Page 11 of Outcast

All the anger drained out of me in a rush of guilt. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry.” Stepping forward, I held out my hand. “Emilia Hobson. Your new roommate.”

Still pressed against the wall between her picture of Billie Holiday and Nina Simone, she stared at my paltry peace offering and nodded. “P-pleased to meet you.”

I stepped back. “You know, you’re the only person who’s said that to me.”

Her arms dropped, and she held the plate at navel level with both hands. “W-what are they saying?”

“‘How do you do’ or something like that. I mean, how’s a person supposed to respond to a question like that?”

Rita’s full lips curved into a shy smile. She peered up from her lashes and said, “You’re supposed to say, ‘How do you do?’ back.”

My eyes bulged. “You’re kidding me!”

She dipped her head into her shoulders. “No, really. That’s the correct response.”

“Then why did you say you were pleased to meet me?”

Rita raised a shoulder. “I’m not upper class. Not even lower middle. I wasn’t brought up with people like that and only joined Mercia last year. It’s a bit of a minefield here, but you get used to it eventually.”

I chewed my lip. Eating sandwiches alone in a bedroom didn’t strike me as someone getting used to life at Mercia Academy, but I held my tongue. After a day of mean girls, a triumvirate of excruciatingly handsome wanna-be kings, and the oddity of dozens of people with Downton Abbey accents calling me a trollop, I felt ground-down and ready to snap. I couldn’t imagine surviving a year of this crap.

“Are you really going to eat that?” I gestured at a sandwich covered in saran wrap.

She frowned. “It’s what I get every day.”

“Come with me. We’re going to the dining room and having a real dinner. Together.”

“But no one ever allows me to sit with them.”

I crooked my arm. “There was an empty table at lunchtime. We can sit there together like a pair of outcasts.”

The hope that lit her eyes wrung my heart dry. “What if someone tells us to leave?”

“Then they’d have to carry us both out by our chairs because I’m not going anywhere.”

A hush fell across the dining room as we entered. I couldn’t tell whether it was for the trollop wanting a meal, for Rita’s entrance, or because we’d formed an alliance. I was judging it was a combination of all three from the way everyone gaped. I straightened to my full five feet and ten inches and raised my chin, challenging anyone to tell me a Yank didn’t deserve dinner. Nobody said a word as we walked through the dining room and sat at what I now deemed our table.

A server rushed over and took our order. The older woman beamed at Rita, seemingly delighted that she’d finally come to the dining room to eat. Blake, Edward, and Henry took their seats at the head table. I leaned over and asked in a low voice, “Why don’t teachers sit up there?”

“We only have our housemaster, Mr. Jenkins. His wife’s the matron of Elder House, and they prefer to eat together in private. All the other teachers eat in the staff dining room.”

“That sucks,” I muttered.

“It only works like that in the sixth form houses.” She poured herself a glass of water then raised the jug in silent question. When I nodded, she poured me a glass, too. “I was in Sycamore last year, where the House Master, his assistant, and the matron all dined with us.” She dipped her head. “They made sure everyone was included.”

“It’s ike a civilized version of Lord of the Flies here. What gives those three the right to sit at the head table?”

The server placed two plates of salmon and steamed vegetables in front of us, while Rita whispered her answers. Edward was the only son of the Duke of Mercia, whose ancestor founded the academy. While the land and the ancient buildings belonged to the family, the academy was technically a charity funded by wealthy patrons, alumni, and parents. They lived off the academy’s payments for the use of his land as well as other kickbacks related to ancient laws passed by long-dead kings.

I gaped. “That’s why he’s sitting on the head table like he owns the place?”

“He will one day.”

I shook my head. No wonder he thought he had the right to dictate who got to stay at Mercer Academy and who got to leave. “What about Blake?”

Rita’s eyes gleamed as she speared a new potato with her fork. “His mother is the second wife to the second in the line to the throne. I’ve heard him say that if his step-uncle dies, his stepfather will become the King of England.”

I leaned forward. “Who, Prince—”