Her Royal Highness

by Rachel Hawkins

  Flora keeps rowing, leaning one way, then the other, her movements surprisingly graceful and fluid. Not to mention strong. We’re really moving through the water now.

  Grimacing, she looks over the top of her sunglasses at me. “Want to lend a hand, Quint?”

  “Right,” I reply, picking my oars back up. The sensation of facing backward makes my stomach lurch a bit, but I row and listen to Flora’s instructions, and soon we’re at Caroline and Ilse’s boat.

  I hear Flora drop her oars as the boats bump into each other, sending both rocking on the choppy water, and I turn around to face her and the other girls.

  Caroline and Ilse both smile brightly at Flora. “Hiiiii, Flo,” they singsong nearly in unison, and Flora smiles back just as cheerfully.

  “Hiya, ladies!” she trills, and then, to my horror, she stands up.

  “Flora!” I nearly shriek as the boat rocks again, harder this time, but she’s got her feet firmly planted, hands on her hips as she stares down at Caroline and Ilse.

  “So quick question, my loves,” she says, still grinning, but I remember this look from the pub and know that nothing good is coming. “Did you two attempt to bully Quint here?”

  The smiles fade from their faces, and Caroline looks over at me as I crouch lower in the boat, trying to tug at the hem of Flora’s sweater. “Sit! Down!” I hiss at her, but she just bats at my hand and stays right where she is.

  “Hardly bullying, darling,” Ilse says. “Just a reminder that she’s taking the place of someone . . . more deserving, let’s say.”

  I can’t see Flora’s eyes beneath her sunglasses, but I can imagine them narrowing. “Who—Rose?” she asks, then laughs. “Please. Rose Haddon-Waverly should be thanking her lucky stars she missed out on being sent here. And in any case, it’s not Quint’s fault she’s smarter than Rose. Granted, my mother’s dachshund is smarter than Rose, but the point stands.”

  Both Ilse and Caro are frowning now, shooting looks between me and Flora, and I slouch more deeply into my life jacket, the sides rubbing my ears, the smell of slightly mildewed vinyl heavy in my nose.

  “You don’t like Millie either,” Caroline blurts out. “You said she was boring and only cares about studying.”

  That stings a bit, but Flora only shakes it off. “Those things are just true,” she replies. “They don’t mean I don’t like her.”

  “Seriously, you can keep saying that all you want, but it still doesn’t make sense,” I tell her, but Flora ignores me, keeping her gaze on Caroline and Ilse.

  “Apologize to her,” she says, and I’m not sure who looks more shocked, me or the other girls.

  Ilse huffs out a laugh. “Darling, you can’t be—”

  “I am,” Flora interrupts. “And don’t call me darling. Tell Quint you’re sorry you were nasty, and promise not to do it again.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Caroline says, shifting on her little wooden bench. “You’re being ridiculous, Flora. You can’t make us do anything, you know. Princess or not.”

  Ilse is glancing around the lake now, tugging at the straps of her life jacket. “Caro—” she starts, but Flora and Caroline are still locked in their standoff.

  “So you refuse to apologize?” Flora asks, and a muscle ticks in Caroline’s jaw.

  “Get bent, Flora,” she practically spits out, and without missing a beat or dropping her smile, Flora lifts her foot from our boat and presses it down hard on the edge of Caroline and Ilse’s.

  Everything happens at once. The boat tips, the girls scream, our boat tips, and finally my fingers curl around the edge of Flora’s shirt, yanking her back from the edge even as our own boat rocks hard from side to side.

  Somehow, magically, we stay afloat.

  Caroline and Ilse are not so lucky.

  The force of Flora’s nudge probably wasn’t hard enough to tip them over, but their subsequent panic did the job, and both of them bob in the lake, shrieking, their boat upside down next to them.

