The Academy (Perrault Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  An older man staggered in, his balding hair mussed and his jacket in disarray. In the distance behind him, Rilla gasped at a mob of people pressed against the glass window. Ivan panted against the wood door, his hair wild and out of place and his uniform torn. He looked like the loser of a tavern brawl.

  Rilla gasped and stepped back out of sight of the onlookers, clutching her robe. Her heart thumped like an out-of-control carriage hitting cobblestones. She longed for the invisibility of her old life, even if she had been neglected.

  “All those people were coming in to see you.” The man wheezed. “Your friend and I had to beat them back with a broom and lock them out. The bolder ones were headed toward the fitting room.” He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. “Animals, the lot of them!”

  Rilla blanched and covered her mouth with shaking hands. The others left the room, and she put on her clothes. There had to be a back exit or a back window she could use to escape the mob. She hated crowds at the best of times, but throngs of people, all clamoring to see her made her stomach twist.

  “My Lady,” Ivan shouted from the main room. “Actually, the three of you should come and look at this.”

  They left the fitting room to see the crowd backing away from the windows and parting to form a path. Armed guards in unfamiliar livery formed two rows, creating a path.

  Madam Modiste huffed. “What are the Soldiers of Fortune doing here?”

  Rilla wrapped her arms around herself. “Who are they?”

  “A private army run by the Tinder King,” said the old man, patting Madam Modiste's hand.

  “And what a degenerate he is…driving out his own daughter then marrying a lookalike.”

  Rilla wrinkled her nose, wondering if this Tinder King was a real monarch or a villain with an elaborate moniker such as Long Don Cipriano. Before she could ask, she spotted a woman striding through the path formed by the soldiers. She walked with her head held high, full of confidence and grace, followed by two of the men. When she reached the front door of the shop, she made four sharp raps.

  Madam Modiste sighed. “The crowd isn’t getting past those soldiers. You may as well let her in, dear.”

  The man unlatched the door, and the woman swept in with two soldiers. The men crossed their spears over the door as though barring brazen commoners from entrance or exit.

  The woman's sharp eyes looked Rilla up and down. “Cendrilla Perrault? I’m Trude Hessen, the society columnist for the Clement Tribune.”

  “Oh. Hello.” Rilla bobbed a shallow curtsy. “Sorry I can’t stay and chat. I need to climb out of a back window.”

  Madam Hessen snorted. “Everyone knows the old alleyway trick. People have most likely stormed the backstreets, hoping to catch you sneaking out.”

  A young woman who looked about Rilla’s age, and strikingly like Madam Modiste, entered the room. “It’s true. I can see them out the back window. They’re making an awful racket.”

  Rilla bowed her head and ran her fingers through her hair. She couldn’t hide in the store all day, and if she ventured out, the crowd would tear her to pieces.

  “I was hoping to interview you.” Madam Hessen raised her painted eyebrows. “Warrior Woman of Clement Road, Runaway Bride of the Ambassador of Steppe. You are the talk of the town, the latest and greatest bit of news since Prince Alec got himself turned into a frog.”

  “Excuse me?” Rilla bristled at the thought of a tragedy becoming the subject to such gossip.

  “See for yourself.” Madam Hessen handed Rilla a leaflet containing a huge illustration of her trial.

  The artist, a Lenny Conker, had depicted Rilla sitting next to the Prince and giving him a sickening look of adoration. The Lord Bluebeard in the picture looked on, heartbroken. She blinked several times to make sure she wasn’t imagining it, but the image remained the same. Conker had illustrated Lord Bluebeard as a handsome rogue, showing none of his brutish attributes. Rilla didn’t have to read the article to know it would be full of exaggerations and half-truths.

  “I would love to hear your own words about this whole affair—”

  “Excuse me Madam,” said Ivan. “But members of the royal household aren't allowed to speak to the press. Lady Cendrilla's a guest of the Prince, so she counts as household.”

  A greedy gleam in the woman's eyes exploded like a firework, and she grinned as though the servant had given her a nugget of gold. Rilla guessed Madam Hessen would use Ivan's words to create another gossip piece, but she was glad he halted the woman’s interview request.

