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30
December arrives the day I leave the medical wing. The air is frozen and silver frost decorates the grounds below. My breath almost crystallizes in front of me with every quivering, shivering exhale.
I’m greeted by my test grades and a whole bunch of marked papers. My highest grades are an A in physics, an A in English, and an A in maths. In politics, a big fat D stares me back.
“That’s a first,” Rory remarks lightly. “Whoever heard of getting a D in politics at apolitical academy? I’d be ashamed to show my face.”
When class ends, Dr. Moncrieff pulls me back and tells me that although my knowledge of political theory is relatively sound, my inability to analyze is what’s really holding me back. I don’t connect with the material enough and my judgments, whenever I show any, are allwrong. He encourages me to talk more to Arabella, beacon of goodness and granter of high grades, oh, lord bless us with saintly Arabella.
It could have been worse. In PE, I’m awarded an F.
Despite Rory’s words that I’mpolitical fodder, I actually have plans to salvage my politics grade and make something of myself. With Finlay’s help, my presentation should guarantee me at least a B unless I find some way to screw it up.
And it’d be so worth it to wipe Arabella’s smug expression from her face. She’s top of the year, with As across the board, and me sitting beside her with a D in politics just makes her look that little bit better.
I can’t stand her. It’s jealousy, obviously. But she’s had a much easier run of life at Lochkelvin compared to me, and now she gets to reap the benefits. The benefits of being related to the Headmistress. The benefits of already knowing your politics teacher. The benefits of having the school molded around you.
The benefits of being untouchable.
“Don’t worry, Jessa,” she tells me in an upbeat, insincere voice, gazing down at my politics paper with a gentle smile. “These aren’t official exams. Those come at the end of next term, so you’ll have plenty of time to catch up and revise everything you’re not sure about.”
I want to revise her face right into the wooden desk.
Her smile spreads. “And besides, you can make up your grade with next week’s politics presentation.”
It’s a good point. I’ve revised Finlay’s notes for a month now, so I have a better grasp of that than any other topic we’ve covered so far. I try to quell down on the reasonwhyI’ve studied Finlay’s notes so much — it’s definitely nothing to do with the fact that his handwriting is beautiful, that I’ve traced each loop every night with my fingers and breathed in the paper like a totally sane person.
But when the week of the politics presentation rolls around, Finlay’s notes are nowhere to be seen.
I search my bag. I search the library. I search the dining hall. And then I swoop over to the most likely culprit.
“Where are they?” I snap at Rory. It’s the breakfast before politics and I’m frazzled to pieces.
He raises an eyebrow at me, utterly composed. “Can’t you see I’m busy talking?”
He’s talking toLuke. He’s alwaystalking to Luke.
My eyes meet Luke’s and then quickly glance away. He’s gorgeous, radiant, as groomed and perfect-looking as the peacock his costume had been. I still haven’t told him the truth about the ritual, though I wonder if Li or Arabella have. It’s the kind of thing they’d sneer in delight, just to one-up on people with their knowledge. I don’t even know if Becca knows — though surely they’d have told her, their friend?
I should talk to Luke and Becca myself.
There’s a reason I’ve kept contact with them to a minimum.
I just don’t know how to talk to royals.
They make me feel… strange.
“Whit’s wrang?” Finlay asks. His legs lie on either side of the bench, his kilt fanned across it, and his gaze is intense and penetrating.
I swallow. I’m aware of the girls watching me. The culprit might not be Rory, though he’d have the most fun with it. It could beanyonein this dining hall, and that sickens me. It means I’m always jumping at shadows.
“My politics notes are missing.”
Finlay doesn’t react but there’s a hardness to his green eyes that wasn’t there before. “Ye can dae the presentation wi’oot them,” he tells me quietly, out of earshot of the others. “Ye’ve just gotta believe in yerself, sassenach.”
Believe in myself, like that’s so flipping easy in a school that wants me dead.
“Besides,” Rory adds in a bored tone, methodically stirring his porridge, “you’re not allowed notes for the presentation. It’s supposed to be off-the-cuff.”