  Grinning, her cheeks pink, Flora shoves her sunglasses on top of her head. “Seb taught me that trick!” she tells me. “I can’t believe it actually wor—”

  A loud crack snaps through the air, and Flora and I both instinctively duck before looking back to the shore to see Mr. McGregor standing there, one of the antique pistols over his head, a thin trail of smoke spiraling out from it.

  From the look on his face, I’m guessing the race is over.

  CHAPTER 16

  Flora and I are declared the losers of the boat race for “unsportsmanlike conduct,” which, honestly, seems pretty fair. We get off pretty easily as far as I’m concerned. No stocks, no dungeon, not even detention. Our punishment is to start arranging the gear for the Challenge, and since organizing camping stuff is one of my favorite things to do, I don’t mind.

  We’re alone, her and me, in our room, with a bunch of tents and various pieces of equipment spread out in front of us. Our job is to start putting them in bunches of separate packs.

  “Have you ever done anything like this before?” I ask Flora. It’s night in our room, and since there isn’t any overhead lighting, things are dim. Cozy, almost.

  “What, gone camping?” she replies, picking up the compass and frowning at it.

  “Camping, hiking, gone outside generally . . .”

  That earns me a scowl, and she tosses the compass back to the floor, where it rattles against a bag of tent stakes. “I’ve gone shooting.”

  “Do you see any guns here?” I sweep my hand over the supplies.

  Sighing, Flora gets up from the floor, dusting her hands on the back of her skirt. “I don’t see what the big deal is. It isn’t as though we’re going to be in the wilderness all that long. They wouldn’t let us. The lawsuits if something happened to someone?” Snorting, she folds her arms over her chest. “This is all meant as a bit of show, a little ‘oh, look what an interesting and progressive school we are!’ they can put on the brochures alongside ‘chosen educational institution of royalty.’”

  I look up at her. She’s standing by our door, her chin lifted, but there’s more than just her usual snobbishness at play here.

  “That really bugs you, doesn’t it?” I ask. “Being part of the promo materials.”

  “What?” She glances down at me, pursing her lips slightly.

  “It’s just that’s the second time you’ve mentioned them using your family as an advertising thing,” I say, going back to counting out tent stakes. “So it’s clear that bugs, and I get it.”

  Flora is still standing there with her arms crossed, but she’s watching me with a weird look now. “Nothing bugs me,” she finally says before turning back to her pile of gear, and I raise my eyebrows at her.

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, nothing save you at this moment, I suppose.”

  Ah, okay, we’re back to the Flora I know and loathe. Shaking my head with a muttered “Whatever,” I go back to arranging my own things into piles. A tent, six stakes, two compasses, two thermoses—

  “And even if I were ‘bugged,’ which I am not,” Flora suddenly says, “it isn’t as though there’s anything I could do about it. This is just . . . part of it.”

  “What?” I ask. “Being a prop?”

  Flora still isn’t looking at me, but her movements are jerky as she folds her own supplies. “Hardly a prop,” she says. “It’s simply that it’s irritating and slightly tacky to have people wanting you to be a walking advertisement simply because of your family. I happen to think I’m an interesting person with or without a crown on my head.”

  Ah, so that’s it. It’s vanity. That’s actually a relief, because for a second there, I had been dangerously close to feeling a little sorry for Flora.

  The horror.

  “What are some interesting things about you that have nothing to do with being a princess?” I a
sk, and she looks up from her stuff, eyes slightly narrowed.

  “Are you baiting me?”

  It’s all I can do not to toss a tent stake at her. “No, I’m serious. Look, since we’re roommates and about to be partners on this whole Challenge deal, we might as well try to get to know each other better. So please, enlighten me on the Things That Make You Interesting that aren’t royal-related.”

  For a long moment, I think Flora is just going to ignore me and go back to packing. Which might be for the best, really. But instead, she sits back on her heels, hands braced on her thighs, and says, “I’m an excellent shot.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Again with the gun talk? And okay, you can shoot clay pigeons or pheasants or . . . I don’t know, stags, whatever, but would you ever have the opportunity to do that if you weren’t royal?”

