Page 5

FIVE

ROSE

Every ounce of my energy is focused on suppressing the urge to rest my head on the headmaster’s desk while I wait for him to come into the room. It’s rather a lot more difficult than it sounds. That is, I suppose, the inevitable outcome of being awake for almost thirty-four hours, minus a devastatingly brief nap. There’s only so far you can travel fueled by caffeine and self-preservation.

Last night was the Royal Renaissance Gala, which is held every year on the birthday of my great-great-grandmother, Queen Alarice. It is, as its name implies, a Renaissance-themed charity gala, in which the richest of the rich wear Renaissance-inspired couture and faff around marveling at the preserved period pieces on display and the courtly dance ensemble, all while a madrigal choir drones on in the background.

Purportedly, its main purpose is to raise funds to restore historical landmarks and promote cultural heritage—causes that were apparently dear to my great-great-grandmother’s heart—but it’s not lost on me that it’s currently viewed as a chance to put a night of socializing down as a tax write-off by most, if not all, attendees.

This year, it fell on a Sunday—the Sunday I was meant to move into my room at Bramppath, no less—but that certainly wasn’t a good enough excuse for me to miss it as far as my parents were concerned. After all, one cannot host the Royal Renaissance Gala sans the full suite of royals, can one? Anarchy would surely reign. Vive la révolution!

Unfortunately, the celebrations lasted well into the night, and by the time I made it to Bramppath I barely had time to lay my head on the pillow before it was time to meet with the headmaster and prefects. Somehow, I made it through a day’s worth of classes—though I couldn’t tell you a single word that fell from a professor’s mouth all day—and I nearly made it to my room at the end of it all. In fact, I was only meters away from Dewitt, and the sweet oblivion of sleep, when the headmaster flagged me down in the middle of the courtyard and asked me to meet him in his office. I would have dearly loved to give him a graphic list of things I would rather do—for example, drive a searing hot poker through my eyeball—but I find it’s best to start the school year off on the right foot, and so I swallowed my words and turned on my heel.

And here I have been sat for over five minutes. Five excruciatingly quiet minutes.

The polished chestnut wood seems every bit as appealing as a goose-feather pillow at this moment. I’m in the middle of debating whether I have long enough to sneak in a nap when the headmaster hurries in, juggling a stack of papers and notebooks. “My apologies, Rosemary. A lot to do on the first day.”

He drops the paperwork onto the desk with a thump loud enough to shock me from my exhausted haze, and I straighten at once. “That’s fine, sir. May I ask…?”

“Oh, you’re not in trouble,” the headmaster assures me, taking a seat and folding his hands before him. “I just wanted to check in with you. See how you’re handling everything.”

I take care to keep my expression measured. “Everything?”

“Your new role, the new building…”

The headmaster is one of those people who can effectively communicate exactly what they mean just through the gleam in their eye, regardless of the message their body language would otherwise send. Right now, he’s doing just that. His bottom lip is sticking out, and one broad shoulder is raised in a shrug, and he’s tossed up one knobby-fingered hand in a manner that’s clearly meant to convey carelessness. But his eyes—his eyes are saying he’s certain I know exactly why he’s asking after me.

And, of course, I do.

“I would say everything’s going as well as could be expected,” I say. “Given…”

I wave my own hand now, mirroring his gesture.

“The circumstances,” he finishes for me.

“Yes.”

The circumstances. It is, I suppose, an efficient way to summarize the events of the last half year. The night in Amsterdam—its consequences—the aftermath—the backlash from the public—the disappointment from my parents—the judging eyes that seem to fall on me throughout every conversation at every family event. Molly.

Oscar.

As soon as his name appears in my mind, I wipe it clear. I do my best to think of him as little as possible. There’s no good in it. What happened, happened, though if thinking of it could somehow rearrange the events of June, then I would. I would think through every second, relive every moment in vivid, graphic detail, again and again if I must, until what I did was finally undone. But as it is, dwelling on it achieves nothing of any real importance.

