Page 1 of Outcast

Chapter 1

Banished. That’s what I was. Mom’s new husband had banished me all the way to England. The worst part? She hadn’t done a thing to stop him.

I sat back in the limousine’s plush, leather seat, staring out at miles and miles of rolling green countryside. When Rudolph had proposed that I go to school in England, I’d immediately pictured London. But we’d left Heathrow airport three hours ago and I still couldn’t find any signs of Mercia Academy.

I pulled at the starchy, burgundy blazer and sighed. Things could have been worse. At least I spoke the language.

Marissa, the personal assistant of my new stepfather’s personal assistant, flipped through the academy brochure. “Remember, Rudolph said you have to complete a semester here to intern at any of the media companies of your choice within the Trommel Group. If you can complete the full two years, he’ll pay for college.” She beamed, revealing whitened teeth. “You won’t even need to apply for a scholarship.”

“Sure.” I’d only known Marissa for the duration of our journey from Manhattan, so I couldn’t share my true feelings with her.

The limo slowed through the narrow road of a village consisting of stone buildings and thatched roofs. All the stores stood along one stretch of road, with workers making morning preparations. My gaze caught an old woman placing a stacked plate of cupcakes in a window display. This had to be one of the Great British teashops Marissa had raved about on the journey.

“Oh,” Marissa pressed her face against the window. “How quaint!”

“If this is the shopping district, what will the school be like?” I muttered.

She didn’t reply, and I pressed the heel of my hand into my belly, which now ached with dread. It had been a mistake to tell Rudolph I wanted to be a journalist. The old man had taken advantage of my ambition and made me an offer so generous, it was impossible to refuse. I’d left my friends in New York for the opportunity of a millennium, but I’d never guessed the school would be so remote. Rudolph had probably had me sent away so Mom could focus all her attention on him. With thousands of miles of distance between us and a five-hour time difference, she’d likely forget about me… again.

“Emilia?” asked Marissa.

I pulled my gaze away from a butcher clad in a straw hat and a white shirt and tie under his blue-striped apron. “Yes?”

“You understand why you’re being sent here and not to one of the prep schools back home?” She placed a hand on my knee.

“Not really.” I couldn’t help staring at her long, red nails.

“Mr. Trommel thinks the only way you’ll get the mental toughness for a career in journalism is with a trial of fire.”

My mind blanked. Where were they taking me? Fight Club School? “Trial of…”

Marissa gave me one of those slow blinks, as if she was trying to remember a rehearsed speech. One of her false eyelashes had come loose at the corner of her eyes. “Rudolph says if you can survive a British boarding school, you can survive anything.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I asked, “Is this where he studied?”

She rubbed at her eye. “Of course not. Rudolph went to a run-down public school in Poughkeepsie, where he gained a sports scholarship to Harvard…”

I tuned her out and stared through the window. The Trommel history must be something all employees learned by rote. I’d read it on the company website, heard it from the man himself, and sat through it at his best man’s speech two days ago at the wedding. Rudolph’s trial of fire was B.S. He just wanted me out of the way because he needed Mom all to himself.

This backwater was so different from Park Prep, pangs of homesickness for Manhattan struck at my heart already. My best friend and former roomate, Noelle, would probably be sleeping now, so I couldn’t even have someone to help me commiserate.

The limo turned left out of the village and into a two-lane road bordered by green wilderness. On the left, a black-and-white sheepdog ran around its flock, guiding them toward an open gate further into the field. I sat back into the leather seats and took in the sights. I could admit that Mercia county was a place of outstanding natural beauty. Nothing like noisy, built-up Manhattan, with its few pockets of peace, like Central Park. Mercia seemed the kind of place where people strolled around, doffing their caps at each other and saying ‘good day, sir’ in posh accents. It offered politeness and boredom, not trials of fire.

About ten minutes later, the road formed a boulevard of tall, leafy trees that stood like sentinels holding up their swords and forming an arch. Their branches stretched across the road, providing a canopy of dappled light. Up ahead loomed a stone archway emblazoned with a coat of arms and the words, MERCIA ACADEMY. The opening was so grand it had a windowed room attached to each side and a wall that stretched for an eternity.

Through the arch were fields bisected by even more stretches of road, but no signs of a school. I ran damp palms down my pleated, gray skirt. “How big is Mercia Academy?”

Marissa flipped the brochure. “According to this, the entire site is seventeen-hundred acres. Twice the size of Central Park and bigger than Sherwood Forest!”

Dense forest bordered the fields, reminding me of a Robin Hood movie that had been fun to watch, but I’d never imagined living in a place like this. The thought of shivering in a drafty old castle with windowless rooms made my throat go dry. Would we need thick cloaks to stay warm? Candles to light our way? Chamberpots? I was going to miss the modern amenities of Park Prep.

I swallowed hard. “How old is this place?”

“Ummm….” Marissa furrowed her brow. “There were so many dates in its history, it’s difficult to tell. I remember something in the fifteen-hundreds.”

“That figures.” I clutched my belly to hold in the riot of butterflies trying to escape.

Wasn’t there an academy in London? One close to the subway and busses and other escape routes? We passed through the gates, and gravel rumbled under the limo’s wheels, making the lining of my belly rumble like the thunderclaps in old horror movies. This was a trap. I pulled out my smartphone and checked its signal. One bar. I’d bet a fine old English institution like Mercia Academy didn’t have cable or WiFi. I’d be isolated, which was exactly Rudolph’s plan.