  That perfect brow wrinkles again. “Well, I . . . I might have. And anyway, that was just the first thing that came to mind. I’m also very good at fashion. Knowing what goes with what, how colors can complement and contrast. Last year, I even predicted that floral would be big again, but not in the spring, in the autumn.”

  She looks so pleased with herself that it feels mean to snort, but I really can’t help it. “Okay, so, again, would you have all this access to fashion and knowing what trends are going to hit if you didn’t also have access to a ton of fashion designers because, you know . . . royal?”

  Flora mutters a very rude word under her breath before shaking her head and picking up a rain guard. “I don’t know why I even bother trying to impress you with my skills since you’re so determined to see the worst in me anyway.”

  “Because literally all you’ve done is show me the worst,” I remind her. “You’re snobby, rude, and you nearly got me in a bar fight.”

  Rolling her eyes, Flora throws the shirt in her pile of things to pack. “Hardly a bar fight. Barely even a scuffle, really. You’re exaggerating. And anyway, a thank-you would not go amiss here.”

  “A thank-you for . . .”

  Flora looks up at me, lips pursed. “For defending your honor against that wanker? He kept asking you to dance after you’d said no. Completely inappropriate.”

  “Except that you were looking for some excuse to throw your brother and his friends into a fight so the school would kick you out.”

  “Wanting to get kicked out and helping you are not mutually exclusive,” she replies with the arrogance that hundreds of years of royal breeding can give a person.

  I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head a little. “You are such a piece of work.” Then I pick up another bag of tent stakes and toss it to her. “Put this with tent thirteen, please.”

  She does, making a fairly neat stack of things before gesturing for me to hand her another waterproof bag.

  I do before saying, “Today wasn’t another attempt at getting kicked out, was it?”

  Flora doesn’t look up, studiously stuffing a compass, first aid kit, and pair of hand warmers into the bag. “Course it wasn’t. You heard Mummy. I can’t get expelled, and if I try again, I lose royal privileges for a thousand years.”

  “I think it was four years, but yeah.”

  “So,” Flora says, looking up at me with a bright smile, “you can rest assured my days of attempting to get expelled are firmly behind me.”

  I nod, but there’s something about that smile—and the way it curls up when she thinks I’m not looking—that worries me.

  In today’s ROYALS: THEY’RE JUST LIKE US EXCEPT NOT AT ALL news, have you guys read up on this “Challenge” thing they do out at that scary boarding school Flora goes to? It’s like Outward Bound, I guess, but they basically dump a bunch of posh kids in the middle of the Highlands and make them camp for two nights to, like, Commune with Nature and learn skills? Which seems stupid to me since it’s not like these people are ever going to actually be in the wilds of anywhere except Hyde Park, but whatever, rich people, DO YOUR THING.

  Mostly, I’m just going to be warmed from the inside at the thought of Princess Flora having to camp for forty-eight whole hours. WHAT IF HER HAIR GOES UNSHINY??? THE HORROR!!!!

  (“What the Whaaaaaaat?” from Crown Town)

  CHAPTER 17

  The morning the Challenge starts is actually sunny.

  Okay, “sunny” might be too generous a term, but it’s not raining, and the clouds aren’t that thick, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s sunny. Scotland Sunny.

  And to tell the truth, I’m kind of excited. Okay, maybe a lot excited.

  Yes, having to do this with Flora is less than ideal, but finally getting out into Scotland? Real Scotland? Not even the prospect of two days alone with Flora can kill my buzz for that.

  Although, as we stand in front of the school waiting to get going, she’s certainly doing her best.

  “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever had to do,” she mutters against the lip of a Styrofoam cup of tea. It steams in the cold morning air, fogging up her giant sunglasses. From the neck up, she’s typical Flora—those sunglasses are Chanel, and her hair has been pulled into a high ponytail, but the ends are curled, and she’s wearing makeup.

