The Housemistress by Keira Michelle Telford Page B

can’t you see that you’re moving this along much too fast? Promise me that you’ll slow down. What happened this morning was just too much.”
    “It was only a kiss,” Rylie protests. “I—”
    “I don’t give up my kisses so easily,” Carriveau stops her. “And I don’t appreciate having them taken from me. Now”—she checks the time on Rylie’s watch—“your next class will be starting soon.” She gets up off the stool. “ Allons-y .” She urges Rylie up. “We should go. This place is out of bounds anyway.”
    “Why?” Rylie stands and straightens her skirt. “What’s wrong with it?”
    “There was an accident here last year,” Carriveau answers vaguely, herding Rylie back toward the door they both crept in through.
    “What kind of accident?”
    “A girl lost her life.” Carriveau ushers her out into the corridor, avoiding eye contact. “It was very tragic.”
    “Did you know her well?” Rylie pries, unaware that the nerve she’s picking at is still incredibly raw.
    Fortunately, thanks to a well-timed school bell, Carriveau is released from answering.
     
     

CHAPTER NINE

     
    Rylie, the last student to arrive, rushes into her English Language class and slinks into the seat beside Gabby.
    “This oughta be fun,” Gabby grumbles, doodling daisies in her notebook. “I heard Miss Carriveau’s been in a foul mood all day.”
    Rylie shrugs. “I was just with her. She seems fine now.”
    “Yeah? Is that ‘cause she was giving you some more”—Gabby waggles her fiery eyebrows—“private lessons?” Grinning, she scooches back in her chair, parts her legs, and gyrates her hips, uttering a short burst of sex noises.
    “Stop that!” Rylie slaps her arm. “Those private lessons were to help me catch up with this term’s French syllabus,” she lies. “I’m not having sex with Miss Carriveau!”
    In the midst of that declaration, the noise level in the room drastically drops.
    Cringing, Rylie swivels to face the door, knowing instinctively that Carriveau’s standing there, having heard every outspoken word.
    “No, you’re not,” the seemingly unflappable Housemistress confirms for the class as she closes the door behind her. “No matter how much you might want to.”
    The class erupts in laughter—entirely at Rylie’s expense—but Carriveau takes it in her stride, letting them get a few good guffaws out before she restores order and forges on with the lesson.
    Much to Rylie’s relief, the incident soon seems forgotten. The sporadic muffled snickering dies down—stamped out by Carriveau’s tight rein—and minds turn to coursework instead of gossip. That is, until Rylie puts her hand up to answer a question and is rewarded with a “ Très bien, ma chérie ” instead of a “Well done, Harcourt.”
    Carriveau corrects herself without pause, but the retraction doesn’t stop a wave of jeering ooooohs from rippling around the room, completely drowning out whatever it is she says next. Of course, Adel doesn’t join in; she’s too busy fuming in the back row.
    Then, the bell rings.
    Forgetting their manners in the wake of such hilarity, the students rise from their chairs, gathering up books and bags, chattering amongst themselves without waiting to be dismissed.
    “Ahem.” Carriveau clears her throat, making them stop in their tracks. “Did I pause for breath and give you all the impression I was done speaking?”
    Bums rapidly plunk back into seats.
    “ Merci .” She begins again. “I have your marked assignments from last week, so collect them from me on your way out, and don’t forget that your creative narratives are due in on Monday.” She rises from her desk with a stack of papers in her arms, opens the classroom door, and prepares to release her ill-mannered pupils. “Now, you may leave as I call your names.” She shuffles the assignments, holding out the one on top. “Adamson.”
    A girl in the back row gets up, collects her paper, and leaves, and