Autumn Rose. Abigail Gibbs

form a neat little seat, perfect to fold into. It was my own palace of leaves, decorated with pinned flowers, plucked from the garden, or dream-catchers, which I would make endlessly at the desk where the laptop now sat – some of the frail structures had survived, and were now dangling from the eaves of the window, minus the feathers. They had become rotten and mildewed, and my mother had removed them. When I had collected more gulls’ feathers to replace them, she had taken those too.

      I knew I couldn’t face school the next day. I couldn’t face the questions on top of the already mounting dread I had at the prospect of detention on Thursday. Besides, a day would act as a sort of buffer against the shock: the buzz about my title would have died down a bit by Thursday. Let the prince deal with the questions, I thought. Let him sort out what he caused.

       CHAPTER NINE

       Autumn

      ‘Autumn, why didn’t you tell us?’

      ‘You never asked.’

      ‘That’s not the point. You’re the duchess of England, and we never knew. I mean, that makes you the highest ranking nobility in the country. Right below royalty. Er, hello?’ Gwen snapped.

      ‘I thought that title died with that woman, a couple of years back. There was something about a state funeral on the news, remember?’

      I shot Tammy a look, and comprehension slowly dawned on her face.

      ‘Oh my God, that was your grandmother, wasn’t it? And what, the title skipped your dad? How come?’

      ‘Human.’

      I was wrong about the buzz dying down. If anything, my absence had escalated the hype. The questions didn’t stop all day, and when they did it was only because I made an escape to the bathroom, or the prince was around. Then, the questions would be aimed at him. They could extract more from him considering I was letting little out.

      Thankfully, the day passed quickly. I even managed to avoid speaking to the prince for the entire length of our English literature lesson. He didn’t try to start anything resembling conversation.

      Five o’clock had long passed before I got out of textiles and I suspected it was going to be a long evening. In contrast to the GCSE essay that had earned me the detention, the A level English work was long and laborious. It didn’t help that the prince hadn’t read the play or any of the set poems, so I had to explain everything he was copying out. From his desk, Mr. Sylaeia would occasionally look up until eventually, as the hands of the clock shot past seven and towards half past, he announced that we could leave.

      The contents of my folder had become so sprawled across the desk that by the time I had reorganized and packed them away, the light had faded outside and what had been a murky grey sky became purple through the pouring rain. I watched it through the window, unable to see the art building roof just opposite. A knot formed in my throat.

      Outside in the corridor, the rain didn’t seem as heavy, the doors at each end sealing out the roar of the wind, but on the stairs, it was clear just how bad it was. The sky slapped the rain down so forcefully that water sprung a metre back up from the ground, ricocheting off the benches and joining huge pools where the tarmac dipped and was beginning to crumble. The autumn-flowering blossom on the tree was putting up a fierce fight, but the wind was winning, sweeping the petals high into the air and away over the buildings.

      ‘You’re not going to fly in that, are you?’

      I paused and the prince drew up beside me, both of us staring through the glass doors at the chaos outside.

      ‘I’ll take the bus.’

      He looked me up and down sceptically and I knew that in my blouse, skirt and thin tights, I wasn’t exactly dressed for the weather.

      ‘You’ll get soaked. It’s dark too. You shouldn’t wait on your own.’

      ‘I’ll be fine—’

      ‘Seriously, I can give you a lift.’

      I took a few steps towards the door, hoisting my bag higher on my shoulder and preparing to make a dash through the rain. ‘My parents say I shouldn’t accept lifts from strangers.’

      He flinched and the puzzled expression from two days before returned. ‘I’m not a stranger.’ His tone made it sound almost like a question, as though he wasn’t even sure of that statement himself.

      You’re as good as a stranger, I thought.

      I hovered for a few more seconds, unsure if he was going to say anything else. When he didn’t, I braced myself against the door and pushed, hoping my body weight would be enough to hold it open just long enough for me to slip through. It wasn’t. In the second that the wind caught the door and flung it wide open, I became drenched, standing directly below the overflowing gutter; blinded by the water seeping down from my hair and the rain, battering my face like needles, I only just saw the door swinging wildly on its hinges and dived back, helped by a hand yanking on the material of my blouse. Landing on the floor, I pulled my feet back over the lip of the frame just in time as the door slammed shut so violently that the lowest pane of glass fell from its seal and shattered on the ground outside.

      ‘Are you okay?’ I heard the prince ask, whilst I stared dumbly at the broken door, where the wind now rushed through and chilled my exposed legs – my tights had laddered. ‘I’m giving you a lift home. No arguments.’

      I didn’t argue. It would be useless to argue; his point had already been proven. He helped me up.

      ‘Watch the glass,’ he said and then flung the door open, bracing his back against the frame as I leapt over the fragments and sprinted for the sheltered entrance on the other side of the quad. Behind me, I heard the door slam and a curse whip passed me, mangled by the wind. It was followed by the sound of footsteps in hot pursuit.

      Suddenly, a hand grabbed mine and urged me on, tugging me down the steps and into the school’s tunnelled entrance, where we paused, shivering. The prince rubbed his upper arms ferociously.

      ‘Ready?’ He extended his hand towards me after a minute.

      I looked at it for a few seconds and then out to the rain. Even if I remained close enough to touch him I wouldn’t see him. As I looked, the car park lit up beneath the sheet lightning.

      ‘Come on,’ he insisted and took my hand, pulling me back out into the rain as the inevitable thunder followed. I squinted, searching for a car, any car, until suddenly through the gloom a pair of headlights flashed on and off and I caught a brief glimpse of a surprisingly understated five door sports car – but more interestingly, a car with no Athenean badge across its side.

      He headed for the right door and gave me a gentle nudge around the bonnet. I pulled my bag off and got in the passenger side, placing it at my feet but keeping a tight hold on the handle, only letting go to plug my seatbelt in. He had already started the engine and was reaching across to turn the heating on, turning the dial right up. I felt the air, initially cold, blasting through the vents and my feet inched towards the warmth. With the windscreen wipers beating, he pulled out of the car park.

      ‘You live in Brixham, right?’ I nodded and he indicated right. The sound of the rain on the windscreen and the rolls of thunder every minute or so prevented him from saying anything, so I looked out of the window. Every time the lightning struck, the valley below us would light up, revealing the fields, houses and the corner of the late Victorian building that made up the Naval College; a building that was not a stranger to royal officer cadets, albeit the human kind. The scene was suspended in negative and then faded again.

      The steep main road leading to the lower town was deserted and as we rounded the foot of the Naval College, so was the queue for the higher