I’m actually feeling a little warm and fuzzy toward Dr. McKee when she says, “Laundry duty for both of you for the next four weeks.”
“What?” I ask. “But I didn’t do—”
“You lied,” Dr. McKee says, once again shuffling papers. “To protect a friend, I understand, but that doesn’t make it acceptable. Now out, both of you.”
“But—” Flora starts, and Dr. McKee lifts one finger.
“Out, or it’s laundry and bathroom cleaning duty.”
We both scramble out of that office so fast there are probably dust clouds behind us.
Once out in the hallway, Flora and I face each other, but before I can thank her for doing the right thing, she says, “I’ll be late for maths. See you later, Quint.”
She saunters off, and as soon as she’s turned the corner, Saks is rushing up to me, Perry in tow.
“Did they kick you out?” she hisses, and I shake my head.
“Did they kick her out?” Perry asks, and I shake my head again.
“No, no kicking out. Just laundry duty, whatever that means.”
Both Perry and Saks wrinkle their noses. “That’s actually fairly foul,” Perry says. “I got it last year for smoking on the grounds. You learn . . . way too much about your classmates doing their laundry.”
“Great,” I reply. “Really looking forward to that, then.”
The three of us head upstairs, and when Perry peels off for his room, I turn in the hall to face Saks. “She called us friends. Dr. McKee.”
“You and Dr. McKee are friends?” Saks asks, tilting her head so that her heavy dark hair slides over one shoulder, and I roll my eyes, shoving her arm lightly.
“No. Me and Flora.”
“Oh.” Saks’s face brightens. “Well, maybe you can be!”
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
When I come into our room later that evening, after supper and studying, Flora is already in there in her pajamas, sitting cross-legged on her bed, her wet hair combed out over her shoulders.
For once, when I walk in the room, she doesn’t give me a look. She smiles a little, leaning over to towel her hair, and I stand there, looking at her. At our room, which is so clearly split into My Stuff and Flora’s Stuff, complete with a line of tape across the top of the dresser.
“Are we friends now?” I blurt out, and Flora raises her eyebrows at me, letting the towel fall to the bed.
“I suppose so,” she says. “We’ve been through a traumatic experience together. That usually bonds people.”
“And that traumatic experience was completely your fault,” I remind her, and she gives one of those elegant shrugs that I’m beginning to recognize as a Classic Flora Gesture.
“The provenance of the trauma isn’t that important,” she says airily, and I can’t help the giggle that explodes out of my mouth.
“The ‘provenance of the trauma’? Okay, seriously, who talks like that?”
But then I remember that’s kind of a stupid question. Who talks like that? Princesses, of course. Royalty. Which is what Flora is, no matter how . . . normal she looks sitting there in her jammies.
Getting up from the bed, she walks over to the dresser and tugs at that strip of tape separating my rock collection from her fancy candles.
“There,” she says, balling up the tape and tossing it in the bin. “A new start.”
I’m not sure something as simple as getting rid of a piece of tape can be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but I still nod.
“A new start.”
CHAPTER 22
As far as punishments go, it definitely could have been worse. I mean, I’m not sure they could put us in the stocks or anything—me, maybe, but definitely not Flora—but who knows what sort of weird stuff they could come up with here in the Highlands? We could be forced to tend sheep or throw heavy rocks off fields or something. Okay, the rocks thing might not be so bad for me, but still.
So yeah, laundry duty seems a small price to pay for everything that happened during the Challenge.
Flora disagrees.
“This is barbaric,” she says, her perfect nose wrinkling as she hauls an armful of wet sheets out of the washer. “Practically medieval.”
The laundry room is down in what I guess was once the cellar or maybe where they kept uppity women back in the day, the stone floors uneven underfoot, and the light coming through the ancient windows watery and gray. It’s raining. Again.
“History is my second-favorite subject,” I say as I dump a cupful of strong-smelling detergent into the other washer. “And I’m fairly sure I don’t remember any mentions of fancy washing machines from the medieval period, but I guess I could be wrong?”