I tried, once. I let myself think his name, and instead of pushing it away, I let my mind follow the path that name led it down. For perhaps ten seconds, I allowed myself to understand—really grasp —what happened that night.

It felt like drowning.

I haven’t allowed it since.

“I have to admit,” I say, “I was surprised to receive the prefect offer.”

The headmaster studies me for a long time. For now, his eyes and body language are perfectly aligned in their earnestness. “Do you know why I chose you for the position, Rose?” he asks finally.

“I hope it wasn’t out of pity, sir.”

It’s impolite of me, I know it is, but the words leave my mouth before I can censor them. That’s what sleep deprivation will do to a person, I suppose.

He raises his bushy gray eyebrows and purses his lips. “It was not out of pity,” he says, in a tone that is surprisingly gentle. “Do you know who I believe is the least likely person to do something reckless and ill-advised?”

I meet his eyes. “Who, sir?”

“Someone who has recently done something reckless and ill-advised, and is paying dearly for it.”

I tear my eyes from his, staring at his desk instead. My mouth goes dry, and my upper lip twitches against my will. His words land heavy. I have, after all, already made a vow to myself—multiple vows, really—to toe the line perfectly this year. For the rest of my life, too, if I can manage it, but this year seems like a reasonable starting point.

I intend to never experience anything like these last three months again.

When I don’t reply, the headmaster continues, gentler still. “I wonder if you might reconsider my offer of grief counseling.”

“No, thank you,” I say.

“Our psychologist, Miss Billows, is well equipped to help.”

“I’m certain she’s wonderful at what she does,” I say. “But I’m not grieving.”

“Rose—”

“I’ve met all of my commitments,” I go on, speaking over him. Rude again. “I completed all my holiday reading preparations. I’m not housebound, I’m not antisocial, I’m not in tears. I feel fine.”

I do feel as though if I’m not excused to go to bed within the next two minutes, my eyeballs might detach themselves altogether, fall backward into my skull, and tumble right down my throat. But I digress.

The headmaster has that look about him. The one adults wear when they’re quite certain they know your inner world much more intimately than you ever could. “Are you happy, though?”

I’d be happier if I were asleep. “Of course I am.”

He stares at me, studying my face. If I thought a smile would help my case right now, I’d force one, but somehow I think it would read slightly false.

“Whatever you need, Rose,” he says finally. “If you want to take me up on the offer, or if there’s anything I can do…”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, hardly daring to hope the meeting is at its end. But then, glorious days, he dismisses me, and I lurch through the door before he can change his mind and all but sprint to Dewitt. Sidney, who was stationed outside the headmaster’s office that whole time, follows after me, and then heads into his own room down the hall. He probably needs a nap of his own at this point. His shift commenced in the middle of the night, when he escorted me to school from the palace.

My room was set up by some of the palace staff while I was at the gala. When I arrived in the night, I was far too tired to take any of it in. In fairness, I’m still far too tired, but with the afternoon light streaming through the parted curtains it’s hard to miss the details now.

The charcoal bedsheets are brand-new and rumpled from my brief time in them this morning. My bedside table bears the same stained-glass lamp as last year, and the photo collage Eleanor made for my birthday hangs cheerfully above the bed. Two dozen unknowing smiles to mock me from above as I sleep, just what the decor called for. The photos are familiar—Molly and me, side by side on the bus on the way to a school soccer match. Eleanor, Molly, and me at last year’s formal. Alfie, Florence, and Harriet, laughing at something, drinks in their hands. Oscar, Molly, and me sitting around a table at Molly’s birthday dinner.

I wrench my shirt over my head, pull off my skirt, then step onto the bed and unhook the collage. I slide it down the side of the bed, and it scrapes the wall on the way down until it hits the carpet with a thud. Then, I collapse face down onto my pillow.

I’m asleep before I even pull up the covers.