  Madam Hessen turned back to Rilla. “I will make you a deal. My friends and I will escort you back to your coach. In exchange, I will have my interview with you, when you are no longer a royal guest. Is that reasonable?”

  Rilla glanced out the window. The crowds pushed against the human barrier of soldiers, chanting her name. She looked at her list of school supplies and frowned, wondering how she would finish gathering the required items.

  Madam Modiste patted Rilla on the arm and took the list. “My youngest daughter will get the rest of these things for you. I’ll send her with your clothes and things to the palace. Let them know she’s coming so she can get through the gates.”

  “I will,” Rilla handed over the Prince’s purse and turned to Madam Hessen. “We will take you up on your offer. Thank you.”

  Madam Hessen gave Rilla time to fix her hair, and with the help of the soldiers, led her and Ivan through the mob. The Soldiers of Fortune jogged alongside the coach, keeping the crowds at bay.

  “My Lady?” said Ivan, sitting across from her in the plush, velvet seats.

  “Yes?”

  “That bargain you made with Madam Hessen. How are you going to keep it? You go to the Academy tomorrow, and she'll never reach you there.”

  Rilla smiled. “Oh, I know.”

  Ivan grinned back.

  They spent the rest of the journey in amiable silence, giving Rilla time to worry over whether the Academy would lead her to more fame, or misfortune.

  Art of Assassination

  The next morning, Rilla was back in the coach, on her way to the Academy. She sat as still as a mannequin, her breaths shallow and palms clammy. Although Madam Modiste's leather bodice fit, she felt it squeeze her insides like a vise. Every bump on the cobbled road was a reminder she was leaving the safety of the palace.

  She focused on steadying her breath. She had to stay calm as there was more than social dignity at stake. While she did not understand what had triggered her mysterious magical light the night she’d rescued Prince Armin, she remembered feeling distressed. The memory of Lord Bluebeard’s tongue against her neck caused her to shudder. She closed her eyes and shook off the disgust.

  Despite her anxiety, she decided to focus on passing her assessment. She would then give her all to her service in the Army. Upon reaching her majority, she could leave service and pursue a civilian life.

  Perhaps after so many years, Lord Bluebeard's ardor would cool, and he’d accept a refund of her bride price. Or he could have moved on to his next wife. Whatever happened, she had several years to devise a way to deal with that predicament.

  For now, she had to survive the Academy.

  The coach passed over the bridge and then through the stone archway and into the Academy grounds. She closed her eyes and focused on being confident. The movement stopped, and Rilla paused for several seconds before opening her eyes to find herself in front of the main building.

  “Hello Miss Perrault.” The reception clerk opened the carriage door. “We’ve been expecting you. I will take you to Madam Florian right away.” He glanced at the footmen unloading the luggage. “Ah, those are your things? I will be with you gentlemen in a moment.”

  The clerk led her up the stone staircase. Dread, relating to seeing Lord Florian’s awful wife, weighed her ankles like stone.

  Rilla marveled at how the tall windows let in shafts of light, illuminating the whitewashed, stone walls. “Does Lady Florian order this
place scrubbed spotless?” Rilla flushed and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, I’ve met her and I kind of assumed...”

  “That she was in charge of such things?” The clerk turned and grinned. “I’m not surprised. But you must know, we don’t use titles here at the Academy unless they're military ones, such as General. She is just Madam Florian.”

  “Why?”

  “Many of our students outrank the staff members. How awkward would that be for the Chancellor to make obeisance to the Autumn Queen? It would be absurd. Within these walls, students are students and teachers are teachers.”

  “I see.”

  They reached the office and knocked. Madam Florian shouted a curt, “Enter!”

  The clerk gave Rilla another polite bow and turned, leaving her alone with the Vice Chancellor. The woman made a great show of ignoring Rilla’s presence. She attended to correspondence, her quill scratching at parchment at an exaggerated volume in the quiet room. Several moments passed while Rilla stood in front of the desk, feeling foolish. But after everything Rilla had been through, she wouldn't let such petty tactics bother her. Madam Florian was nothing compared to the cruelty of Mother.

