand to Dr. McKee.

  The headmistress takes it, giving a quick curtsy that I try to memorize. One foot behind the other, a kind of quick up-and-down bob where she never bends at the waist but does lower her head. It comes naturally to Dr. McKee, but when the queen approaches me, my knees tremble so much that just standing feels like a challenge, never mind pulling off a freaking curtsy.

  Honestly, I’m a little surprised to be this rattled. I’ve dealt with rich kids here for the past couple of weeks, made friends with two very rich kids, and my roommate is a princess. But they’re still all just kids, like me. A queen, though? That shakes me up.

  Perry bows his head. Sakshi executes a flawless curtsy, and while mine is nowhere near as good, I try my best.

  Apparently my best is not that great because the queen’s lips thin slightly as she gestures for us all to sit.

  She stays exactly where she is, ramrod straight at the end of the pew.

  “This is not what I had intended to do today, Flora,” she finally says. “In fact, I had all sorts of plans, didn’t I, Glynnis?”

  The woman with the iPad glances up and scurries over, her footsteps tiny, probably because the skirt she’s wearing doesn’t allow for anything more. Everything about her is bundled up tight, from her killer suit to her intricate updo.

  “The Royal Schedule did have to be rearranged some, yes, Your Majesty,” she says. She smiles then, but it’s not a nice smile, and at my side, I feel Flora tense up.

  “Oh, what a shame,” she says. “So sorry to have kept you from your usual Saturday of cutting ribbons and kissing babies, Mummy.”

  It’s all I can do not to turn and gawk at her, but then, I guess Flora knows exactly how much she can get away with when it comes to her own mother.

  The queen presses her lips together again, her hands folded in front of her. “Flora, one of the reasons we decided to send you to Gregorstoun was to curb some of your more . . . irrational behavior.”

  “You sent me here as punishment,” Flora counters, and the queen sighs, just the littlest bit. It’s weird to think that in addition to running a country and being a ruler, she’s also just . . . a mom. A mom dealing with a daughter who doesn’t know how to stay out of trouble, I guess.

  “I’m sorry you see it that way,” she finally says. “But I assure you that was not my intent. However, with the wedding coming up—”

  “Oh, is there a wedding coming up?” Flora asks, widening her eyes with fake surprise. “I haven’t heard a thing about that. Has anyone alerted the media?”

  The queen sucks in a deep breath. “Flora—”

  “I’m not an idiot, Mummy,” Flora says, sitting forward, her fingers curled around the edge of the pew. “The wedding is why I’m here. You want me out of the way until it’s done.”

  “And if I do,” Queen Clara counters, her voice suddenly gone hard, “can you blame me? After you’ve caused yet another scandal that’s embarrassed us all?”

  The silence that falls feels heavy and awkward, and even Glynnis looks up, a little crease between her brows. Next to me, Flora goes still, and I see her knuckles turn white where she’s gripping the pew.

  “No,” she finally says. “I suppose not.”

  “What about Seb?” I blurt out, and everyone looks at me, the queen included.

  My face flames hot, and I stammer out, “I—I mean, Prince Sebastian. Just. He did the actual punching and stuff.”

  “Sebastian is being dealt with,” the queen says, “as are his foolish friends for allowing themselves to be . . . weaponized for your nonsense, Flora.”

  I wrinkle my nose at that, glancing over at Flora. “What does that—” I start, and then I remember. Flora and Seb’s furtive conversation, her asking if all his friends were there. The way she whistled the boys over. Had she somehow engineered this whole thing?

  “I, however, am not so foolish,” the queen goes on. “And while I’m sure you thought this was a flawless plan to get yourself kicked out of Gregorstoun and sent back home, I have been your mother far too long to dance to your tune so easily, young lady.”

  Drawing herself up to her full height, the queen signals for Glynnis, who comes clicking over on her high heels.

