Autumn Rose: A Dark Heroine Novel

by Abigail Gibbs

  “Autumn!”

  In my empty hand I held a heart, my grip tightening and slackening to the rhythm of its pumping, knowing that the beat I felt belonged to something—something that wasn’t human; something that was nearing, fast.

  Death danced on my lips and I allowed my magic to drain from my system into shields around as many of the students as I could manage. Then without tearing my eyes away from the falling blossom, I let go of the sword and slipped a small knife out of the scabbard instead. I gripped it in my right hand, curse balanced in the left; waiting.

  Panicked, fearful babbling faded away, leaving only the thumping heartbeat of whomever—whatever—was coming.

  I didn’t have to wait long. I heard breath behind me; felt another’s magic; heard a voice.

  “Duchess.”

  I spun around, lifting the dagger until it rested beneath the defined jawline of a man not much older than me. But it didn’t get any further.

  Half-formed on my lips, a curse that would kill was snatched away by the wind that whipped past, replaced with a sharp intake of breath; then a silence that was only broken by the clatter of my dagger striking the ground. Thrust forward, my hand hung in midair, fingers sprawled from where I had let the blade fall.

  I wet my lips, shock turning to realization. The seconds fell and neither of us moved. After a minute, it occurred to me to drop into a deep curtsy, onto one knee, aware of how high my skirt was hitching; aware of how the trees whispered treason.

  “Your Highness,” I managed, eyes fixed firmly on a blossom petal, partly crushed below the edge of my shoe.

  “Duchess,” he repeated quietly so only I could hear. I raised my head, risking a glance, but did not allow our gazes to meet.

  Always remember your place, Autumn. Etiquette, child, is everything.

  My mind fought with itself. He should not be here. He has no reason to be here. But I could ignore neither the leather satchel resting at his side nor the planner in his other hand, the school logo printed on the hard front cover. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but I knew the sixth form didn’t have to. A lump formed in my throat.

  “Do you always greet people like that, or am I the exception?” His accent, Canadian, rang over the whispers of the students around us—they weren’t stupid. They read the magazines and watched the news. They knew who was standing before them.

  “My apologies, Your Highness, I was not expecting you.”

  “No, forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I nodded to the ground, feeling the urge to reach out and snatch up my dagger. I knew better.

  The bell sounded, yet nobody moved. The Athenea. Not now. Not here. Movement only began as teachers started to cross the tarmac, late and unhurried as they always were to homeroom. If they were surprised by the scene before them, they didn’t allow it to show.

  “Good, I see you’ve met each other.”

  The sound of the headmaster’s voice straightened me up; fingernails buried into my palms to help me keep control.

  “Autumn, this is—”

  “I shouldn’t think either of them needs an introduction, Headmaster,” a second teacher said—Mr. Sylaeia, my English language and literature teacher, as well as my homeroom teacher. “They will have met at court.”

  Mr. Sylaeia, unlike the other teachers, didn’t hide his surprise, his untrimmed eyebrows arching as they moved from the dagger on the ground, to me, to the tanned arms of the man in front, clad only in faded jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt.

  “I’m afraid the weather here isn’t quite on a par with what you will have experienced in Australia, Your Highness. I would recommend a coat in the future,” Mr. Sylaeia said.

  “Please, call me Fallon,” the prince replied, his eyes never leaving me as my mind reeled, unable to comprehend what I knew was happening. I stared straight past him to Mr. Sylaeia, mental barriers opening just enough to allow him to speak in my mind—he was half-Sage, and although he did not bear the scars, he possessed many of our abilities.

  “You understand what is happening,” he said. It was not a question.

  “Why?” I replied, releasing the dread in my chest that had wormed its way between my ribs, slowing my breathing.

  “His parents desired for him to spend a year as a guardian within the British education system. He requested a state school.”

  “There are thousands of state schools. Hundreds without any guardian at all.”

