Page 9 of Nobody in Particular

Doessheeven know?

If I’m hoping to get some clarification, I’m shit out of luck, because at that moment Eleanor bounces up behind Rose and pulls her to a couple of empty seats at the far right of the room. They sit down together and Rose promptly lays her head on her desk to sleep, using her arms as a cushion, and the spotlight on me goes out with a blink.

And now, I don’t know what’s worse. Being ridiculed, or being nothing.

FIVEROSE

Every ounce of my energy is focused on suppressing the urge to rest my head on the headmaster’s desk while I wait for him to come into the room. It’s rather a lot more difficult than it sounds. That is, I suppose, the inevitable outcome of being awake for almost thirty-four hours, minus a devastatingly brief nap. There’s only so far you can travel fueled by caffeine and self-preservation.

Last night was the Royal Renaissance Gala, which is held every year on the birthday of my great-great-grandmother, Queen Alarice. It is, as its name implies, a Renaissance-themed charity gala, in which the richest of the rich wear Renaissance-inspired couture and faff around marveling at the preserved period pieces on display and the courtly dance ensemble, all while a madrigal choir drones on in the background.

Purportedly, its main purpose is to raise funds to restore historical landmarks and promote cultural heritage—causes that were apparently dear to my great-great-grandmother’s heart—but it’s not lost on me that it’s currently viewed as a chance to put a night of socializing down as a tax write-off by most, if not all, attendees.

This year, it fell on a Sunday—the Sunday I was meant to move into my room at Bramppath, no less—but that certainly wasn’t a good enough excuse for me to miss it as far as my parents wereconcerned. After all, one cannot host the Royal Renaissance Gala sans the full suite of royals, can one? Anarchy would surely reign. Vive la révolution!

Unfortunately, the celebrations lasted well into the night, and by the time I made it to Bramppath I barely had time to lay my head on the pillow before it was time to meet with the headmaster and prefects. Somehow, I made it through a day’s worth of classes—though I couldn’t tell you a single word that fell from a professor’s mouth all day—and Inearlymade it to my room at the end of it all. In fact, I was only meters away from Dewitt, and the sweet oblivion of sleep, when the headmaster flagged me down in the middle of the courtyard and asked me to meet him in his office. I would have dearly loved to give him a graphic list of things I would rather do—for example, drive a searing hot poker through my eyeball—but I find it’s best to start the school year off on the right foot, and so I swallowed my words and turned on my heel.

And here I have been sat for over five minutes. Five excruciatingly quiet minutes.

The polished chestnut wood seems every bit as appealing as a goose-feather pillow at this moment. I’m in the middle of debating whether I have long enough to sneak in a nap when the headmaster hurries in, juggling a stack of papers and notebooks. “My apologies, Rosemary. A lot to do on the first day.”

He drops the paperwork onto the desk with a thump loud enough to shock me from my exhausted haze, and I straighten at once. “That’s fine, sir. May I ask…?”

“Oh, you’re not in trouble,” the headmaster assures me, taking a seat and folding his hands before him. “I just wanted to check in with you. See how you’re handling everything.”

I take care to keep my expression measured. “Everything?”

“Your new role, the new building…”

The headmaster is one of those people who can effectively communicate exactly what they mean just through the gleam in their eye, regardless of the message their body language would otherwise send. Right now, he’s doing just that. His bottom lip is sticking out, and one broad shoulder is raised in a shrug, and he’s tossed up oneknobby-fingered hand in a manner that’s clearly meant to convey carelessness. But his eyes—his eyes are saying he’s certain I know exactly why he’s asking after me.

And, of course, I do.

“I would say everything’s going as well as could be expected,” I say. “Given…”

I wave my own hand now, mirroring his gesture.

“The circumstances,” he finishes for me.

“Yes.”

The circumstances. It is, I suppose, an efficient way to summarize the events of the last half year. The night in Amsterdam—its consequences—the aftermath—the backlash from the public—the disappointment from my parents—the judging eyes that seem to fall on me throughout every conversation at every family event. Molly.

Oscar.

As soon as his name appears in my mind, I wipe it clear. I do my best to think of him as little as possible. There’s no good in it. What happened, happened, though if thinking of it could somehow rearrange the events of June, then I would. I would think through every second, relive every moment in vivid, graphic detail, again and again if I must, until what I did was finally undone. But as it is, dwelling on it achieves nothing of any real importance.

I tried, once. I let myself think his name, and instead of pushing it away, I let my mind follow the path that name led it down. For perhaps ten seconds, I allowed myself to understand—reallygrasp—what happened that night.

It felt like drowning.

I haven’t allowed it since.

“I have to admit,” I say, “I was surprised to receive the prefect offer.”

The headmaster studies me for a long time. For now, his eyes and body language are perfectly aligned in their earnestness. “Do you know why I chose you for the position, Rose?” he asks finally.

“I hope it wasn’t out of pity, sir.”

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