Читать книгу Autumn Rose - Abigail Gibbs, Abigail Gibbs - Страница 9

The atmosphere in the textiles room was electric. Kable was a small, rural school and news could spread in a break time, meaning that the topic of conversation was focused solely on the prince; and if anybody had not known about his arrival before, they knew within sixty seconds of stepping through the door. The two girls sitting at the table nearest the entrance almost pounced upon any newcomer, pleading for more information which I was waiting for someone to realize I possessed. It helped that I sat on the table furthest from the door and board, meaning nobody took much notice of me. I hid behind my thick hair, hunched over my sketchbook whilst I outlined a design for a dress for the upcoming unit of work.

‘Autumn, you’ll know the answer to this.’ Christy swung around in her chair, pushing the pile of fabric she had picked from the resource cupboard aside so she could lean closer. ‘He spent three years studying in Australia, didn’t he? He must have with a tan like that.’

My pencil pressed so hard against the page that the lead snapped. I brushed it aside, mustering an offhand tone. ‘Who?’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘You know who.’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘And he had a girlfriend there, right? But they split up.’

My chair scraped back as I snatched my pencil and sharpener and headed towards the bin. ‘Christy, I suggest you read Quaintrelle or some other gossip magazine if you wish for the prince’s life story.’

‘Man, don’t get your knickers in a twist, I was only asking.’

‘But you know him better than the magazines, don’t you?’ Tammy asked and I was surprised at her perceptiveness – I didn’t think any familiarity had shown.

‘We played together as children when I visited court. But I have not been to Athenea since I was twelve, so I do not pretend to know him.’

The lead of the pencil snapped once more, this time following a violent twist of the sharpener.

‘So do we have to, like, curtsey to him?’ Gwen asked, and judging from the quiet that had descended, most of the class was listening.

‘You can if you like, but it is not obligatory.’

‘Okay then, if I married him, how rich would I be?’

I couldn’t help but crack a smile at Gwen’s question, lighthearted as always. ‘Extraordinarily rich.’

‘Well, Gwen,’ Mrs. Lloyd said, appearing at the door carrying a tall mug of tea, topped with a lid. ‘If you work a little harder this unit than you did in the last, you’ll be able to make your own wedding dress.’

‘I was thinking Kate Middleton-esque. But in black,’ Gwen mused, holding up the square sample of lace she had brought along.

‘You can’t have black for a wedding!’ Christy protested and they started to bicker.

‘Girls,’ Mrs. Lloyd began, neglecting to address the three boys in the class as usual. ‘There shan’t be any time to make anything as extravagant as a wedding dress considering the powers that be have only granted us one lesson a week. Therefore, I expect each and every one of you to attend after-school sessions on a Thursday. If you don’t attend at least two per month, you will be struck from the register.’

A roar of disapproval erupted, all thoughts of the prince forgotten, if only temporarily.

‘Hush girls, if you dislike it, take it up with those who created the new timetable. Autumn, what are you doing?’ she exclaimed, noticing me for the first time. I lifted my pencil to explain, but she was already barking her orders for me to sit down.

I trudged back to my seat, flopping down into my chair with little grace. As I returned to my sketch, I distinctly heard Gwen giggling to herself on the opposite side of the wooden bench. ‘The prince has an after-school lesson on a Thursday too. I saw it on his timetable.’

I succeeded in avoiding him for the rest of the day. I did not regard it as an achievement, however; to even get close to him one would have to fight through a horde of girls and even the odd teacher.

Third period brought English, and with it, the arched, disapproving eyebrows of Mr. Sylaeia as I handed him my summer coursework. He made no comment, but placed it on the pile with the two or three others that had been completed.

Lunch presented the most problems. We sat in our usual spot on the field, splayed out on the steep banks that enclosed the track, my stomach growling because the canteen was devoid of anything vegan – again. The others eagerly watched the football team practice dribbles and tackles as talk turned to the prince; after ten minutes, there was a commotion beside the tennis courts from the direction of the main school buildings. I didn’t hang around to find out what was causing it.

As I neared one of the gaps in the fence that led back towards the school hall, I heard someone – a boy – call my title. A few seconds later, louder; closer, came the call of my name and the gentle probing of another conscious against my barriers.

The part of me that longed for this all to be a bad dream told me to hold my tongue, whereas my rational side demanded I answer – he was a prince, after all. My prince.

I turned my back to the fence. ‘Your Highness.’ I lowered into a quick curtsey, aware of how his entourage, my friends and the football team were all watching.

‘You dropped this.’ He held in his hand a strip of silk material that was usually tied around the handle of my bag.

I blushed. I ignored him and this is all he wanted?

‘Thank you. I’m much obliged.’

I took the tail of the material, but he would not let go. I tugged, yet he held fast.

‘You’re much obliged for everything, aren’t you?’

I did not miss the meaning in his words. My breath caught. If he were to tell the students, it would spell the end of any of the normality I maintained here in this micro-bubble, so far removed from the whirling social scene where I was Duchess, not Autumn. My eyes became wide – he wouldn’t, would he? – and I yanked on the scarf.

He laughed. ‘Sure you do not wish me to keep it? As a token?’

Like a length of string twisted into a knot I felt my patience shorten. If he refuses to let go, I will leave it.

A snort of contempt sounded from the sidelines of the pitch, where Valerie Danvers had stopped playing to massage her elbow. ‘Don’t bother with her, Fallon; she’s not worth your time. She never says a word.’

The material drifted away from the prince’s hand. Seizing the opportunity, I wrapped it back around my bag and squeezed through the gap, leaving the field behind as fast as I could. When I stole a single glance back, he had gone.