Chapter 12

I stare at him, so shocked I actually make a noise, this sort of huhngh? sound that’s way too loud in the quiet hallway. When I can actually find my voice again, it’s to squawk out, “Did you miss the part where he was in my room? Like, he came there himself. He just showed up like a posh vampire I accidentally invited in, then couldn’t make leave.”

Miles frowns, and I roll my eyes.

“Look at me.” I spread my arms out to both sides, letting Miles take in the insanity of what I’m wearing. “Is this what girls usually wear to seduce princes in Scotland? I mean, I know it’s cold here, and maybe after years of an all-boys school those of you who are straight aren’t all that picky, so I guess it’s possible forty-seven layers of pajamas are a real turn-on.”

By now, Miles has pulled himself up so straight and tall that I think he might actually be creaking. His arms are down at his sides, chin lifted, and I don’t know if they teach this type of arrogance at whatever fancy school he goes to with Seb, but if they do, he’s clearly aced his How to Be a Total Dick class.

“Honestly, I was giving you points for originality,” he says, one corner of his mouth quirking in a near smirk. He nods at my plaid pants. “And for staying on theme.”

I snort. “Are you this paranoid about every girl who comes into Seb’s orbit?” I ask. And then something occurs to me.

Dropping my arms and my attitude, I lean closer to him. “Wait . . . are you into Seb?”

That actually seems to surprise some of the permafrost right off him, because Miles blinks and takes a step back, looking—for just a second—like an actual teenage boy and not someone about to order a beheading.

“Into . . . no.” He shakes his head, and ah, there it is, the crusty layer reforming itself.

“No,” he repeats, pushing his shoulders back a little. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t want to see Seb dragged into your particular scheme.”

Parting my lips, I shake my head, totally confused. “I have no idea—” I start, and then I remember what Seb said in my room.

About Michael.

About that stupid interview.

“Ohhhhh my god,” I say, putting my hands on either side of my head. “You give me crap for knowing gossip, but you guys are, like, drooling over TMZ?”

He has the grace to look just a little bit chagrined, but he lifts his chin and goes for haughty again.

“You’re hardly the first girl to throw over one boy and set her cap for Seb,” he says, and I would absolutely mock him for saying something like “set her cap,” but he’s still going. “And that’s the last thing he needs right now.”

“Why?” I ask. “I mean, trust me, I’m not interested in Seb no matter what the internet told you, but why would me and Seb be such a disastrous thing?”

When he doesn’t answer, I press a hand to my chest, gasping with faux shock. “Is it because I’m . . . American?”

Miles scowls.

“Or wait, it’s because I don’t have a nickname, isn’t it?” I give an exaggerated frown. “Maybe one day, I, too, can have a bevy of stupid things people call me instead of my own name, Monters, but alas, I am nickname deficient.” Sighing, I let my shoulders rise and fall, and now Miles rolls his eyes at me.

“Just stay away from him,” he says, and honestly, I’d take Spiffy and Dons and their stupid kilts and dancing over this jerk any day.

“Maybe tell him to stay away from me. And I’ll find my way back to my room on my own,” I reply before marching down the hallway in what I think is the general direction of my room.

He doesn’t follow, thank goodness, and as I stomp past hall tables and portraits and one truly enormous clock, I try to get my temper under control. But seriously, who does that guy think he is? He doesn’t even know me, but one stupid interview with my stupid ex-boyfriend has him convinced I’m scheming to land a prince for myself. Which . . . no thank you. Ellie can do all the ribbon cutting she wants, I’m gonna take a hard pass on the royal life.

And seriously, if he’s been Seb’s friend for so long, doesn’t he know his friend is a disaster of a human? Why not talk to him?

Unless that’s treason?

Maybe that’s treason.

My feet touch a stone floor, cold even through my socks, and I stop, suddenly looking around me. I’m in another hallway, this one lined with . . . I don’t remember seeing this part of the castle before.

I turn around, looking behind me, trying to remember if I’d made a turn anywhere while I’d been busy arguing with Miles Montgomery in my mind, but no, apparently I was too angry to notice my surroundings.

