Page 42 of Crush
“That doesn’t give Thorne the right to assault me!”
“Did he hold you by the neck and force your head down?” The question is directed at Aurora, but Dupris’s attention skates to me when she asks it. “Use the clippers himself?”
Aurora’s lower lip trembles. “N-No. But he intimidated me into doing it. Stood over me like … like…”
“Like he was witnessing your punishment for going against the king’s orders?” Dupris finishes. She sets her jaw. “You’re lucky that’s all it was, Aurora. I’m told you refused to heed numerous warnings. When it comes to Ember, it seems you can’t control yourself. And let me tell you this.” Dupris leans forward again. “You’ve made your hatred known. Your uncontrollable urges to hurt Ember must be stifled. You have the Marks scholarship. You’ve been adorned with the privileges of a Virtuous princess. Yet that doesn’t seem to be enough for you. It’s for that reason I must officially state that if you attempt to harm Ember at any point in the future, your royal title will be revoked.”
Aurora’s jaw drops. “But—Headmistress, my queen, that’s not fair.”
“Jealousy is a terrible trait. I suggest you work to stifle it.”
Aurora whips toward me, hissing, “I am not jealous of her.”
Clearly, I think, but don’t dare to voice my sarcasm. There’s a beast within Aurora. All it takes is the wrong word, and I’m sure she’d leap for me, despite the headmistress’s—no, the Virtue queen’s—warnings.
“You’re excused, Aurora. A prefect is waiting outside my office to escort you to your class.”
Color blooms in Aurora’s cheeks as she grips the chair’s arms like they each resemble one of my limbs. She stands, murmuring something.
“I’m sorry?” Dupris asks.
“My … my wig,” Aurora says louder. “I’d like it, please.”
Her tortured, beaten expression isn’t lost on me, but I remain silent.
Dupris opens a drawer next to her, withdrawing the auburn wig, tangled from misuse. “Consider yourself lucky the Nobles haven’t expanded your punishment to include you baring your head to the entirety of Winthorpe.”
Aurora whimpers. Her hair was her favorite asset. To be humiliated in front of the entire student body would be her greatest nightmare.
Dupris doesn’t move from her throne when Aurora exits the room, nor does she shift her focus to me once she watches Aurora shut the door quietly behind her.
“Thank you,” I say into the stifling quiet, now that Aurora’s indignant nose-breathing isn’t around.
I’m not sure why I say it—it just seems to be the thing to mention when Dupris threatens your bully into submission. If the police will give me no recourse, the small benefit of having Aurora peeled off my back for the rest of the year will have to do. And I have no doubt, without Headmistress Dupris’s intervention, I’d be in a very different state right now.
Dupris tips her chin in my direction, her thinned lips indicating that my time here is up, too. Standing, I smooth my skirt and half-heartedly run my fingers through my damp, unkempt hair. I make a mental note to stop at my locker and find a scrunchie I know is in there somewhere.
Heck, I’d rather contemplate the location of a hair tie than what I just endured and must continue to survive to keep the Societies happy.
Malcolm’s ominous voice creeps into my ears. “I warned you…”
I head to the door without saying anything else. My hand stills on the doorknob when at last, the headmistress speaks.
“I’ve given you a pass. One. Your outbursts will not be tolerated from this point on. If you ever speak Savannah Merricourt’s name out of turn to me again,” Dupris says behind me, “Aurora’s punishment will look like a kindergarten project. Have I made myself clear?”
My heart plummets into my stomach. “Yes,” I whisper without turning around.
“Yes, what?”
I swallow. “Yes, my queen.”
“Good. Have a nice day, Miss Weatherby.”
I don’t correct her as I swing the door open and plunge into the cool, open air of the hallway.
18
Thorne