  “Dr. McKee has very graciously agreed with me that expulsion is hardly a fit punishment here,” the queen says as Glynnis types away on her iPad. “In fact, expulsion is simply out of the question for you full stop, no matter what other schemes you may plan. You are at Gregorstoun for the remainder of the school year, and that is final. If, however, you decide to test me on this . . .”

  A subtle flick of Queen Clara’s fingers, and Glynnis is leaning over, the iPad offered to Flora, who’s still sitting on the edge of the pew, doing her best to look bored.

  That expression falls right off her face when she sees whatever is written on the iPad, though, and I lean a little closer, trying to read it myself, but Glynnis pulls it back before I can.

  “You wouldn’t,” Flora finally says, and her mother gives Glynnis another one of those finger snaps.

  “I would,” she answers. “I will. A complete revocation of royal titles and privileges until your twenty-first birthday. A bit fairy tale, perhaps, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  We all sit there, taking that in. Flora looks a little gray, and even Saks has gone somber and quiet. Personally, I don’t know what “royal titles and privileges” entail, but it seems intense.

  Clearing her throat, Dr. McKee signals for us all to stand. “Well, I think that sorts things out,” she says.

  But at that moment, Sakshi leans over me and Flora both, bobbing into another curtsy and saying, “Your Majesty, I’m not sure if you remember me, but I’m Lady Sakshi Worthington. My father is—”

  “The Duke of Alcott,” the queen replies, still holding herself stiff. “Yes, I’m aware. I had hoped you’d be a better influence on my daughter, Lady Sakshi, given what a role model your mother has always been. And yet here we are.”

  Sakshi’s mouth opens and closes, and at her side, I see Perry tugging her back to her seat.

  “No one influences me, Mummy,” Flora says, throwing up her hands. “I’d think you would’ve at least worked that out by now.” Then she shoots a look at Dr. McKee. “And now you have another fun thing to add to the recruitment materials—‘visit the local pub where Princess Flora got into her thirty-fourth brawl!’”

  With that parting shot, she sashays out of the chapel.

  The queen gives a nod to Dr. McKee and then she and Glynnis head out as well, leaving me, Saks, and Perry with our head- mistress. Now that the queen is gone and I don’t feel as terrified, I step closer to Dr. McKee and ask, “Are we . . . in trouble?”

  Am I in trouble is what I mean. As in Scholarship Trouble.

  But Dr. McKee just takes a deep breath before patting my arm. “One of the most important lessons here at Gregorstoun is how to course-correct after making a mistake. You made a mistake yesterday, but I’d hope you have indeed learned from it.”

  I nod so hard it’s a wonder my head doesn’t go rolling off. “Oh, totally,” I assure her. “Much learning. Course-correcting like a boss.”

  Dr. McKee smiles at that, but it’s a little sad, and then she reaches out and pats my arm again. “And, Miss Quint?” she says. “Maybe be a little more selective in whom you call a friend.”

  I’m still thinking that over as I head back to our room. Did Dr. McKee mean Flora when she told me to be careful who my friends were? Because Flora and I are definitely not friends. We’re barely acquaintances.

  I open the door to find that
acquaintance standing by her bed, pulling things out of a carryall with a fancy gold charm dangling from the handle, her back straight.

  I’d left for the chapel before Flora, so I hadn’t realized she’d already packed up. She must’ve been supremely confident that her plan was foolproof, and I can’t help but scoff a little as I shake my head, making my way to my own bed. It’s Saturday, and I have reading to catch up on.

  And then I remember Jude’s message on my laptop. With everything that happened, I totally forgot about it, and I look at my computer now, wondering if I should answer. But no, it’s still early morning in America, and Jude never gets up before noon.

  Later. I’ll get to it later.

  Flora turns, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Come to gloat?” she asks, and I bite back a sigh as I rummage through my desk for The Mill on the Floss.

  “No,” I tell her. “Trust me, I’d love it if your plan had worked out.”

  Book found, I look up at her, tucking my hair behind my ear with my free hand. “You didn’t even care if we got in trouble, too, did you?”

