A Rumor of Real Irish Tea (Annals of Altair Book 2)

by Kate Stradling

  “You’re out of line, Ms. Brent,” said Principal Gates.

  “I know,” said Emily, her resolve strengthening, “but it wasn’t my personal assistant who was moonlighting for Altair.” Principal Jones stiffened, which only encouraged Emily to continue. “Oliver did everything he was asked to do. He even chose to remain behind when they offered him a chance to escape. And now he’s being punished for it?”

  “This isn’t a punishment, Ms. Brent,” Principal Jones said, but there was no substance to her words. “This is just the way things are.”

  “So Quincy was telling the truth,” Oliver abruptly said. “I was going to end up here regardless, and I’m going to end up at Prom-E after this.”

  The two principals exchanged another telling glance.

  “Fine,” said Oliver firmly. “I understand.”

  Principal Gates folded his hands atop his desk, the picture of administrative decorum. “In order to restore normalcy here, our student body was told that the Wests were caught and expelled, and that Quincy was transferred. Any discussion of Prometheus-E or the events that you witnessed beyond this campus are strictly forbidden. That goes for both of you. You would be wise to watch your words, Ms. Brent.”

  “Under normal circumstances, any affiliation with Altair would be enough to get you expelled from our internship program,” Principal Jones added. “It’s been obvious that you were merely collateral damage in these incidents, though, and we are taking that into account. You’ve had a very rough start here, but we have good faith that the remainder of your service will pass without further incident.”

  “Three strikes and you’re out, Ms. Brent,” Principal Gates told her flatly. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” said Emily. “I’m not allowed to talk about Altair or the treachery of Principal Jones’s administrative assistant.”

  “We’ll deal with Birchard when we find him,” Principal Jones said in iron tones, an attempt to drive home her own innocence in the man’s treachery.

  “He’s dead,” said Emily. “Why does everyone keep acting like he’s still alive?” The GCA agents back in Phoenix had been the same way, as though the gun casings and bloodstains had not been proof enough for them.

  “No body, no crime,” said Principal Jones. “You think he’s dead because that’s what you were meant to think. Why would they leave a witness to report that detail back to us?”

  “Why would they pretend to kill a colleague?” Emily asked. True enough she had not seen the shooting, but she had heard it, and she had seen its aftermath.

  “Altair always kills their ghosts,” Principal Gates said. “They don’t kill the person who’s playing the ghost, though. The man formerly known as Ben Birchard is still out there, and we’re going to find him. In the meantime, you’re to forget everything you know about him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said bitterly.

  “Good. That is all. The two of you may go.”

  Oliver wordlessly led the way from the room. Emily resisted the urge to glare at the pair of principals as she followed him. She shut the door and was halfway down the hall before Oliver suddenly paused in front of her.

  “We’re a danger to them,” he said in a low voice, so quiet that Emily almost missed his words entirely.

  She leaned forward. “What? What do you mean?”

  “We’re a danger to them,” he repeated. “Principal Jones is the most powerful person at the Prometheus Institute, except General Stone, maybe. If word gets out that her personal assistant was an embedded spy who used his position to pass sensitive information to a group of domestic terrorists, and that she was completely unaware of this, she’ll be a laughingstock. It could potentially ruin her career. Watch your back, Emily.”

  She self-consciously glanced over one shoulder before returning her attention to him. Her voice lowered to the barest whisper. “Do you regret not escaping when you had the chance?”

  A strange array of emotions flitted across his face. “I’m not stupid enough to admit that out loud,” he muttered, which was answer enough. “Come on. I might be able to catch the last bit of first period if we hurry.”

  “Why so eager?” Emily asked.

  “People to meet and friends to make,” Oliver said nonchalantly. “If this is going to be my home, I might as well make the best of it, right?”

  She didn’t buy that explanation for a second, but she let it slide. Oliver boldly joined his class for the last ten minutes, but Emily entered the observation room with far less bravado.

  “New girl!” Crystal cried from the couch, and she beckoned her over. “I was half-scared they wouldn’t send you back. You’ll never guess what’s been happening here since you left.”