  He held my gaze and his silence told me there was more but that I wasn’t going to be privy to it.

  “Autumn: Fallon will be spending a year here studying his A2 levels. I would like you to mentor him in his first few weeks and make him feel welcome here at Kable,” said the headmaster.

  I can’t do that, I thought. But I nodded, just once, keeping my lips pursed to prevent myself from revealing the wrong answer.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse us, Headmaster, I believe my homeroom group is waiting for morning roll call. Autumn, Fallon; after you.” Mr. Sylaeia motioned toward the two-story block that housed English, and I sped in front of them both, feeling my expression crumple into one of despair when I entered the dimly lit stairwell that led up to my homeroom. I moved as though in a dream, climbing the staircase without noticing where I placed my feet, unable to believe that what was happening was anything but a nightmare.

  But this was reality: one of the Sagean royal family, a prince of Athenea, was here, at Kable, to study.

  From the bottom step there came a burst of giggling as Christy, Gwen, Tammy, and Tee followed us up. It didn’t take much brainpower to work out what the source of their amusement was. There was a reason this particular member of the Athenea was continually featured in magazines.

  I swept into the classroom, ignoring the startled year sevens, whose frightened eyes moved from me to the prince, causing one tiny girl, who simply didn’t look old enough to be in secondary education, to actually pick up her seat and move around the desk, settling back down right beside her friend.

  The older girls reacted in the complete opposite way. I saw their eyes graze over his scars, burgundy red, and his shirt, short sleeves clinging to muscular arms, and then to me, as I slipped into a chair at my usual desk, indicating for the prince to take a seat, too. He sat down opposite, facing me. Seeing an opportunity, Christy snatched the seat beside him and Tammy sat down next to me; not to be outdone, Gwen stole a chair from another desk and placed it at the side of the table, and within a minute, Tee had invited her best friend over, so that our little table designed to seat four was accommodating seven. I was a little shocked, and bitter . . . they didn’t usually make this much of an effort to be around me.

  Their interest, along with that of the rest of the class, was subtle at first, as they buzzed about their summer holidays to one another before they started introducing themselves, chatting over each other to ask him questions.

  “So you’re from Canada, right?” Christy asked. “Your Highness,” she added.

  “Please, just Fallon. Not quite. Athenea, my country, is part of Vancouver Island but we are a nation of our own, separate from Canada.”

  “So, do you, like, speak Canadian?” Gwen asked, twiddling with a strand of her dark, dyed hair. His eyes widened and I couldn’t prevent a smile from creeping onto my lips—to hide it, I began fiddling with the ring of keys attached to a loop in my pocket, searching for my locker key.

  “Er, no, we speak Sagean, and English. Some of those born farther east speak French,” I heard him say as I got up and weaved my way between the tables to the stack of square lockers in the corner of the room.

  It is important in life that you are patient with those not blessed with your intellect.

  But Grandmother, they ask such simple questions! I am quite sure I will die of boredom if they do not stop it.

  “I’ve never heard Sagean,” Gwen continued, her voice meek and devoid of the flirtatious tone it had possessed before.

  “So’yea tol ton shir yeari mothe
r ithan entha, Duchess?”

  I froze, hearing my language spoken for the first time in months. Pulling the locker door open, I glanced at him. He stared at my back, his finger curled and pressed to his lips, as though pondering.

  Why is he asking that? Does he not know the nature of the area? I do not speak my mother tongue because there is no one to speak it to.

  I turned again to my locker. “Arna ar faw hla shir arn mother ithan entha, Your Highness.”

  I finished, knowing I spoke in staccato and that my words did not roll from one into another like they should; Sagean felt strange to my mouth, like a second tongue was trying to grow from beneath the first.

  “Of course,” he replied as I retrieved my bag and clicked the padlock shut. When I turned back, his cool eyes—cobalt blue—hadn’t left me. Placing my bag onto my chair, I met his gaze, raising the walls around my mind even higher to ensure he would not know what I was thinking.