  Flora turns to her bag, taking out a framed picture and putting it back on top of the dresser. “You wouldn’t have. You didn’t, obviously.”

  “But you couldn’t have known that,” I argue, and Flora just sighs again before rummaging in her bag for something. She plucks out a roll of tape, the pretty kind used in crafts and scrapbooks, pink with little daisies on it.

  Then, as I watch, she crosses the room to the dresser and peels off a long strip of the tape, neatly bisecting the top of the dresser into two halves—mine and hers.

  “Do you want to put a line across the floor, too?” I ask, and Flora gives me a sickly-sweet smile.

  “The thought had crossed my mind. Especially since it’s clear we’re together for the long haul.”

  I flop down on my bed, crossing my legs at the ankle. “You know, this place isn’t so bad. I don’t get why you hate it.”

  “Because my life isn’t here,” she replies, tossing the tape onto her own bed. “My life is in Edinburgh with my family and my friends, and people I actually enjoy spending time with. My brother is getting married in three months, and I should be there, not . . . not hidden away up here like an embarrassing relation.”

  Put that way, I get why she might be a little pissed, and I open my mouth to say so, but before I can, she mutters, “This is boring. I’m going to go see what Caroline is doing.”

  And for the second time that day, I watch Flora flounce away.

  CHAPTER 15

  “This seems bad.”

  Saks, Perry, and I stand outside on Monday morning, huddled together against the chill. Normally, this is when we do our laps, but this morning, we’ve all been told to gather on the shores of the loch behind the school.

  There are a bunch of brightly colored wooden boats on the beach there, oars balanced across them, and I have an idea of what today’s physical fitness is going to look like.

  Sure enough, Dr. McKee comes to stand in front of us, dressed in a dull green tracksuit with the Gregorstoun crest over her heart. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, and her cheeks are ruddy with the cold and, I think, excitement. A silver whistle dangles around her neck, and she’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  “Students!” she calls out. “This morning, we have a real treat for you!”

  “This is not a treat,” Saks says in a low voice, vaguely mutinous. “Those boats are the opposite of treats, those boats are—”

  “Tricks?” I supply, and Saks looks over at me, hugging her arms tight around her body.

  “I was going to say ‘turnips,’ but yes, I see where tricks makes more sense.”

  “How did turnips make any sense?” I ask, but Saks is looking at Dr. McKee now, who’s gesturing to the boats.

  “As you know,” she says, “the Challenge is merely a few weeks away. Consider this your warm-up. You’ll be teaming up with your roommate, and whoever makes it across the loch and back first wins.”

  Ugh. Rowing a boat with Flora?

  I look over to see where she is, and no surprise, she’s standing between Caroline and Ilse, all three of them managing to make their own Gregorstoun tracksuits look better than they should.

  Mr. McGregor steps forward then. He’s wearing his usual uniform of heavy sweater and pants of an indeterminate color, his white hair bushy around his head, his beard looking especially dense this morning.

  “And the winners of this race,” he says, hefting up an ornate wooden box, “will receive these.”

  He flips up the latch to reveal—

  “Antique dueling pistols handed down the McGregor family for over—”

  “Ohhhh no,” Dr. McKee says, moving forward with her hand outstretched. “No, no, no, no one is winning those, Mr. McGregor, despite their . . . obvious value.”

  Mr. McGregor’s eyebrows take on a life of their own as he scowls at her, but he closes the box with only a little bit of grumbling.

  “No, the winners,” Dr. McKee says to all of us in a louder voice, “will receive a free dinner at the Bayview Inn restaurant in the village.”

  “The pistols are probably less deadly,” Perry mutters next to me.

  I have no desire to win a dinner out or a pair of antique pistols, but I like to win on principle, so I’m practically rubbing my hands together in anticipation as Mr. McGregor hands us all ancient life jackets and directs us to the boats along the shore.

  Flora flops down into ours without a second look at me, sitting on the bench with her chin in her hands as she looks around.

  “Do you want to lend a hand?” I ask her.

