Page 14 of Cruel Games

“Of course.” She stepped back. “How else will you complete your homework?”

Another pair of women stepped into the room, each holding bags of books. One of them slung a leather satchel over her shoulder. My mouth gaped open. How had they organized everything so quickly?

I shook my head, not quite believing my eyes. In Disney cartoons, it was usually a group of innocent animals that provided the beleaguered heroine with goodies.

Right now, four strange women were filling my drawers and shelves with clothes and books and other school supplies, while a fifth directed their actions like a conductor.

Mrs. Campbells’ gaze flicked over my bare shoulders. “I’ll arrange the appropriate nightwear. Which do you prefer, gowns or pajamas?”

“Silk teddies,” the word slipped from my lips before I could stop them.

Pursing her lips, she turned to one of her assistants. “Go to the stores and fetch four nightgowns—two summer-weight and two winter weight—in Miss Hancock’s size, please.”

The woman scurried away. Moments later, the others finished and left my room with Mrs. Campbell on their heels. The clock tower rang, signifying it was seven. There was no way I could get back to sleep after that hive of activity. I swung my legs out of bed and pulled open the underwear drawer.

Everything was virginal white. From the cotton knickers that looked more like gym shorts, to the sports bras. They’d even supplied me with sanitary towels about as thick as my duvet.

Blowing out a breath, I pushed my platinum strands off my face. I needed a weekend job to buy some essentials. Maybe Mrs. Campbell would let me work in the kitchens.

A soft knock on the door broke me out of my thoughts. It was probably the assistant with the nightgowns. I dipped into the pristine, white bathroom, slipped on a dressing gown, and rushed to the door.

A black boy with straightened hair stood in the hallway, already dressed in his uniform. Like the trio I had met the night before, he wore a tartan waistcoat under his blazer. I thought that indicated that a student was older, but this guy looked about fourteen compared to Orlando and the twins.

“Lilah Hancock?” he asked in a voice posher than the royal family’s.

“Yes?”

“My name is Gideon Adewale. Mrs. Campbell suggested we should get acquainted.”

“Are you doing Fashion and Textiles, too?” I asked.

His lips thinned and turned downward in a grimace of disgust. “Hardly.”

Irritation fizzled across my skin. “Then why did she send you here?”

He raised his nose in the air. “I consider myself an expert in elocution. Your accent might be suitable for the slums of South London, but here in Templar Academy and at prestigious universities, speaking like that will have you at a disadvantage.”

“Speaking like what?” I snapped.

He opened his mouth to elaborate, and I slammed the door in his face. He could stick those lessons up his ass. I wasn’t Eliza Doolittle, and this wasn’t My Fair Lady. The moment I tried to be someone else was the moment I felt ashamed of who I was.

After a nice, long soak in the bath, I pulled on the uniform and adorned my face with what little makeup I had in my bag. Mrs. Campbell had left my class schedule for the week on my desk along with a map of the school.

My three subjects—Fashion and Textiles, Art and Design, and Business Studies—were there, along with other items such as elocution lessons, physical education, and workshop time. The last two looked interesting, but no way was I letting that arrogant dickhead, Gideon, teach me to speak English.

By the time I had dressed, braided my hair, and packed my school bag, I had missed breakfast and only managed to snag a swig of orange juice and a slice of cold toast.

It took a while to decipher the map, as I had to walk to the main entrance to orient myself.

My first lesson of the day was Fashion and Textiles, and my heart thrummed with excitement at the thought of meeting someone who had worked for Dior. I couldn’t begin to imagine the techniques she could teach me.

The textiles workshop was located up in the attic, which was only accessible via a tightly-wound, wrought iron staircase. My feet clanged with every step, and I tried not to wonder why it wobbled as I ascended.

A haughty voice filled the air. “You need to suck your stomach in if you don’t want to look like you’re carrying quadruplets.”

I rolled my eyes. What a bitch.

“But I’ve just had breakfast,” said a much quieter voice.