  I know you know, I thought. I know you know about her. And I hate you for it.

  Responding to Mr. Sylaeia’s request for help handing out the new timetables, I retreated from where the girls twirled their hair and requested translations into Sagean. They giggled and commented on his accent; the fact he was a Sage, and that they feared the Sage, was forgotten.

  I handed around the sheets, and friends squealed or groaned as they compared schedules, exclamations of disgust erupting from those who had drawn the less popular teachers. Two year-ten boys cheered, celebrating that they no longer had to study history, and the three girls in year eleven compared their free periods, excitedly discussing how once the eldest learned to drive, they would go into town instead of studying.

  I neared the bottom of the pile, coming across the cluttered timetable of “House of Athenea, Prince Fallon,” which was followed by a long list of prefixes and titles, the first being “H.R.A.H.”: His Royal Athenean Highness.

  Why didn’t the school tell me he was coming? I thought, but answered my own question almost instantly. Because I never would have come back to school. They know my attendance is bad . . .

  He barely had any free periods, which was unusual for a year thirteen, and when I counted up his subjects, I realized why.

  English literature, French, history, math, chemistry. Five. But nobody takes five subjects at A2. He must either be mad or prepared to work insanely hard.

  Knowing others were waiting for their timetables, I placed the sheet in front of him. Beneath his was my own timetable, which I set on the desk while I handed the remaining few out. But before the paper had even touched the wood, Tammy had snatched it up, comparing it with her own.

  “We’re in everything together,” she informed me when I sat back down. I felt very enclosed and, with a glance around, realized most people had moved at least a foot or two nearer to us; to him. “Apart from GCSE French and your A-level English Lit.” She sighed. “You’re crazy, doing both GCSEs and A-levels.”

  I acknowledged that information with a nod, busy writing my name on the front of one of the homework planners Mr. Sylaeia was handing out.

  “You’re taking A-level literature, Lady Autumn?” the prince asked.

  Tammy offered him my timetable and he took it. Still filling in my details in my planner, I watched him through my eyelashes, noting the fact he had switched to using a formal address rather than my title.

  “In that case, I believe we have that class together.”

  My pen paused partway through writing my address on the inside cover. I looked up, forcing a disinterested smile, as though this was not strange; as though a prince attending a tiny, rural state school was the norm. I resumed writing, retrieving my timetable and copying it up into the planner.

  “Don’t have many frees, do you?” Gwen commented, leaning over his shoulder and getting as close as she dared without touching the vine-like scars trailing across his tanned skin. Her hair fell on his shoulders and he shifted away from her in his chair, running a hand through his own flaxen hair.

  My lips parted. That, I did not expect. Gwen seemed affronted, but, blessed with people skills I could only envy, she didn’t allow it to show for long as she twisted behind her and started an animated conversation with the three year-twelve girls, who repeatedly looked at the prince.

  My attention was snapped away as Mr. Sylaeia retreated behind his desk, writing his name up on the whiteboard. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome, and welcome back to Kable. I am going to be your homeroom teacher this year, and will take attendance every morning, so we will be getting well acquainted. For those of you who don’t know, I am Mr. Sylaeia; that’s how you spell my name, right there.” He slammed his marker pen against the plastic board. “I’m half-Sagean and I’m told it’s a pain to pronounce, so you may call me Mr. S. if you wish.”

  He put the pen down and picked up a piece of paper with a list of words on it, and squinted at the top. “So we have a new student in our midst today. Some of you might know him. It’s . . . er . . . A-athana? Athena? I don’t know, tricky name, that.” He lowered the paper and squinted over at the prince. “They have a whole load of weird letters before your name. H.R.A.H., anybody? Anybody got any idea what H.R.A.H. means?”

  By this time the class could barely contain its glee and burst into raucous laughter, in which the prince more modestly joined, tipping his chin toward the ground as he blushed.