Flora shoots me a look at that. Her hair is up in a ponytail, but a few strands have escaped to curl around her face in the humidity of the laundry room. Little beads of sweat dot her forehead, too, but it strikes me that even down here, in the cellar, doing literal drudgery, there’s no mistaking Flora for anything but a princess.
“No one likes a smart-arse, Quint,” she says, but there’s a little smile curling there at the corner of her lips.
And maybe I smile back a little bit even as I say, “You know, this habit of calling me by my last name makes me sound like your servant.”
Flora hoots at that, slamming the dryer shut and twisting the dials on top. “Oh god, what a rubbish servant you’d make,” she says as the dryer begins to rumble and shake. “You’d probably spill tea on me just for your own twisted pleasure.”
I grin now, making my way over to the long low table in the middle of the room, where baskets of scratchy towels wait to be folded. “Actually, when I’m done with school here, I might apply for the job. Just commit myself to a lifelong scheme of revenge against you for what happened during the Challenge.”
I’m joking, but Flora’s smile dims a little as she comes to join me at the table. When she reaches out to pick up a towel, I notice that her manicure is chipped, two nails ragged like she’s been chewing on them.
Princess Flora, a nail biter? Who would’ve guessed?
“I am sorry about that,” she says at last, then looks over at me. “Truly.”
Clearing my throat, I shrug. I don’t like a sincere Flora. A flighty, pain-in-the-ass Flora is so much easier to deal with. “I know you are,” I say. “And we obviously didn’t die, so that’s a bonus.”
“We perhaps died, because this certainly feels like hell, or, at the very least, purgatory,” Flora counters, trying to fold a towel. Mostly she’s just balling it up, and with a sigh, I take it out of her hands.
“You might have a point, since ‘Teach a Princess How to Do Laundry’ absolutely feels like some kind of punishment from the gods.”
Flora rolls her eyes. “Oh, poor put-upon Quint,” she says, and I hold up one finger.
“No, we’re going to do this right. Observe.”
I pick up the towel, shaking it out and holding it by two corners. “First things first—we hold the towel like this. Then we bring these two corners together.”
I show her, and she picks up another towel, mimicking my movements. I have no idea if she actually doesn’t know how to fold a towel, or if she’s just going along with this because it’s a fun distraction from laundry, but in any case, she dutifully goes through the same motions I do until we both have a little square of towel in front of us on the table.
“Et voilà,” I say with a flourish, then grab another towel off the pile and toss it to her. “Now let’s see if the student has learned.”
Cutting me a look, Flora picks up another towel, snapping it out in front of her. “It’s hardly rocket science, Quint.”
She then proceeds to completely bungle folding the towel. Like, I can’t even describe what she does because it defies all laws of god and man, and also towels, and I laugh, shak
ing my head and walking over to her.
“Oh my god, Your Royal Highness,” I tease. “You are a royal disaster.”
Reaching around her, I pick up the towel, placing it back in her hands. Then, standing behind her, I go to guide her arms in the right movements.
“Corners together,” I say again, bringing her hands together with my own.
Only then do I realize just how close I’m standing to her, how her golden hair is falling over her shoulder and practically into my mouth.
How the way we’re standing feels awfully . . . close.
Clearing my throat, I back away so suddenly that Flora actually drops the towel. “Anyway, you’ll figure it out,” I mutter, going back to my own pile.
Flora is watching me, though, her cheeks slightly pink.
It’s just because it’s warm down here, the industrial washing machines and dryers making everything hotter and steamier than a basement room in a Scottish manor house has any right to be.
We finish folding towels in near silence, and I’m just reaching for a basket of sheets when I notice something shoved under the farthest basket, just at the corner of the table. It’s a magazine, an older one that’s sort of wrinkled and faded from the damp here in the laundry room, and I guess whoever had laundry punishment last was reading it. I tug it over to me more out of curiosity than anything else, and it’s only when I’ve got it right in front of me that I see Flora’s on the cover.
