Her Royal Highness (Royals #2)(19)

Looking ahead at our jogging classmates, I suck in a deep breath, flick my wet bangs out of my eyes, and nod. “Not claiming us, Murder School.”

“Two fewer victims for their roster,” Perry agrees, and off we go.

It’s hard to believe I’ve been here nearly a week now. Also hard to believe just how quickly it started to feel like home.

Okay, not home exactly. But there’s something about being here that’s made me feel like I’ve finally found a place to be my Most Me. The Millie-est Millie. I actually love going to class in rooms that are hundreds of years old. And while I don’t love running—should one run if a bear is not chasing one?—I have to admit as I look around at the hills rising up into the clouds, this beats the gym at Pecos High by a mile.

Stopping on the path, I place both my hands against my lower back and take a deep breath, my chest aching from both running and how beautiful everything is. From the smell of the rain and the rocks under my feet. From—

“You’re not going to start crying, are you?”

I turn around to see Flora trudging up the path behind me, a cigarette in hand. She’s wearing the same sweatshirt and sweatpants they gave all of us for our “daily exercise,” but hers look a lot better than mine do.

“No,” I tell her now, even though I had been feeling just the tiniest bit emotional.

“Singing, then?” she continues, raising an eyebrow. “Definitely not singing, right?”

“No singing, no crying, just going to keep standing here, minding my business,” I reply, turning back around to face the vista stretching out before me. I suddenly wish I had my hiking boots on and my jeans, my compass in my hand. I could spend hours out there, roaming the hills. This—this is what I came to Scotland for.

Flora heaves out a sigh from behind me, and gravel crunches, so she’s probably stubbing out her cigarette. I don’t know because I’m not going to turn around and look because I am pretending she isn’t here. This is just me, out here, in Scotland, communing with—

“Seriously, are you sure you’re not going to sing?”

Pressing my lips together, I turn to look at Flora, who’s sauntered up to my side. “Yes,” I bite out. “In fact, I’m really trying to enjoy the quiet.”

I make a point of emphasizing that last word, hoping she’ll get the hint, but Flora just crosses her arms over her chest and resumes looking bored.

“This isn’t even one of the best spots in the Highlands, you know. Glencoe, Skye . . . those are places worth swooning over.”

“Well, I’ll be sure and try to visit those,” I say, barely managing to unclench my teeth, “but this is nice, too.”

Flora snorts. “Where did you say you’re from again?”

“Texas.”

“Ahhhh, that’s right, now things make a bit more sense.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, and Flora flicks a piece of lint from her uniform.

“Just that you’re probably not used to views like this.”

Okay. Well, that’s . . . true, but it still sounded suspiciously mean, so I turn away from her.

Maybe if I don’t say anything, she’ll go away? Surely being ignored is Flora’s worst fear.

So I stare and ignore while Flora stands and looks at me, and I can practically hear her mind whirring as she searches for some kind of baiting comment. We’ve mostly stayed out of each other’s way this first week, but there’s definitely tension brewing in our room. I still don’t know what she meant by that whole “not going to be her roommate much longer” comment, and I haven’t bothered to ask.

Finally, Flora just rolls her eyes and starts half-heartedly jogging up the path.

“Can already tell this is going to be a thrilling semester,” she calls out, sarcasm practically dripping from her mouth.



Once the torture portion of the morning is over and I’m showered and back in my uniform, I go to my first class of the day, European history with Dr. Flyte. He appears to be about ninety thousand years old, which is maybe why he’s so good at history—he’s lived it all.

It’s taken me the past week to begin to understand Dr. Flyte’s accent. He’s English, not Scottish, but every word comes out of a clenched jaw, and he’s never met a vowel he didn’t like to stretch out way past its natural shape. Now, as he stands in front of the class, hands clasped behind his back, his eyebrows about to take flight, I look down at my notebook, scratching out the “????” after “William” to add “the Conqueror.”

Dr. Flyte keeps droning, and I keep listening as closely as I can, but it’s hard to do when I still want to look around me. This class is in what I guess used to be a study. The windows face the inner courtyard of the house, so not much light gets through. There are only a couple of lamps on in the room, adding to the whole gloomy feel, and while we sit in fairly regular desks, there’s no whiteboard or projector, no flag hanging near the door, no posters reminding us of important historical dates. It’s like the only effort they made to make this place a school was to drop some desks in and call it a day.

And I like it.

Class wraps up, and today’s notes only have a few of those “????s” in them, so I’m considering that a win as I head out into the hall, only to suddenly find myself surrounded by Glamazons.