Page 12 of Cruel Hearts

Before I could reply, the organist played Morning Has Broken, and everybody stood. Father Neapolitan flounced in through the door, his mouth turned down as though he was trying not to react to a bad smell. The man’s shoulders hunched, and his hands curled into fists.

Apprehension wrung my stomach with the slow, jagged movements of a hand crank. I stared into the pages of Mr. Burgh’s hymn book, trying to focus on the words as I sang. Father Neapolitan was probably building himself up to a righteous fury.

After the song ended, the priest addressed the room in his usual, nasal voice. “Good morning, congregation. His Grace, the Archbishop, will deliver this morning’s service.”

Excited chatter spread through the chapel. Avoiding the sight of Elizabeth preening in her father’s reflected glory, I leaned into Mr. Burgh. “What’s he doing here?”

“His Grace agreed to an informal discussion of your situation.” Mr. Burgh squeezed my hand. “He also likes to deliver the sermons whenever he’s in Templar.”

The archbishop strolled in through the back door, clad in an elegant black suit that looked like it had been tailored to fit. Everything else—his silver hair, his silver-white clerical collar, the huge silver cross dangling from his neck—was coordinated to pop.

My stomach muscles tightened, and I held my breath. Mere days ago, police had raided his beautiful academy. It was clear from Elizabeth’s admiring sigh that she hadn’t been punished for her role in the entire mess, so it looked like the blame would fall on me.

The archbishop smiled, revealing a mouthful of whitened teeth. “It’s an honor to be here so close to the end of term when many of you are looking forward to the Christmas break.” He paused and glanced around the chapel with a beatific smile. “I expect you’re all wondering what kinds of presents you’ll receive this year. CDs, DVDs, and the like.”

Muffled giggles echoed through the hall. I slid further in my seat, dreading what he might say next. This guy was out of touch. Everyone was digital these days.

“But do you know the greatest gift of all?” He pressed his hands together and paused for effect.

Love? I turned to Mr. Burgh, who met my gaze with a warm smile and twinkling, blue eyes.

“Forgiveness.” The archbishop’s voice echoed with the resonance of the word.

Silence stretched out for several moments. Not even the first years spoke. I leaned back and snuck a peek across the other side at Father Neapolitan, whose nose wrinkled. Next to him, Lady Liddell’s smile froze. I turned back to the front. Why wasn’t I surprised that neither of them found the topic to their tastes?

The sermon continued with examples of Jesus forgiving others, and I sat straighter in my seat. He actually seemed like a decent person—the complete opposite of Elizabeth, who probably got her rotten personality from her sour-faced mother.

After a few more hymns and prayers, the archbishop wished us all a happy Christmas break, and Elizabeth stood with a velvet pouch for the collection. Her coat swung open, revealing the tuxedo dress I had made for the fashion show.

Any goodwill I might have felt from the sermon fizzled in the heat of the rage surging through my veins.

“Delilah,” Mr. Burgh whispered into my ear. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s wearing my dress,” I snarled.

He placed a palm on my shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t play into her hands by rising to the bait.”

My gaze flickered to the archbishop, who stood at the altar with Father Neapolitan. From the older man’s stiff posture, even he couldn’t stand the twit who dressed like he was auditioning for Neo from the Matrix. “If I stick around for a moment longer, I’m going to stuff that dress down her gullet.”

Mr. Burgh sighed. “Come on, let’s grab a cup of tea before you meet the Board of Governors.”

Chapter 6

Mr. Burgh placed an arm around my shoulders and guided me out through the back entrance of the chapel, avoiding Elizabeth, Father Neapolitan, and everyone else who would probably gape or gloat about my humiliating arrest. The strains of the organist filled the back hallway and mingled with the echo of our footsteps. The door creaked open. My heart leapfrogged out of my chest, and I turned around.

Mrs. Campbell walked toward us, fastening her coat. “I may as well leave now and get the meeting room ready.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Burgh. “Delilah and I will have a cup of tea before the disciplinary starts.”

The word was like a jab to the gut. Elizabeth framed me, wasted police time and resources, caused a ruckus in the academy, and stole my dress. What happened to ‘thou shalt not steal’ and ‘thou shalt not bear false witness’?

I turned to the fire exit and clenched my teeth. Even though I had done nothing wrong, the assholes had covered every angle of the set-up. Since the police couldn’t charge me for the possession of flour, the Board of Governors could expel me for lewd conduct.

After heaving open the wooden door and letting in a blast of icy air that set my teeth on edge, I stepped out into the cold, bright morning. The sun shone down from an azure sky that would have looked summery if it wasn’t for the tiny snowflakes swirling in the breeze. They settled on Father Neapolitan’s 1960’s Lincoln Continental and the huge, black Bentley parked at its side.

Two sets of footsteps rushed toward us, and I turned to find Orlando emerging from the side of the chapel with one of the twins. They both wore dark suits with white shirts and ties, each coated in the perfect veneer of Christian respectability.

I sucked in an icy breath through my teeth, and my feet froze on the frosted ground. Mr. Burgh approached from behind with a murmured question, but I couldn’t hear him through the fury roaring through my skull and the pulse pounding like war drums.