There’s big yellow text over her head screaming FLIGHTY FLORA STRIKES AGAIN! and in the picture, she’s got big sunglasses on as she makes her way down a cobblestone street, one arm wrapped tightly around her middle, the other held out against the photographers.
Yikes.
I go to shove the magazine back under the basket, hoping Flora is absorbed enough in trying not to mangle more laundry that she doesn’t notice me, but of course she does, and before I have a chance to hide the magazine again, she’s beside me, taking it out of my hands.
“Ah,” she says. “I see someone’s been reading up on me. How flattering.”
“That’s not mine,” I reply, tucking my hair behind my ears. “I just found—”
“Oh, I didn’t think it was yours.” Flora is still holding the magazine, studying her picture, her shoulders back and chin slightly lifted. It’s a pose I’m getting used to seeing from her. “Just one of our other classmates, I suppose. Still, it’s a good picture. My hair was smashing that summer.”
I stare at her. That’s all she sees in that picture? She’s practically being hunted down a street, the headline is calling her a hot mess, more or less, and she’s like, “My hair is good”?
Flora moves back down the table to her own laundry pile, the magazine left between us. It almost feels like a poisonous snake lying there, and I watch it warily.
Then I look back to Flora, who’s refolding the towels she’d already done, her movements stiff. “What was that about?” I finally ask. “You ‘striking again’?”
Sniffing, Flora tosses her newly folded towel into an empty basket, promptly undoing the work she’d done. “To tell the truth, I don’t even remember. I made a lot of mistakes that summer.”
She flashes me a smile. “Thank goodness I have so many publications keeping a record for me.”
Flora goes to move past me, carrying a basket to the door, and as she does, she lets one hand dangle free, pushing the magazine to the floor, where it lands in a puddle of damp from the wet sheets.
“Oh, dear,” she says breezily, heading for the door. “How clumsy of me.”
CHAPTER 23
“Laundry duty?”
I laugh, getting settled on my bed as I angle my laptop to see Lee better. “Okay, you say that like it’s the worst punishment anyone could ever get.”
On the screen, Lee flicks his hair out of his eyes. “It’s just bizarre,” he says. “Can you imagine getting in trouble at Pecos and them making you, like, wash gym uniforms? Haven’t they heard of detention in Scotland?”
“It’s actually not so bad,” I tell him, and am surprised to realize that’s the truth. I haven’t exactly loved doing everyone’s laundry the past couple of weeks, but spending time with Flora has been surprisingly unterrible. Whatever thawed between us up there in the hills has stayed unfrozen, and while I still think of Flora as basically a Posh Agent of Chaos, it’s been kind of nice getting to hang out, just the two of us.
“Um, what is that face about?”
I blink at the screen. “What?”
“You just made a face,” Lee says, grinning. “A dreamy face. Have you landed a Highlander, Mill?”
“Shut up,” I say, rolling my eyes, but Lee only laughs again, shaking his head.
“No, I know the face of Millie Quint with a Crush, and that was it. I have seen it, I know your secret heart.”
“It is not, and no you don’t,” I reply, but my heart is beating a little faster, and now I’m not just blushing, I’m beet-red. I can see it in the little rectangle at the bottom of my screen.
The door flies open, and Flora bounds in, her golden ponytail bouncing.
“Oh, thank god!” she enthuses, dropping down on her bed with a distinct lack of royal grace, and on my laptop, Lee squawks, “Who is that? Is that your roommate? I wanna see her—”
“Okay, gotta go, love you, love you, bye!” I trill at the screen before slamming the laptop shut.
I haven’t told Lee about Flora, or rather, I haven’t told him my roommate is also a princess, and something tells me that as soon as he lays eyes on Flora, he’ll know.
Not that there’s anything to know because there’s not; I do not have a crush.
