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“Oh. Why?”
He sighed. “If you decide to bolt again, it might slow you down. You ran across two road junctions the other night. Lord knows what would have happened if I hadn’t caught you.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled as shame flushed my cheeks.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Emily, you don’t have to apologize. I’m just telling you what’s going on.” Putting the BMW into reverse, he pulled out of the drive, his mouth pressed into a hard line.
We drove in tense silence for a few minutes, and I wondered if I’d done something to sour his mood.
“Dylan?” I asked tentatively. I didn’t want to provoke him.
“Yes?”
“Does the school know about me? About my parents and Billy?” The edges of the void in my chest pulsed and ached, and my voice caught on my little brother’s name.
“Yes, they do. Why?”
“I… I don’t want to be defined by… the tragedy.”
Dylan’s eyebrows rose, registering his surprise and, I think, his admiration. From nowhere I remembered his tattoos, hidden now beneath his jacket.
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said. “I’ll make sure the school knows that.”
Mr. Springer, the headmaster, with his ill-fitting suit and wild crop of white hair, was amiable and welcomed me warmly as he expressed his condolences.
“Thanks,” I muttered but wished he’d not said anything. It was devastating that I didn’t have my parents—how could it not be—but I kept my response polite. Manners were a useful smoke screen, and I didn’t want to embarrass Dylan.
Kings Upper School was amazing. It had everything—its own swimming pool, an impressive gymnasium, and a boathouse that overlooked the Thames. There was a state-of-the-art music building. A whole building! Not just a room. And excellent art facilities too.
Mr. Springer was effusive about my GCSE results and the reports he’d received from my previous school and decreed that I could study whatever I wished. I’d decided on music, art, physics, and mathematics as my subjects, and Mr. Springer promised to put together a timetable for me.
“We look forward to welcoming you here in less than two weeks.”
Two weeks!
“Dr. Knightley, I’m sure your niece will be very happy here.”
Dylan shook his hand. “I’m sure she will, Mr. Springer.”
“What did you think?” Dylan asked as we walked back to the car. His tone was light, but it thinly masked his apprehension.
“It looks less old-fashioned on the inside.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Yes.”
His face relaxed and he grinned.
“Is it a private school?”
“Yes,” he answered as we climbed into the car, and his grin disappeared.
“So as well as my food and lodging, you’re paying for my education?” I murmured.
He rolled his eyes. “Emily, I’m your legal guardian, and I’m doing what I see fit. As for lodging, I have a house that is paid for, and as for food, you really don’t eat very much. This is a good school, one of the best in London, and I want you to have the best. I can afford it, so please don’t worry. And don’t start with the guilt thing… please.”
Arms folded, I stared mulishly straight ahead as we set off back to Chiswick.
