Read Online Kiss of Death by Lauren Henderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Lauren Henderson
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assures Stewart. “When we find out who did this, she will be very severely disciplined.”
“Glad to hear it, miss,” he says, standing aside as the teachers start shepherding the girls back into the school again.
Taylor helps me up; I’m surprisingly unsteady on my feet.
“Shock,” the firefighter who looked after me says to us laconically. “Go slowly, lassie. And get some sleep.”
“Thank you,” I say, handing him back his water bottle.
It’s so bright inside I find myself shading my eyes again with my hand. My throat’s sore, even after drinking the water. Taylor’s by my side as we follow the rest of the girls upstairs, one hand cupped under my elbow. Just in case.
“Ooh, look at Scarlett and Taylor,” Plum coos, “all cozy and—”
“Shut up, Plum!” every single girl in earshot snaps simultaneously.
Small mercies, I think, managing to smile.
“Go to your rooms, all of you,” Aunt Gwen says to us grimly. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. And if I hear one peep out of any of you …”
She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
“I’m so tired, ” I say as I push open the door to our room. “I could sleep for a week .”
There’s a piece of paper on the floor. It must have fallen there, knocked off the desk when Taylor and I were evacuating the room, bleary-eyed and stumbling. Automatically, I bend over to pick it up.
“What is it?” Taylor asks, seeing me stare down at it, unable to believe what I’m reading.
Silently, I hand it to her. It’s been torn from a notebook, white paper with faint gray lines making little boxes all over the background. Something about the paper’s very familiar, but I can’t access that memory right now, because I’m focusing on the thick black letters very carefully printed across the center of the page.
No , I realize . Not printed; stenciled.
Clever . You can’t trace handwriting from a stencil.
And it reads, in capital letters:
YOU CAN’T RUN AWAY FROM THE PAST, SCARLETT.
five
“IN AUSTRIA THERE ARE MANY PRINCESSES”
We’re all very, very subdued on the coach the next morning, for many reasons. Breakfast was delayed, to give us a chance to catch up on our sleep, but it turned out to be porridge, with a choice of raisins, golden syrup, jam, or stewed prunes. Very traditional and Scottish, and Miss Carter lectured us all about how porridge is the best way to start the day, but we’re not used to eating that heavily in the morning (some of us aren’t used to eating that many calories in a whole day), and now we’re all slumped in our tartan-upholstered seats in a carbohydrate coma.
And, of course, that wasn’t the only lecture we got this morning. Aunt Gwen, cold as an iceberg and much scarier, subjected us all to one of those “if the guilty party owns up now she will be dealt with leniently, but if she doesn’t you will all undergo horrible punishment” speeches that never, ever, result in one girl standing up bravely, her hand on her heart, and saying:
“It was me, Miss Wakefield! I cannot see my fellow students suffer for a crime I myself committed! Please—rain down whatever retribution you choose on me, but spare my innocent sisters!”
No one was idiot enough to confess to setting off the fire alarms and smoke bombs. So we’re all waiting for the axe of punishment to descend on our necks, which is never a pleasant feeling.
But it does bring us nicely to Mary, Queen of Scots, who only reigned in Scotland for about five years before fleeing to England because lots of sexist old Scottish noblemen didn’t like a woman being in charge of them and rose up against her. Then she was imprisoned by Elizabeth I and spent the next twenty years or so trying to escape, being moved around a series of castles, waiting for Elizabeth to decide she was too much trouble to keep alive, before having her head chopped off in 1587. With a sword, actually. Not an axe.
(We’re doing the Tudors for history A-level. And we’re
“Glad to hear it, miss,” he says, standing aside as the teachers start shepherding the girls back into the school again.
Taylor helps me up; I’m surprisingly unsteady on my feet.
“Shock,” the firefighter who looked after me says to us laconically. “Go slowly, lassie. And get some sleep.”
“Thank you,” I say, handing him back his water bottle.
It’s so bright inside I find myself shading my eyes again with my hand. My throat’s sore, even after drinking the water. Taylor’s by my side as we follow the rest of the girls upstairs, one hand cupped under my elbow. Just in case.
“Ooh, look at Scarlett and Taylor,” Plum coos, “all cozy and—”
“Shut up, Plum!” every single girl in earshot snaps simultaneously.
Small mercies, I think, managing to smile.
“Go to your rooms, all of you,” Aunt Gwen says to us grimly. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. And if I hear one peep out of any of you …”
She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
“I’m so tired, ” I say as I push open the door to our room. “I could sleep for a week .”
There’s a piece of paper on the floor. It must have fallen there, knocked off the desk when Taylor and I were evacuating the room, bleary-eyed and stumbling. Automatically, I bend over to pick it up.
“What is it?” Taylor asks, seeing me stare down at it, unable to believe what I’m reading.
Silently, I hand it to her. It’s been torn from a notebook, white paper with faint gray lines making little boxes all over the background. Something about the paper’s very familiar, but I can’t access that memory right now, because I’m focusing on the thick black letters very carefully printed across the center of the page.
No , I realize . Not printed; stenciled.
Clever . You can’t trace handwriting from a stencil.
And it reads, in capital letters:
YOU CAN’T RUN AWAY FROM THE PAST, SCARLETT.
five
“IN AUSTRIA THERE ARE MANY PRINCESSES”
We’re all very, very subdued on the coach the next morning, for many reasons. Breakfast was delayed, to give us a chance to catch up on our sleep, but it turned out to be porridge, with a choice of raisins, golden syrup, jam, or stewed prunes. Very traditional and Scottish, and Miss Carter lectured us all about how porridge is the best way to start the day, but we’re not used to eating that heavily in the morning (some of us aren’t used to eating that many calories in a whole day), and now we’re all slumped in our tartan-upholstered seats in a carbohydrate coma.
And, of course, that wasn’t the only lecture we got this morning. Aunt Gwen, cold as an iceberg and much scarier, subjected us all to one of those “if the guilty party owns up now she will be dealt with leniently, but if she doesn’t you will all undergo horrible punishment” speeches that never, ever, result in one girl standing up bravely, her hand on her heart, and saying:
“It was me, Miss Wakefield! I cannot see my fellow students suffer for a crime I myself committed! Please—rain down whatever retribution you choose on me, but spare my innocent sisters!”
No one was idiot enough to confess to setting off the fire alarms and smoke bombs. So we’re all waiting for the axe of punishment to descend on our necks, which is never a pleasant feeling.
But it does bring us nicely to Mary, Queen of Scots, who only reigned in Scotland for about five years before fleeing to England because lots of sexist old Scottish noblemen didn’t like a woman being in charge of them and rose up against her. Then she was imprisoned by Elizabeth I and spent the next twenty years or so trying to escape, being moved around a series of castles, waiting for Elizabeth to decide she was too much trouble to keep alive, before having her head chopped off in 1587. With a sword, actually. Not an axe.
(We’re doing the Tudors for history A-level. And we’re
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