This girl is fucking insane, and I’m loving it.
I always prefer action over waiting, boldness over apology.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say to Sabrina, grinning.
The driver’s horse waits patiently. The driver himself shuffles along behind us, clutching a folded piece of paper that I can only assume is a letter from the first mate tattling on our misdeeds.
We climb five sets of stairs to the topmost floor of the Keep, the driver puffing along behind us. He either smokes or he’s even older than he looks.
This is my first time inside one of the Kingmakers buildings. I’m impressed with the luxurious furnishings. Thick carpets blanket the stone floors, the walls are hung with tapestries and oil paintings, and elegant statuary fills the recessed niches in the hallway.
The closer we get, the less I want to meet the Chancellor. I only know Luther Hugo from his foreboding acceptance letter—I didn’t get the sense that he was an indulgent headmaster.
Sabrina reaches the double doors of the Chancellor’s office, rapping her knuckles against the wood. The driver drags himself up the last few steps, annoyed that he had to hustle to keep up with us.
After a brief pause, a sonorous voice calls, “You may enter.”
Sabrina turns the handle.
The room beyond is much larger than I expected. The office appears to be a combination living quarters and working space, including several sitting areas, endless bookshelves, artwork, and personal photographs, and of course, the dark and imposing desk behind which the Chancellor waits.
The rich colors, the fur throws, and the deep fireplace remind me of a hunting lodge—if that lodge were owned by a sultan.
The driver seems determined not to let Sabrina control this part of the proceedings. He practically sprints across the long expanse of carpet to thrust the letter into the Chancellor’s hands, saying, “Here! These girls got into trouble on the ship ride over.”
Luther Hugo takes the letter.
“Thank you,” he says to the driver. “You may go.”
The driver looks mildly affronted by this swift dismissal. He was looking forward to watching the hammer fall on our heads. However, the Chancellor’s black stare leaves no room for argument.
“Yes, sir. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon,” he says humbly, exiting the office with one last glower at Sabrina and me.
However ballsy Sabrina might have been on the way up here, she quails before the Chancellor’s deeply-lined face and heavy black brows. Luther Hugo is broad-shouldered and intimidating, even while seated. His chair is throne-like, his double-breasted suit as richly embroidered as an emperor’s. His mane of dark hair and his beard are shot through with silver threads as bright as wire.
We stand silently while Luther scans the letter from the first mate.
Though his gaze is fixed on the paper, the eyes of every photograph on the wall seem to stare down at us. I recognize some of the famous people hobnobbing with the Chancellor. Others look like mafia. To a frame, they’re all wealthy and distinguished, the pictures taken in exotic locales: on yachts and estates, at banquets and on golf courses. With the exception of the photograph tucked in the corner behind Luther’s desk—this is the only picture featuring a group of students: three frowning boys, and one dark-haired girl who beams in triumph as she shakes the Chancellor’s hand.
Luther places the letter facedown on the desk in front of him so we can’t read what was written about us.
“You make a poor start at my school,” he says in his low, rumbling voice.
“We weren’t at your school yet,” Sabrina says.
She somehow manages to keep her tone respectful while contradicting the Chancellor.
He raises one pointed eyebrow, his beetle-black eyes fixed on Sabrina.
“Who do you think owns that ship, missy?” he says.
Sabrina is wise enough not to answer that rhetorical question.
I can’t stay silent, however.
“It was my fault,” I blurt out. “I’m the one who hit Estas. Sabrina got caught in the middle.”
“Sabrina didn’t hit Estas as well?” the Chancellor inquires, eyebrow still raised.
“Yes, I did,” Sabrina says honestly. “But he deserved it. He was threatening Nix and insulting her father.”
“And you think that justifies breaking the rules,” the Chancellor says.
“Well,” Sabrina says, “necessity has no law.”
I can’t believe she’s quoting the school motto at him.
I’m starting to think she wants to get us kicked out.
Well, whatever happens, I have to stand by Sabrina like she stood by me.
“We’re extremely sorry,” I say to the Chancellor. “Both of us. I can promise you, it won’t happen again.”
“Oh, that is a near-certainty,” the Chancellor says coolly.
Shit. That doesn’t sound good.
Sabrina bites the edge of her full lip, obviously hearing the same note of impending doom. Throwing all caution to the wind, she cries, “You would have done the same thing!”
The Chancellor slowly turns to face her, his expression both threatening and mildly surprised at the sheer audacity of this girl.
Sabrina persists, knowing that it’s all-or-nothing in this moment.
“You’d never let someone slander the Hugo name! We’re mafia—we follow no law but our own. All we have is our word and our honor. If we don’t defend it, if we don’t show it matters to us . . . then no one would trust us. No business could be done.”
Sabrina’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes as electric as storm clouds. She refuses to drop the Chancellor’s dark stare.
I keep my mouth shut, knowing better than to interrupt their battle of wills.
“Sabrina Gallo . . .” the Chancellor says softly. “Cousin to Leo Gallo and Miles Griffin.”
“That’s right,” Sabrina says, chin up-tilted.
“I’m beginning to regret extending admission to any of your family,” he says.
“This is not a school for the meek and submissive,” Sabrina says.
“No,” the Chancellor agrees. “But it is a school, and you will follow my rules while you are here. Or you will reap the consequences. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Sabrina says.
“Absolutely.” I nod.
“Good,” he says. And then, his black eyes fixing on me. “You can start with your uniform.”
“Sorry,” I say, face as scarlet as my hair. “I didn’t know we were supposed to wear it on the way over . . .”
Hugo ignores this.
“Get to your dorms,” he says. “And hope that we have no more occasion for conversation.”
He turns back to his papers, dismissing us.
Sabrina and I hurry out of his office, limp with relief.
As soon as the doors close behind us, I say, “Fucking hell, girl. I don’t know how you had the balls to talk to him like that. And I thought my dad was scary . . .”
A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
“There’s two kinds of men in the world,” she says. “The kind who want to hurt you . . . and the kind who want to be persuaded by you.”
I gaze at Sabrina with an entirely new level of admiration. This girl’s eighteen years old, and she can bend Luther Hugo around her finger . . .