Her Royal Highness (Royals #2)(40)

Flora nods. “Yes, we were attacked by a stag, and that’s how we lost all our things. It was very traumatic. Wasn’t it, Quint?”

For all that I had said I wasn’t going along with Flora’s stupid plan, I find myself nodding. “A stag. Trauma,” I say, and Dr. McKee sighs.

“Miss Quint,” she says, fixing me with a look. “You wouldn’t be lying for the princess, would you?”

How does she know? Is she psychic, or am I just a terrible liar?

But then Dr. McKee begins shuffling papers on her desk and says, “Because Miss Baird’s friend, Miss McPherson, insists that Miss Baird told her two weeks ago that she did not plan on staying at Gregorstoun through the autumn and that she had a new plan to get herself sent home. Is that true?”

In the chair next to me, Flora doesn’t move, but I feel myself practically creaking as I stiffen up.

“I don’t. There wasn’t. I can’t . . . plan,” I manage to get out, and Dr. McKee frowns even deeper, the bridge of her nose wrinkling.

“Miss Quint,” she says, and then Flora sits up, clearing her throat.

“Actually, Caroline was telling the truth, Dr. McKee. It was irresponsible and reckless and selfish, and Millie had no idea what I was up to until it was too late. I asked her to lie for me, and threatened her with expulsion if she didn’t.”

That last part is not even remotely true, and I gape at Flora. Did our few hours all wet and cold break her?

Or is she actually kind of a decent person under all of that bitchiness?

Dr. McKee just stares at Flora, her hands still folded on her desk. When she finds her voice again, it’s to ask, “Do you hate it here so much, Miss Baird?”

Flora swallows, and fidgets a little in her chair before answering. “I thought I did,” she says. “But it’s . . . not so bad. Those girls who came to help us, Sakshi and Elisabeth. They were . . . nice.” She rolls her shoulders, uncomfortable. “And Millie—Miss Quint—has been nice to me even though I don’t really deserve it. So. I don’t know.”

She schools her face into that bored expression I’ve seen so many times. “Maybe there’s something to be said for this whole ‘sisterhood’ thing.”

“Might have been more effective without the air quotes, but thank you, Miss Baird,” Dr. McKee says.

Then she looks back and forth between us. She’s not all that old, Dr. McKee, I realize. Probably only in her thirties. Maybe she has a brother who went here, or a boyfriend or something. Maybe getting to come to Gregorstoun was her dream, too.

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.