Her Royal Highness (Royals #2)(18)

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?”