  “Not really,” she replies, and I bite back a lot of comments to that, concentrating instead on shoving us out from the shore.

  We were told to wear our galoshes today, and I did, but I can still feel the bite of the cold water through the rubber as I step into the loch.

  Jumping into the boat, I situate myself on the bench, taking up my oars while Flora’s still dangle in the rowlocks.

  Apparently, I’ll be rowing us on my own.

  And that’s fine with me. Boats are not exactly my specialty, but I’m strong enough, and the water is flat and smooth as we glide across it. I feel my spirits lift a bit as I take a deep breath, smelling the mineral scent of the loch, the freshness of the breeze, the—

  “You’re making the singing face again.”

  I scowl at Flora, the moment ruined. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a boat passing us, and I row a little harder.

  “Can I ask you a question and get a serious answer?” I ask Flora even as I yank the oars with all my might.

  On the other side of the boat, Flora rests her chin in her hand again. “Probably not.”

  That’s honest at least.

  I pull on the oars, the wood creaking, and our boat barely inches across the lake. The wind has picked up, whipping tiny waves that set us rocking, and suddenly the water just under us seems very dark and forbidding and possibly filled with monsters.

  So I take my eyes off that, and put them back on Flora to ask, “What exactly have I done to make you dislike me so much? Other than the Veruca Salt thing, which, given the way you were acting that morning, was fair.”

  “I don’t dislike you,” Flora says with a shrug, her giant sunglasses still covering half her face. She’s got the collar of her shirt turned up underneath her Gregorstoun-issue sweater vest. Her dull orange life jacket is just a little too big, and her long hair blows in the breeze as I attempt to row us.

  “You could’ve fooled me,” I reply, and Flora sighs, leaning back in the boat, her legs stretched out in front of her.

  “I just say whatever comes to mind,” she says. “Sometimes it’s nice, sometimes it’s not so nice. Depends, really. You shouldn’t take it personally.”

 
I gape at her, the oars still in the water. “So the other day, when you asked if I was going to start crying or singing, that wasn’t personal?”

  “I genuinely thought you might start crying or singing.” Another shrug, this one a lazy, barely-there lift of the shoulders.

  “Saying you thought Saks took me on as a ‘charity case’?”

  “She’s always finding someone who’s not exactly in her set to befriend. She’s practically famous for it. And while you’re not truly tragic, you’re not an aristocrat, so . . .”

  I give the oars another yank.

  “Okay, how about how you refuse to call me by my name?”

  “Quint is your name, is it not?”

  “It is, b-but—” I start to splutter, then, rolling my eyes, I heft the oars again. “Okay, fine. So none of those things are mean in your view. And I guess having your friends gang up on me in the hallway was also some kind of—”

  “What friends?” Flora says, sitting up.

  I nod across the lake to where Caroline and Ilse are lazily rowing their boat, clearly not interested in a dinner at the Bayview Inn.

  Flora follows my gaze, squinting across the water. “Caro and Il?” She snorts. “Hardly friends, darling.”

  “You hang out with them all the time,” I remind her, and she tosses her hair over her shoulders, fixing me with a look.

  “Are you friends with everyone you hang out with?” she asks with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

  I stare at her. “Yes?”

  Another scoffing sound, and then she’s picking up the oars and sliding them into the water.

  She pulls hard, and to my shock, the boat lurches in the water, shooting ahead of Saks and Elisabeth, who are next to us and starting to go in circles.

  Actually, as I look across the lake, I see that . . . everyone is struggling. Saks and Elisabeth aren’t the only people spinning around aimlessly, and I can see Perry sort of slapping at the water with his oar while Dougal, slouched low in the boat, is clearly texting.

  On the other side, there are three boats that aren’t moving at all, and when I glance over my shoulder at the shore, I can see Mr. McGregor with his hands cupped around his mouth, shouting something unintelligible at all of us. Maybe encouragement, maybe insults, who can say? We can’t hear him over the wind.