Free Kiss of Death by Lauren Henderson

like a stately home .”
    “They’re going to get stabbed,” Taylor hisses to me as a tour group of Scottish people on the other side of the quadrangle stare across at Plum and Nadia and then start talking to each other with a lot of shaking heads and pursed mouths of disapproval. It’s very unfortunate that both the girls have those high-pitched, clear, posh voices, which bounce around the stone walls, carrying their message of disdain to everyone within a hundred yards of them.
    “ ‘Murder has been done in its chambers,’ ” I quote to Taylor cheerfully. “And if someone does stab Plum, I for one am not investigating that.”
    “Jeez, no,” Taylor agrees. “They’d be doing the world a service.” She looks over at Plum and Nadia, who are rolling their eyes at each other, energized by having something to patronize. “Hey—did you know they were talking to each other again?” she asks me, frowning. “When did that happen?”
    She’s absolutely right.
    “Good point,” I say, thinking hard, as Ms. Burton-Race leads us inside the palace and immediately starts babbling enthusiastically about cantilevered stairs, fresco panels, and impressive plasterwork ceilings; there’s a gigantic oak staircase, wide enough to ride a horse up, wrapping round the walls, rising three stories high to a ceiling that looks like wedding cake icing gone completely mad.
    I tune out Ms. Burton-Race’s commentary as we go up the stairs and into the royal apartments, that, of course, being the bit we’re here to goggle at. Taylor’s observation is bang-on: Plum and Nadia, as far as we know, are deadly enemies.
    So why are they exchanging any kind of civil conversation, rather than scuttling around putting hair removal cream in each other’s shampoo or—more likely—planting drugs on each other someplace where a teacher’s bound to find it?
    “This, of course, is the throne room,” Ms. Burton-Race says, leading us into a large, red-carpeted room with shiny wood-paneled walls hung with portraits and chandeliers. We all draw in our breaths with excitement and then let them out again in disappointment. I’ve never seen a throne room, but I was expecting something really majestic: a carved golden seat high up on a dais, a bit like the ones in the film The Slipper and the Rose (a musical about Cinderella that is my all-time-favorite guilty pleasure. Taylor totally doesn’t get it).
    Instead, the thrones are smallish wooden seats, almost like folding chairs, upholstered in embroidered red velvet with golden tassels, low matching footstools placed in front of them. They’re barely even elevated, just placed in a small alcove at the far end of the room, up a couple of red-carpeted steps.
    “Scottish people,” Taylor comments dryly, “aren’t exactly show-offs.”
    “This is the official residence of the Queen when she comes to Scotland,” Ms. Burton-Race says loudly, sensing our feelings of anticlimax. “She has an annual garden party here each July. And Prince Charles is resident here for a week every year too.”
    “Does that mean William and Harry have stayed here?” Lizzie says excitedly. “Oh my God! I love Harry!”
    “How can you? He’s a ginge !” Plum says disdainfully, slanting her eyes over at redheaded Alison.
    “Plum!” Ms. Burton-Race says angrily. “That is a very discriminatory way to refer to redheads!”
    And again, Taylor and I watch as Plum and Nadia roll their eyes and toss their hair back in unison, exchanging little superior smiles with each other.
    “They’ve definitely made up,” I say to Taylor. “Very interesting.”
    “It must have happened last night,” Taylor says. “ ’Cause they didn’t look at all friendly at the concert.”
    “No, they didn’t,” I agree. “Do you think Plum’s lulling Nadia into a false sense of security so she can get some more stuff on her and have her revenge?”
    “Or she’s just going with ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,’ ”