Page 8 of Cruel Games

A plane ride later, we reached Glasgow, which was significantly colder than London. I stopped off at the airport store and bought a new SIM card, in case anyone wanted to track my movement.

Outside the airport, a red-headed man with a bushy, auburn beard picked us up in a jeep. He reminded me of a better-fed version of Groundskeeper Willie with round, ruddy cheeks.

“Mr. McGarr,” said the headmaster. “May I introduce you to Miss Hancock, who has come to join us from London.”

His thick brows rose, and he encased my hand in his meaty paw and pumped it up and down. “London?” The rest of what he said was gibberish to my unaccustomed ears, but the last words he said was, “Good to meet ye, lass!”

“Thanks,” I said, my stomach fluttering with butterflies. “It’s good to meet you, too.”

The headmaster, who I suspected was thoroughly fed up with my company, sat in front with Mr. McGarr and launched into an enthusiastic conversation about the grounds. I could barely understand a word the men said, as Mr. Burgh’s accent thickened to match the other man’s.

I slumped in the leather back seat, thinking we’d stop at Glasgow town center, as I had pictured Templar Academy being in the middle of the action or at least on the outskirts. Instead, Mr. McGarr sped through highways, which bisected a craggy mountain landscape that would have looked amazing on a calendar or a TV screen.

After several minutes, my stomach churned. Where in the holy highlands were these two strange men taking me? I leaned forward and said, “Excuse me?”

“Miss Hancock.” The headmaster reverted to plain English. “Do not interrupt the conversations of your elders.”

The red-haired man sent me a friendly wink through the rearview mirror like I was the naughtiest girl in the Kingdom of Naughty.

Ignoring him, I glowered at the back of Mr. Burgh’s silver head. “Where are we going?”

“To the academy,” he enunciated his words the way some people did when giving directions to lost and bewildered tourists.

“How far is this academy from Glasgow?” I asked.

“Eighty miles, more or less,” said Mr. McGarr. After listening to the man speak for so long, my brain had started to parse his words.

“Right.” Clenching my teeth, I stared into my lap. I only had myself to blame for assuming the academy was accessible by public transport. If Mother had paid for my place, she would probably tell them to hold me there until I turned eighteen.

Over an hour later, the jeep turned into a series of increasingly smaller highways until we reached a one-track road bordered by tall hedgerows. We passed through a gatehouse consisting of two squat buildings like something out of Downton Abbey. Behind them stood a row of oaks on either side of the road that boarded us like soldiers forming a saber arch at a wedding.

My heart sped up. This was really… fancy.

I had to blink several times to make sure I hadn’t fallen asleep and dreamed up a Disney cartoon. With its manicured gardens, limestone exterior, and rounded towers topped by tall spires, the castle we approached looked like something out of a fairytale.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mr. Burgh turned around, his blue eyes twinkling. “After the great fire in 1904, a French architect rebuilt the castle in the style of a chateau.”

“Aye,” added Mr. McGarr. “They modeled the gardens after Versailles. This is our French oasis within the heart of Scotland.”

As the jeep pulled into the courtyard outside the castle, my eyes roved the tall, paneled windows, the gorgeous clocktower, and the enormous, arched entrance. Above it were floor-to-ceiling windows behind a balcony carved of stone. I wasn’t ashamed to admit it, but the place was so breathtaking, a gasp slipped from my lips.

Tears stung the backs of my eyes, and my throat thickened. After years of pretending I didn’t exist, Mother had arranged all this… For me?

Mr. McGarr stopped the jeep outside the castle’s wooden, double doors. My heart pounded a rapid beat, and my throat dried as though I’d accidentally swallowed blotting powder. What had Mother been thinking? I didn’t belong in a fairytale palace stuffed with kids born with silver spoons up their asses.

The headmaster stepped out of the vehicle and opened my door, letting in cool, juniper-scented air. “Out you get.”

Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, I unfastened my seatbelt and swung both legs out of the car, just like I’d read in an article about how to exit a limousine. My feet landed on gravel, and I straightened.

With a shouted goodbye, Mr. McGarr drove off down a track that led further into the grounds, leaving my back exposed.

“Nervous?” The headmaster’s silver brows rose.

“No.” It was all I could muster up in such unfamiliar territory. “Where are all the students, then?”

He gave me an unusually warm smile and gestured for me to walk with him. “The front of the building is out of bounds during the week.”

“Right,” I ascended the stone steps, not quite understanding what he meant.