“Who were you talking to?” she asks me now, propping her chin in one hand, a heavy envelope caught between her fingers.
“My dad,” I lie, then gesture at the letter.
“What is that?” I ask her, watching as she slides a finger along the closure, the thick paper making a satisfying ripping sound.
“This, dearest Quint, is freedom,” she says, and I try to ignore that “dearest,” and the funny things it does to my chest. It’s just Flora Speak. Everyone is darling, sweetheart, my love. Sometimes I think it’s because she can’t remember most people’s names.
“Look,” she says, tossing the heavy card inside my way.
It’s embossed with so many seals and crests, and the calligraphy is so intricate, I can barely read it, so I hold the card out, squinting at it. “Is this in English?” I ask, and Flora reaches out, swatting at me before taking the card back.
“Don’t play the rube with me,” she says, but she’s smiling. “It’s an invitation to a house party next weekend up on Skye, hosted by the Lord of the Isles.”
I sit back on my bed, toeing off my shoes. “The who?”
“Lord of the Isles,” Flora repeats, and I wiggle my toes at her.
“You can keep saying that all you want, I still won’t understand who you’re talking about.”
Sitting up, Flora tucks her legs underneath her. She’s got a hole in the knee of her stocking, a shockingly human thing on a goddess, and I suddenly have this weird urge to reach out with my foot and poke it.
That is an urge I very much do not give in to.
Instead, I make myself focus on her face as she says, “You really don’t know much about Scotland for someone who willingly chose to live here,” and I scoot up farther on my own bed, away from that hole in her stocking, that little circle of pale skin that I can’t seem to stop staring at.
“I know enough,” I say, a little defensive. “Mary, Queen of Scots. Braveheart. All that.”
“Oh, forgive me, you’re an expert in all things Scottish.” She plays up her accent as that sentence ends, the vowels rolling and growling in her mouth, and I giggle.
“Okay, don’t ever talk like that again.”
She
grins at me, then sits back on her heels, the invitation still in hand. “Fine, allow me to enlighten you. So years and years ago, way before your Mary and your Braveheart, the Isles were their own kingdom more or less, mostly because they were bloody hard to get to from Edinburgh. So they had a Lord of the Isles, who was basically in charge of Skye, the Hebrides, and you know . . . isles.”
“Right,” I say, even though I’m not sure I 100% know.
“Annnywaaaay,” Flora drawls, flopping back on her bed, legs crossed at the ankle, “in the sixties, they had this big uprising there because of oil or some such, and there was a vote to let them bring back their own lord, so now they have one, and that’s who’s throwing the party. Lord Henry Beauchamp. Apparently they had to hire professional genealogists to find out who was actually in line to be Lord of the Isles, it had been so long since they’d had one. Turned out to be some bloke living on a sheep ranch in Australia.”
Outside, it’s started raining again, a soft shushing sound cocooning us in our dim and cozy room. “So he’s like a mini king,” I say, “but of islands, not Scotland.”
Flora makes a scoffing noise, fanning her face with the invitation. The gilt seals catch the lamplight, winking at me. “Don’t let Mummy hear you say that. It’s more like he’s a sort of fancier- than-usual aristocrat. They can’t raise their own army out there, or completely secede from the country. But they have a few laws that are different from ours, and now they get to keep most of their oil money. Also, they’re more fun.”
I have calculus homework I should definitely be looking at, but it’s nice, sitting here in the gloom with Flora, and I have to admit, learning about this stuff isn’t completely terrible.
“More fun than you?” I ask. “Because that sounds dangerous and possibly illegal.”
Flora winks at me with a sly grin.
“They’re just not as strict,” she says. “Like I said, Lord Henry was from the other side of the planet, and his wife, Lady Ellis, was some sort of fabulous party girl in Swinging London. It was all very scandalous from what Mummy has said. Their children and grandchildren make me and Seb look like model citizens.”
Her Royal Highness Page 13