“Great. Looks like I’ll be wearing a daisy dress and leopard print denim jacket to my first day as an etiquette coach.”
While waiting for a taxi outside the arrivals gate, I breathe in the fresh air, feeling thankful to be far away from Todd despite losing Heidi’s hand-me-downs.
An empty cab pulls up and as I gesture for it, a businesswoman with coordinating luggage brushes past me with purpose and gets in. I check the incoming lane for another taxi. Concordia is generally a friendly place. I guess the airport is the exception. I bet Goodie would’ve shared her ride with me.
In the distance, a man built like a linebacker and with long hair gets in a sleek black car. Last time I was here with the Ice King, we traveled in style. Gone are those days. Now it’s just me, the last of my savings, and my luggage. Or not. I clutch my carry-on bag in case Manimal is a purse snatcher and tries to make off with it.
But the sun is coming out. Things will get better from here. I hope.
A taxi approaches. Wouldn’t you know it? Manimal scuttles by me and gets in.
“Can I share a ride with you?” I call.
He’s about to slam the door.
I thrust my metal water bottle forward—a sacrifice I’m willing to make if he tells the driver to step on it.
When he glowers, I add, “Please?”
He scowls and then squishes over.
I just barely resist calling,Par three! If this were a golf game, I’d have won.
7
EVERLY
Alittle musty after traveling and resembling a wayward preteen in need of charm school, I roll through the quaint village outside the capital city of Intherness with stone buildings and thatched roofs, flowers spilling out of containers, tiny dogs sniffing tree trunks and toward Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia.
I’m on my way!
I’ve seen pictures of the manor online, but the old-world architecture makes me think I’ve walked into a fairytale.
Take that, Manimal.
He got out on the corner of two streets ten minutes into the ride, leaving me to cover the fare. He probably lives in a hovel or is here on a shady business deal to smuggle oysters or something equally slimy.
The Blancbourg property is sprawling and the main house is grand with a sweeping lawn in the front and stone paths everywhere. The cobblestone driveway leads to an entryway complete with ivy and topiary, along with a jolly doorman who wears a welcoming smile.
“Welcome,” the man says, ushering me inside. “No luggage?”
“I travel light, but unfortunately, it was lost,” I explain.
A pair of high heels click toward us in a rhythmic march. I recognize Cateline, the headmistress, from our video interview. She wears her hair in a bun, but a few pieces fall loose as if she, too has had an eventful morning. She launches into introductions, knowing exactly who I am, though thankfully not about my past. I made a promise never to talk about it as I step into my new life.
It’s done. Over. Ancient history.
“Everly, this is Arthur. He’s the glue that keeps Blancbourg together.” The words themselves have warmth, but Cateline has a chilly personality.
The older man with a few wispy pieces of white hair remaining on his head nods genially.
“You and Mrs. Fitzwilliam are the glue that holds me together.” Cateline leans toward the older man as though she doesn’t want anyone nearby to hear her dole out niceties.
A little hum of excitement builds inside as I make the connection between Arthur and Goodie.
“She’ll be delighted that you said that, Miss,” Arthur says. “Oh, and she made you a loaf of that banana bread you enjoyed last time you visited. She’s been stocking up before surgery.”
Cateline proffers a bittersweet smile. “I appreciate her more than I could ever express.”