  “I jest, of course. But yes, Fallon is joining us this year as another guardian to protect our school, and we should all feel very lucky to have two such powerful young Sage keeping watch over us in these dangerous times.” The laughter had died down to a somber silence now, and Mr. Sylaeia embraced it. “On a serious note: some of you may have heard about the recent local Extermino attack, and about others around the country. No doubt most of you have heard the rumors about the young kidnapped human girl, Violet Lee. You may be scared, or unsure of what this means for you. These emotions are all expected, but this doesn’t mean you should lash out, or be anything less than the decent human beings I know you all are . . . so please, respect the privacy of our guardians, do not view them through the light of how many letters come before their names, or view them as so very different from you. If you can let them get on with their jobs, then with fate’s grace, we will have a great year.”

  Then with fate’s grace, I thought, we might survive this year.

  I fastened the buckles on my bag, careful to avoid raising my eyes. The reality still hadn’t sunk in and I didn’t wish to hasten its arrival. I felt as though I could look up and he would not be there; everything would be normal and this unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach would disappear.

  “Autumn, Fallon; could I speak to you both for a moment?”

  This time I had little choice but to look up, my eyes settling first on the prince, bag already slung across his shoulder, and then on Mr. Sylaeia, waiting behind his desk.

  “We’ll be in the quad,” Tammy muttered, ushering the others out. At the same time, Mr. Sylaeia gestured for us to come closer.

  My hand gripped the strap of my bag until my knuckles whitened, and in the back of my mind, I was aware that the last time I had been so close to this boy was at my grandmother’s funeral.

  Were you still ignorant then?

  Mr. Sylaeia turned away, using a rag to wipe his name from the board. “As Autumn knows, any Sage on the school campus are my responsibility. Therefore, Fallon, I ask that you ensure you maintain shields when using magic on site and respect the privacy of the minds of humans. The paperwork I have to fill out in the event of an accident is enough to send any man or Sage to an early grave and I would rather like to make it to forty.” The prince nodded. My grip tightened. “And Autumn, I read this over the summer. I thought it might interest you. Enlightening interpretation of misogyny in The Taming of the Shrew.” He handed me a thick paperback volume, well-used judging by the creases in the spine. I mumbled my thanks, placing it into my near-empty bag.

  Sensing he was finished, I
moved toward the door. But as I reached it, Mr. Sylaeia’s voice sounded in my head. “It will not be as bad as you think.”

  I fought the urge to freeze, yet I could not stop myself from glancing back at him. He was not facing in our direction, but typing something on the computer in the opposite corner. I turned back, carrying on along the short corridor until I reached the door to the staircase.

  He is a wise man, but this time he cannot understand.

  “Duchess!”

  I concealed a sigh, pushing through the door. It swung shut after I had passed through but quickly opened again.

  No, I am quite positive it will be far worse than what I imagine it to be.

  “Lady Autumn?”

  I knew I could not ignore him for long, so I turned, taking my time so that I could compose my expression into something resembling polite interest.

  “Your Highness?”

  He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and shook his head, seeming puzzled. “On your timetable, there is no mention of your title and Lady is not placed in front of your given name. They didn’t even have the courtesy to use House in reference to your surname. Is this a mistake you intend to have corrected?”

  Throughout his short rant—and a rant it was, judging by the irritated tone he used—I stared at a stain in the faded brown carpet, worn by the hundreds of feet that passed over it during the working week.

  “It’s not a mistake, Your Highness.” I brought my eyes up to meet his, holding his gaze for as long as I could stand to, so my meaning was clear.

  “Not . . . a mistake?” He turned the words over on his tongue as though they belonged to a foreign language.

  “No. I prefer not to use my title and I would be very much obliged to you if you would respect that wish.”

  I continued down the staircase, hearing him mutter “Obliged?” to my retreating back. As I reached the landing halfway down, he suddenly sprang forward, leaning over the banister.