  The thought of Mother made Rilla clench her jaw. Rilla wasn’t beautiful or delicate, but that woman should have raised her as a peer to Gabrielle and Angelique, not as a servant. She’d been socially crippled, denied both a mother’s love and any proper training for high society. Rilla was the daughter of a nobleman, presumably, and Mother had done her best to rob her of her birthright.

  Rilla's nostrils flared. Everything, from being raised as an underling, to being sold to an ogre was because of Mother. Candide Perrault was the reason Rilla now stood before an ungrateful hag to study the arts of war, putting her life on the line in service to the Kingdoms.

  All these revelations made Rilla’s blood boil and her face heat.

  Madam Florian looked up, studied Rilla's expression and smiled. “Is something the matter, Cadet Perrault?”

  Rilla drew in a large breath to calm herself and felt her cheeks cool. She relaxed the muscles of her face before answering with a demure curtsy. “No, Madam, there’s no problem at all.”

  She didn’t owe this woman any further explanation. Never would she allow this petty woman to intimidate her again.

  “I am glad to hear it.” Madam Florian's thin lips twisted with disdain and she stood. “Your first class is the Art of Assassination with me.”

  Rilla followed her down the staircase, through several corridors, and up another set of stairs. Madam Florian kept her pace brisk. Rilla suspected this was on purpose to intimidate new students. Luckily, her long legs could keep up to the woman, and she smirked at the thought of beating Madam Florian at her own game.

  By the time they reached the classroom, Madam Florian's breaths were heavy and labored. Rilla shook her head at the woman's foolishness. Madam Florian burst through the door, and the chatting students sitting inside hushed. Rilla hovered at the doorway, waiting for further instructions, and received none.

  Once again, her cheeks flared with humiliation. With her head pointing down, she scurried to the back of the classroom, not taking a seat. There were empty spots on the wooden benches, but Rilla didn't know if latecomers would claim them.

  Madam Florian surveyed the room. “Today, we will discuss a special method of assassination: poison. It’s an art that is difficult to master due to its several disadvantages. Can anyone name some examples of those?”

  A few hands went up, and Madam Florian pointed to whom she permitted to speak.

  “You need access to the target’s food or drink and hope they don’t have tasters,” said one girl.

  “You have to make sure only the target gets poisoned. Innocent people eating the same meal are at risk,” said a young man.

  “Innocent people might also get poisoned after the fact,” another boy said. “From residue left on cutlery, or on the target’s person.”

  “Excellent.” Madam Florian wrote the suggestions in chalk on the black slate mounted against the wall.

  Rilla shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again, trying to get comfortable. The scratching of quills against parchment as students took notes increased her anxiety. A young man with black hair turned around, locked eyes with her, and gave her a wink and a sideways smile before turning back to his papers. Rilla's shoulders relaxed a fraction. The other students likely knew of Madam Florian's petty behavior.

  “I do hope you’re all taking thorough notes.” The woman smirked in Rilla’s direction. “Poisons will be a significant part of your assessment.”

  Anger pulsed through Rilla's veins, and her heart gave a panicked flutter. She needed to be writing. No one had told her class would start right away. With all her quills and parchment locked in her trunk, her only option would be to interrupt the class and draw unwanted attention.

  She sighed, resolving herself to ask another student if she could copy their notes.

  “Your assessments are more important than you realize and can launch your careers. Why, last year, one of my best students wrote an incredible thesis on how to assassinate the Ogre King. It was so impressive, we authorized him to lead a small contingent out to Steppe, where he--”

  Madam Florian stopped. All the students exchanged confused looks. She locked eyes with Rilla and narrowed them.

  “Forgive me, class. I neglected to introduce our new student. This is Cendrilla Perrault,” her voice dripped with disdain, and Rilla swallowed. So much for her efforts to remain invisible and make it through the class with some shred of dignity.

