Page 19 of Royally Rivalled

I wanted to ask the girl if she was on some mind-altering substance. Tongue-tied, I didn’t respond.

“Please, call me Astrid.”

It all clicked. I nearly toppled over. Princess Astrid was Latte Girl! Latte Girl was the princess everyone went on about—the one in the basement office toiling away. I was concerned. How could she manage this, and why was she teaching?

“Anyone have any questions aboutthe class?” I chimed.

No response.

“If you have no questions, let’s return on Thursday. We will begin our work—getting acquainted with the infrastructure.”

I had the last word.

The students filed out, more interested in the lack of work assigned than anything. They fled, assuming they’d gotten away with something when they hadn’t. I looked over at A Deschamps, Latte Girl, or Princess Whatshername. I couldn’t grasp it. Why was I stuck with this girl? Why did I have to keep running into her? Was there an invisible string which tied us together?

twelve

ASTRID

I stared,searing a hole into the back of the Dickish Duke’s head. He watched our students file out before turning back to collect extra syllabi. Catching my eyes with his gaze, he grimaced. I wanted to tell him he was an asshole, but I figured that was a no-win situation. I didn’t want to stoop to his name-calling game plan. Instead, I signed out of the computer and threw my bag over my shoulder.

“You just… you want to leave it there with no explanation?”

He called after me as I left. I turned around in the empty computer lab, hand on hip.

“You gonna apologise for calling me insufferable and making me cry?”

He took a deep breath. “I am sorry… really… what is your name? Your Royal Highness?”

I chuckled, annoyed. “Astrid. My friends call me Asti. We are not friends, Your Grace.”

I rolled my eyes and turned, walking steadily away, the sounds of my boots clicking definitively on the corridor floor. I wasn’t going to give the Dickish Duke a moment more of my time. I also wasn’t about to stay here while a bunch of students stared at the literal princessamong them. How did anyone evenknowme? I wasn’t the queen. I was nothing. God!

I trekked to my office only to discover I now shared it withdozensof students. I passed two boys throwing a ball against the ceiling—nearly running into another student while trying to avoid them.

I read my name on a desk—Deschamps. I set my bag down and collapsed into a chair. As I did, a girl in black stared at me—glared, rather.

“You are who?” She asked.

“Astrid,” I answered. “And you?”

“Etta,” she said, monotone. “You’re new.”

“I am a first-year accelerated student.”

I turned back to see my colleagues playing with the ball. They were laughing and carrying on like it was the greatest game.

“Sorry, but what are they doing?” I asked.

“Pipe ball,” she answered as if I knew what she was talking about.

“Oh… uh… pipe ball. What is that?”Was this a Britishism?

“It’s a game Niklaus made up with Pete. You get a point if you can get the ball over the pipe without hitting it.”

She turned back to her computer. I couldn’t understand if she was angry, bored, or otherwise.

“So, are you… a second-year student?” I asked.

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