  From the neck down, she’s as hideous as the rest of us are. We’ve got these khaki pants and long-sleeved T-shirts covered with a heavy vest, our standard-issue Gregorstoun raincoats on top. There are a few more layers in our bags, but mostly, we all look like slightly bedraggled zookeepers.

  Still, this is the best outfit for what we’re doing, even if not everything fits great. The school didn’t have Challenge uniforms for girls, after all, so we’re all making do with hand-me-downs except for the boots. I brought my best pair from home, and I wiggle my toes in them now.

  “The stupidest thing?” I ask Flora now. “I find that hard to believe.”

  I wait for the smart-ass remark, but instead, Flora just shrugs and says, “Fair point.”

  Narrowing my eyes at her, I shift my pack on my shoulders. “Are you sick?” I ask. “Or just freaked out about camping?”

  “Neither, Quint,” she replies, tossing out the rest of her tea on the gravel. It splashes a group of girls standing nearby. They give startled squawks of alarm, but when they see who threw the tea, they don’t say anything.

  Princess privilege, clearly.

  Flora shoves her empty cup into one of the side pockets of her pack, so at least she’s not adding littering to her list of sins.

  There’s a low rumble as five vans drive up, and on my other side, Sakshi shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I still don’t think this is necessary,” she says. “I mean, I feel very self-reliant, and also very in touch with the world around me.”

  “At least you get to camp with Elisabeth,” I say, nodding toward her roommate. “I’m stuck with Flora, and Perry is with Dougal.”

  Perry’s roommate looms over him, his shoulders so wide I’m surprised he can fit through doors. As we watch, Dougal punches Perry’s shoulder companionably, and Perry is nearly knocked off his feet.

  He grimaces, rubbing his arm even as he tries to smile at Dougal. Then he looks over at us.

  Kill me, he mouths, and Sakshi turns back to me.

  “You make good points, Millie.”

  We load up into the vans. The plan is that we’ll be dropped off at prearranged spots several miles from each other. Prearranged by the school, I should say. We have no idea where we’ll all be left, and as we rattle over the rough ground, I mutter to Sakshi, “Maybe we won’t be far from each other. I mean, we’ve all got to run into each other at some point, right?”

  Saks looks out the window. We’re climbing a hill now, the sky still fairly blue overhead, the hills a mix of green, yellow, and gray from all the rock.

  “Maybe?” she offers, and I lean past her to look at the series of valleys and dales stretching out below us. Suddenly, from up here, the school receding in the
distance, I realize just how far out we really are. Maybe they can spread us far enough apart that we won’t see each other until Monday.

  My stomach starts to twist a little bit. For the first time, it hits me that I’m about to be dumped out in the middle of nowhere and am expected to make my way back to the school in one piece.

  And I’ll be doing it with Flora.

  That’s maybe the hardest part to swallow, the idea of me and Flora having to rough it, just the two of us. And from the way she’s studying her nails next to me, clearly bored, I’m pretty sure the chances of me being eaten by a bear while she, like, checks her eyebrows in a compact mirror are now super high.

  “Are there bears in Scotland?” I ask now, which really seems like something I should’ve been curious about before now, but oh well.

  “Not for hundreds of years,” Mr. McGregor assures me from up front, but then he starts muttering about his pistols again, so it seems possible he’s lying, and oh my god, why did I want to come to Scotland in the first place?

  We crest a ridge, and the view through the windshield makes me catch my breath. In front of us, a stony hill climbs into the sky, snow still dusting the top, and to the right, the land sweeps away into a valley. I can make out the glimmer of a stream, and with the sun actually shining, it’s like something from a movie.

  This, I remind myself. This is why you’re here.

  Mr. McGregor puts the Land Rover in park and nods out the window. “All right, Team A-9, this is your starting point. Up and out, lassies!”

  Team A-9. That’s me and Flora.

  “Right,” I say as Flora just sighs and opens her door, practically sliding out of the van.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she mutters, and I bite back a comment about how that attitude certainly isn’t going to get us very far.