Aaaaand I’m lost.

Like. Really lost.

Which is stupid because this is a house, not the freaking Amazon rain forest, but it’s a really big house, and it’s filled with more hallways and rooms than I’d accounted for.

Okay. We didn’t take any stairs going from my room to Seb’s, so maybe I’m at least on the right floor? Unless the hallways slope and I didn’t notice.

Ugh.

I tuck the blanket a little more tightly around me and start heading back the way I came. I’m not someone who’s easily spooked, but this is all just a liiiiiitttttle too Gothic for me, swanning around the dark halls of a castle at night. Plus, I’d also dealt with having a charming scoundrel in my room, and a fight with a stuck-up snob.

Not even a full two days into my trip, and I was already going full Jane Austen.

There’s a lamp on one of the nearby hall tables, and I walk over to it, deciding that some light might help me get my bearings. As I flip it on, something behind the painting hanging above the lamp catches my eye.

It’s . . . the hilt of a knife?

Maybe you can resist pulling out what appears to be a dagger from a little leather holster hidden behind a painting, but I’m not that strong.

The metal is cold when I draw out the knife, and sure enough, it’s a short, sharp dagger, just . . . strapped to the wall. Are castles more dangerous than I thought? Gotta arm yourself just to walk down a corridor?

“It’s for the painting.”

I whirl around, the little knife still in my hand. It’s Miles, of course, standing in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back.

I look back at the blade. “The painting needs a dagger?” I ask. “Why? In case it gets in street fights with the other art?”

To my surprise, Miles actually cracks a smile. Okay, it’s not so much a smile as a tiny lifting of one corner of his mouth, but given that I’ve barely seen anything from him other than contempt and disdain, it’s close enough.

“In case there’s a fire,” he says, walking a little farther into the room, “someone can slash the painting out of the frame quickly and carry it to safety.”

I get that, but it also strikes me as really stupid. If there’s a fire, who cares about art? Even really fancy art.

“Rich people are weird,” I say, and that little baby smile Miles was working on dies immediately.

“It’s priceless art,” he tells me, and I put the knife back into its holster. It makes a little schick noise in the quiet corridor.

“I happen to think my life is kind of priceless, but whatever.”

We face each other, and after a moment, Miles takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says, even though the words come out like someone is holding a gun—or a tiny dagger—to his head. “I shouldn’t have implied anything about you and Seb. He’s . . . it’s just been a long night.”

I notice he doesn’t apologize for his general jerkitude before that, but then he tilts his head to the left and says, “I’ll show you back to your room.”

I don’t want to spend any more time with him, but I’m glad he doesn’t bother to mention how obviously lost I got in the five minutes I was away from him, so I just nod and follow him.

It doesn’t take nearly as long to get back as I’d thought it would, which means I definitely took a wrong turn or twelve, and as we walk down my hallway, I say, “Okay, seriously, how does anyone find their way around this place?”

Miles shrugs. “A lot of people don’t. Sherbet says that in the thirties, his great-grandparents used to give every guest a silver bowl full of a different color of confetti. That way, you could leave a trail back to your room.”

I stop in the hallway, scuffing my foot over the carpet. “You’re making that up.”

But Miles shakes his head. “God’s truth,” he swears. “’Course Sherbet says it was more so that people could find their way to each other’s rooms.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’re just giving me hints?” I ask him, then wiggle my fingers. “Might spend all night cutting special confetti to lure Seb into my womanly clutches.”

His lips thin, a thing I’ve already seen him do a couple of times when he’s annoyed. Maybe if I annoy him enough, he’ll do it so much that he won’t even have a mouth. That would probably improve his general personality.

I go to open the door, and as I do, Miles leans in a little. “I really am sorry for thinking the worst earlier, but . . . it occurs to me that you might need a guide,” he says. “Someone to show you the ropes. Make sure you don’t get in over your head.”

Staring at him, I tilt my head to one side, pretending to think it over. “Hmmmm,” I hum. “Hard pass.”

And when he glowers at me, I take great pleasure in shutting the door in his face.