Page 68 of Cruel Games

Elizabeth didn’t return to the academy on Monday, and she stayed away the entire week.

The next Sunday evening, I had dinner with Mr. Burgh, who refused to discuss her unexplained disappearance.

When she didn’t return the following week, I began to believe in the rumors that she’d had a nervous breakdown and was now languishing in a mental hospital.

The Monday before the end of term, Elizabeth returned to the academy without explanation. She sat between Orlando and Maxwell with her back straight.

Maxwell stared at her untouched breakfast but didn’t speak. Up at the head table, Father Neapolitan perched next to Mrs. Campbell like a vulture, staring down at the students with his lip curled.

I turned to Kendrick. “Do you know why she left?”

His brows furrowed. “According to Max, she said she returned home to help her father recover from his recent surgery.”

“Anything serious?” I glanced at Elizabeth, who stared straight ahead, seeming lost in her own thoughts.

“Nobody knows, but I suppose anything affecting a man that age can’t be good.”

I picked up the milk jug and added a splash to my porridge, which had gotten dry while I had waited for it to cool. “How old is he?”

“Older than the headmaster.”

My brows drew together. Mr. Burgh had mentioned being recruited by the archbishop, so I suppose it made sense that he was older.

But Lady Liddell looked about fifty. She had the same ageless quality as Miss Martin, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d treated herself to a few rounds of Botox.

“I’ve made a reservation for Saturday,” said Kendrick.

“How did you get a table?” Gideon took a slice of toast off the rack.

Tipping over a bowl of raspberries, I hid a smile. Even though Kendrick had said we would go as friends, I suspected he would ask me to reconsider our relationship.

Orlando and Maxwell had kept their interactions to glowers and the occasional growl as I passed them in the hallway, which I guessed was the influence of Kendrick.

Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of me wanted to say yes. But the other point-one percent was a vocal little bitch who held me back from fully trusting anyone associated with the occupants of Elizabeth’s table.

*

Up in the attic, I stood behind my tailor’s dummy, which had been arranged in a row of others. Each was clad in the creations we had made for the charity auction. Miss Martin inspected each garment’s hem, collar, and interior stitching.

“Miss McDonald,” she said to a short girl whose face had turned red. “You forgot to attach the lining to your jacket.”

The girl clapped her hands over her mouth. “Sorry!”

Miss Martin moved to the dress next to mine and walked around to the back. She beckoned Maeve over and pointed at a tangle of thread at the base of the hip.

“This needs unpicking,” she said. “You may as well finish it by hand.”

Maeve nodded. “Thank you, Miss.”

My heart thudded with trepidation. I had created a cashmere tuxedo dress with silk lapels and matching pocket flaps, using the tailoring skills our teacher had taught us throughout the term. The garment was cinched at the waist with a gentle flare at the skirt to create an hourglass shape.

Maybe it had been my attempt to impress the woman, but I hadn’t fallen back on any of the techniques I’d used for years in the sewing room. This dress was more haute couture than anything I’d ever created, and I longed to pass Miss Martin’s inspection.

When she reached my dummy, I stopped breathing. The fashion teacher wore a knee-length sheath dress with a scoop collar and darts that swept down from bust to hip. Not a difficult garment to make, but only a patient professional could have been able to cut the intricate blue-and-yellow peacock fabric to make the pattern seamless.

Miss Martin unbuttoned the dress, examined its lining, the seams, and even the buttoning. Her blood-red lips either thinned with concentration or disapproval. In my current state of mind, I couldn’t tell the difference.

After several moments, she said, “Nice work.”