  Emily settled into the seat next to her, grateful that Crystal was willing to gossip rather than ask any questions.

  The morning passed in a blur. Lunch found her and Oliver in the cafeteria, amid an unusually somber sea of students. To her great surprise, he approached a table of three boys.

  “Tyler, Arthur, Pierce,” he said in greeting.

  “If it isn’t the principals’ lapdog,” Tyler sneered, while Arthur and Pierce both glared. “What treats did they give you for betraying your own this time?”

  “Nothing,” said Oliver. “The Wests got away, and Quincy went with them. The admins lied to all of you so you’d stop thinking it was possible. You guys still plotting your escape?”

  “That project is confidential,” Tyler said with an upturned nose. “Null-projectors need not apply.”

  Oliver leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Any exceptions for null-projectors who can confirm the existence of a shadow campus and know about a subversive group that can hide potential escapees?”

  The three boys exchanged a wary glance with one another. Tyler grudgingly scooted over to make room on the bench.

  “I think I’ll go check my mailbox,” said Emily perceptively. “You boys have fun.”

  She felt not the slightest bit of remorse as she left them to their plotting. At worst, it would land Oliver at Prom-E a few years early. If he made some good friends before then, though, it would be time well spent.

  The tiny mail room was crowded, as many handlers took refuge there for that free hour. Crystal waved a hello and beckoned her to the row of bins on the far wall.

  “I forgot to tell you that you have a package,” she said when Emily approached. “It’s been in your box for a couple of days now.”

  Emily curiously pulled out the small rectangular parcel that awaited her. She recognized the return address typed on the label. “It’s from my mom,” she said in wonder. “I should probably call her. I haven’t talked to her in weeks.”

  “Ooh, care package,” said Crystal. She guided her to a small table in the corner. “What does she usually send you?”

  “She doesn’t,” said Emily, but she eagerly tore off the brown tape to see what was inside. A package of her mother’s favorite cookies nestled there, along with her father’s favorite hard candy. “She knows I don’t eat any of this,” Emily said, but she couldn’t suppress the nostalgic smile that pulled on the corners of her mouth. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Share and share alike.” Crystal snatched up the bag of hard candy to pass among the other handlers.

  Emily’s blood froze when she saw what was beneath that bag: an orange box with a green design encompassing the label, “Real Irish Tea.” It was her mother’s favorite flavor, so it made sense for it to be there. The words on the box had just startled her.

  She picked it up in a daze and opened the lid to view the individual tea packets. Taped to the inside of the lid was the purchase receipt, folded in thirds. Emily pulled it off in growing confusion. The store’s address jumped out at her first: it was located in a California town forty minutes north of her parents’ home. The box of tea had been purchased there, along with the cookies and hard candy, on the sixth of August.

  A strange foreboding twisted thro
ugh Emily as she turned the receipt over. The message scrawled there was not in her mother’s handwriting or her father’s. It read,

  The question now is, do you tell anyone or not?

  ~C

  (The man in the gray suit)

  Emily’s jaw dropped. “That evil jerk,” she muttered. “Three strikes, and I’m out.”

  “What was that?” said Crystal, who had returned to her side in time to hear the last two words.

  Emily quickly folded the receipt again. “Nothing,” she said as she tucked it away. “I was reading my mother’s note. I’ll have to give her a call this evening, after class gets out.”

  “Tell her thanks for the candy,” Crystal said with a grin.

  Emily assured her that she would do just that. And she really did intend to call her mother, too—right after she burned a sales receipt to ashes.

  About the Author

  Kate Stradling was born on a military base in Louisiana to a father who served in the dental corps and a mother who kept the hospital receipt (just in case). She grew up in the Arizona desert, the neglected fifth of six children and has lived a generally unremarkable life. In her spare time, she enjoys twisting information, diminishing her accomplishments, and staring blankly at the wall.

  Also by Kate Stradling

  The Annals of Altair series

  A Boy Called Hawk

  Oliver Invictus

  The Ruses series

  Kingdom of Ruses

  Tournament of Ruses

  Goldmayne: A Fairy Tale

  The Legendary Inge

  Namesake

  Brine and Bone

  Soot and Slipper