  A young man with mousy brown hair pulled a leaflet out of his pocket and passed it to the black haired boy, who gave Rilla a double-take. She gritted her teeth, trying not to react at the attention. Sweat pooled beneath her leather corset, and her stomach fluttered.

  “Cadet Perrault has made rather a name for herself, brawling both with and without weapons across the realm.”

  Giggles filled the room, making Rilla cringe.

  “However, she is not to receive any special treatment. We’ll not allow any students to get a swollen head, even if she does show up in the papers with alarming regularity.”

  Rilla closed her eyes at this point. She was willing herself to drop dead to escape this undue humiliation. Although the snickering had stopped, a tinge of resentment lingered.

  “Have a seat,” Madam Florian snapped, “You’re tall enough that you need not stand above everyone’s head.”

  Rilla scanned for the nearest empty spot, holding back tears. A young woman with hair the same shade of gold as Rilla's jerked her head. With a shaky smile, she settled next to her. Her new ally smiled back at her but said nothing, and the lesson continued.

  Madam Florian ignored her the entire time. Rilla decided the greatest victory of all would be to pass her classes and excel in her assessment. Gaining this shrew’s approval was both impossible and unnecessary.

  Once the lesson was over, Madam Florian swept out of the room with just as much flourish as her entrance.

  The blonde turned to Rilla and beamed. “My name is Millissa,” she said with a friendly smile. “And you’re Cendrilla?”

  “My friends call me Rilla.”

  “Rilla… I like that. Would you like to come with me to the dining hall for lunch? I’ll let you copy my notes.”

  “I would love to.” Rilla smiled back.

  Before she could dwell on it further, Millissa led her by the arm through the corridors. “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Serotin. A town called Moissan. How about you?”

  “Autumn,” Millissa replied.

  Rilla peered at the insignia on the other woman’s leather corset. Her feet halted to a stop with the realization of the identity of her companion. “You’re… you’re the Queen of Autumn!”

  “Please… not here, I’m not.” Millissa shook her head. “In the Academy, I’m Millissa, or Cadet Autumn. And you’re Rilla, my friend. We
’re just girls here, all right?”

  “If you insist.” Rilla nodded, resisting the habit of dipping into a curtsy.

  They reached the dining hall. All their classmates sat in small groups at separate tables. The black haired boy sat with three young women. Rilla recognized Princess Gwynter and Princess Freida from the ball. The third girl, whom Rilla had never seen before, had a very pale face framed by hair that was even blacker than Lord Bluebeard’s. The contrast was rather startling, but she had a delicate beauty not even the twins could match.

  Millissa selected a table next to where the Princesses sat. There were three other girls from the class sitting nearby, chatting and giggling. From their expressive body language, Rilla guessed they were either commoners or the offspring of soldiers.

  “Rilla?” said a voice from behind.

  She turned to lock gazes with Bruna standing over her, with a proud smile. “I’m so glad you’ve joined the Academy! You won’t regret it.”

  “Thank you… and I hope not.” Rilla replied with a hollow laugh. This seemed to please Bruna, who walked away to return to her own friends.

  Rilla picked up her knife and fork, and she overheard the black haired boy, saying, “…and then I cut the vine with an ax. The giant fell straight to his death!”

  The young women squealed, imploring him to continue.

  Millissa shook her head and chuckled. “That’s Jacques, the Giant Killer. He must be talking about that time he killed a giant in Steppe.”

  Rilla's breathing grew rapid with growing anger. She glared at Jacques, telling the story with an easy grin and arrogant charm. All she could think about was her dear Jack, the true Giant Killer.

  Here, Jacques enjoyed shelter, food, education and grooming for a grand career, all based on a falsehood. Rilla's Jack was hiding in a tavern, nursing physical injuries and mental wounds inflicted upon him for killing that giant. He had been enslaved, beaten, and worst of all, made to believe that Lord Bluebeard had killed his mother.

  Jacques caught Rilla’s stare and winked, only enraging her further. She balled her fists and focused on not letting any light spill from her palms. The braggart stood and approached her with a swagger, and she had to resist the urge to spit in his face.