Autumn Rose. Abigail Gibbs

him in his first few weeks and make him feel welcome here at Kable,’ said the headmaster.

      I can’t do that, I thought. But I nodded, just once, keeping my lips pursed to prevent myself from revealing the wrong answer.

      ‘Well, if you’ll excuse us, Headmaster, I believe my tutor group is waiting for morning registration. Autumn, Fallon; after you.’ Mr. Sylaeia motioned towards the two-storey block that housed English and I sped in front of them both, feeling my expression crumple into one of despair when I entered the dimly lit stairwell that led up to my tutor room. I moved as though in a dream, climbing the staircase without noticing where I placed my feet, unable to believe that what was happening was anything but a nightmare.

      But this was reality: one of the Sagean royal family, a prince of Athenea, was here, at Kable, to study.

      From the bottom step there came a burst of giggling as Christy, Gwen, Tammy and Tee followed us up. It didn’t take much brainpower to work out what the source of their amusement was. There was a reason this particular member of the Athenea was continually featured in magazines.

      I swept into the classroom, ignoring the startled year sevens, whose frightened eyes moved from me to the prince, causing one tiny girl, who simply didn’t look old enough to be in secondary education, to actually pick up her seat and move around the desk, settling back down right beside her friend.

      The older girls reacted in the complete opposite way. I saw their eyes graze over his scars, burgundy red, and his shirt, short sleeves clinging to muscular arms, and then to me as I slipped into a chair at my usual desk, indicating for the prince to take a seat too. He sat down opposite, facing me. Seeing an opportunity, Christy snatched the seat beside him and Tammy sat down next to me; not to be outdone, Gwen stole a chair from another desk and placed it at the side of the table and within a minute, Tee had invited her best friend over so that our little table designed to seat four was accommodating seven. I was a little shocked, and bitter … they didn’t usually make this much of an effort to be around me.

      Their interest, along with that of the rest of the class, was subtle at first, as they buzzed about their summer holidays to one another before they started introducing themselves, chatting over each other to ask him questions.

      ‘So you’re from Canada, right?’ Christy asked. ‘Your Highness,’ she added.

      ‘Please, just Fallon. Not quite. Athenea, my country, is part of Vancouver Island but we are a nation of our own, separate from Canada.’

      ‘So, do you, like, speak Canadian?’ Gwen asked, twiddling with a strand of her dark, dyed hair. His eyes widened and I couldn’t prevent a smile from creeping onto my lips – to hide it, I began fiddling with the ring of keys attached to a loop in my pocket, searching for my locker key.

      ‘Er, no, we speak Sagean, and English. Some of those born further east speak French,’ I heard him say as I got up and weaved my way between the tables to the stack of square lockers in the corner of the room.

       It is important in life that you are patient with those not blessed with your intellect.

       But Grandmother, they ask such simple questions! I am quite sure I will die of boredom if they do not stop it.

      ‘I’ve never heard Sagean,’ Gwen continued, her voice meek and devoid of the flirtatious tone it had possessed before.

      ‘So’yea tol ton shir yeari mother ithan entha, Duchess?’

      I froze, hearing my language spoken for the first time in months. Pulling the locker door open, I glanced at him. He stared at my back, his finger curled and pressed to his lips, as though pondering.

       Why is he asking that? Does he not know the nature of the area? I do not speak my mother tongue because there is no one to speak it to.

      I turned again to my locker. ‘Arna ar faw hla shir arn mother ithan entha, Your Highness.’

      I finished, knowing I spoke in staccato and that my words did not roll from one into another like they should; Sagean felt strange to my mouth, like a second tongue was trying to grow from beneath the first.

      ‘Of course,’ he replied as I retrieved my bag and clicked the padlock shut. When I turned back, his cool eyes – cobalt blue – hadn’t left me. Placing my bag onto my chair, I met his gaze, raising the walls around my mind even higher to ensure he would not know what I was thinking.

      I know you know, I thought. I know you know about her. And I hate you for it.

      Responding to Mr. Sylaeia’s request for help handing out the new timetables, I retreated from where the girls twirled their hair and requested translations into Sagean. They giggled and commented on his accent; the fact he was a Sage, and that they feared the Sage, was forgotten.

      I handed around the sheets and friends squealed or groaned as they compared schedules, exclamations of disgust erupting from those who had drawn the less popular teachers. Two year ten boys cheered, celebrating that they no longer had to study history and the three girls in the year above, year twelve, compared their free lessons, excitedly discussing how once the eldest learnt to drive they would go into town instead of studying.

      I neared the bottom of the pile, coming across the cluttered timetable of ‘House of Athenea, Prince Fallon’, which was followed by a long list of prefixes and titles, the first being ‘H.R.A.H.’: His Royal Athenean Highness.

      Why didn’t the school tell me he was coming? I thought, but answered my own question almost instantly. Because I never would have come back to school. They know my attendance is bad …

      He barely had any frees, which was unusual for a year thirteen and when I counted up his subjects, I realized why.

      English Literature, French, History, Maths, Chemistry. Five. But nobody takes five subjects at A2. He must either be mad or prepared to work insanely hard.

      Knowing others were waiting for their timetables, I placed the sheet in front of him. Beneath his was my own timetable, which I set on the desk whilst I handed the remaining few out. But before the paper had even touched the wood, Tammy had snatched it up, comparing it with her own.

      ‘We’re in everything together,’ she informed me when I sat back down. I felt very enclosed and, with a glance around, realized most people had moved at least a foot or two nearer to us; to him. ‘Apart from GCSE French and your A level English Lit.’ She sighed. ‘You’re crazy, doing both GCSEs and A levels.’

      I acknowledged that information with a nod, busy writing my name on the front of one of the homework diaries Mr. Sylaeia was handing out.

      ‘You’re taking A level literature, Lady Autumn?’ Fallon asked.

      Tammy offered him my timetable and he took it. Still filling in my details on my diary, I watched him through my eyelashes, noting the fact he had switched to using a formal address rather than my title.

      ‘In that case, I believe we have that class together.’

      My pen paused part way through writing my address on the inside cover. I looked up, forcing a disinterested smile, as though this was not strange; as though a prince attending a tiny, rural state school was the norm. I resumed writing, retrieving my timetable and copying it up into the diary.

      ‘Don’t have many frees, do you?’ Gwen commented, leaning over his shoulder and getting as close as she dared without touching the vine-like scars trailing across his tanned skin. Her hair fell on his shoulders and he shifted away from her in his chair, running a hand through his own flaxen hair.

      My lips parted. That I did not expect. Gwen seemed affronted, but blessed with people skills I could only envy, she didn’t allow it to show for long as she twisted behind her and started an animated conversation with the three year twelve girls, who repeatedly looked at the prince.

      My attention was snapped away as Mr. Sylaeia retreated behind his desk, writing his name up on the whiteboard.