PATRICE

  The want of a cup of coffee shouldn't strike fear into anyone. Except when it came from Miss Clarendon.

  It was the first thing she asked for back in her dorm room suite, an unusual request.

  Years of meticulous service had taught Patrice that coffee almost never happened. Miss Clarendon preferred tea—and even that changed with her moods. Mint when she was feeling vengeful. Green tea when boredom made her sharp. English breakfast when she needed sleep. Earl Grey, her favourite, when she wanted calm.

  But coffee... coffee was a vulgar intrusion. It was raw fuel—bitter and without subtlety. It was rare, and Patrice knew that it meant she was preparing for something: a fight, or possibly war.

  "Pardon me, miss, I don't think I heard you correctly." Mr. Church, the Head of the Billiard Kitchen, registered his surprise immediately. "Coffee? In Miss Clarendon's room?"

  "Yes, Mr. Church."

  It was so unexpected, such a break from Miss Clarendon's rigid routine, that Patrice had to repeat the entire, simple order over the call to the kitchen.

  Miss Clarendon's composure, on the other hand, did not suggest a war footing. Her brows were uncreased, her lips relaxed; even the aura she carried into the room felt a shade lighter than usual. And that faint smile bothered Patrice. The last time she had seen it—no longer ago than she liked to remember—was after Miss Clarendon had struck Mr. Vandercourt with a mallet.

  She was excited about something.

  "Did something happen, Miss?" Patrice asked as she arranged the Clarendon Industries papers neatly on the desk.

  "You can tell?"

  "You didn't ask for tea," Patrice replied.

  Corin interlaced her fingers atop the stack of papers, ignoring the company reports she usually obsessed over. "Lucien Green threatened me today."

  "Do you want me to call security?" Patrice was already on her phone. "Or would you prefer a clean-up? I can make arrangements at your word."

  No, it wasn't Clarendon-speak for murder. But it was something close: a quiet disappearance, preserving his life as long as he signed an NDA.

  The Miss laughed. Patrice did not mean any word to be hilarious in any way; she suddenly had the urge to apologise.

  "Can you believe him?" The Miss asked.

  Idiots. The lot of them, she thought.

  The three heirs, and now him.

  Patrice had not interfered when the Miss chose to keep him as a pet. But now that the dog was threatening to bite the hand that fed it, Patrice would never allow even a tooth to graze Corin Clarendon. Rabid dogs like Mr. Green should be put down.

  "The current probability margin between your rank and Mr. Green's—assuming his study rate holds—remains at 0.4%." Patrice handed her the tablet. "But even a negligible threat like him should be examined."

  Miss Clarendon read through the report, her brows furrowing in a way Patrice did not like.

  "What is this?" she tapped the screen with her pen. "Orphan. Parents killed in a boating accident. A prodigy since he was two—and he has a grandmother."

  "That's everything we have on Lucien Green," Patrice said. "If you wish to apply external pressure outside Billiard, we can use that."

  "I did not order a background check." She lifted her gaze, uncapping the fountain pen with deliberate slowness. Patrice's eyes flicked to the tightening at the corner of her lips—a subtle, dangerous warning. The pen glinted in the light, its tip sharp, just the way Miss Clarendon liked it, and for a heartbeat, Patrice wondered if it might end up on the screen—or on her.

  The Miss went quiet, continuing to read through the report, tapping the tablet with her pen. For a moment, those light taps were the only sound in the room. And with every tap, tap, it seemed to grow louder, each one echoing in Patrice's ears and freezing her in place.

  "Come closer," the Miss ordered.

  Patrice obeyed, taking two more careful steps forward.

  "Closer." Miss Clarendon gestured with just her finger, not taking her eyes off the screen.

  Patrice knelt down, bringing her head level with the tablet in her hand. The Miss set it on the desk and leaned in, the tip of her fountain pen lifting Patrice's chin. She could feel its sharpness against her skin, and she remained as still as she could.

  Miss Clarendon had always had a penchant for sharp objects, just like the late Madam Clarendon. Such things made them impulsive and potentially violent. One of the first lessons for those working in the Clarendon household was never to leave sharp—particularly sharp and pretty—objects unattended. And if, despite your precautions, Madam or the Miss came into possession of them, everyone nearby needed to exercise extreme caution.

  "I know you're trying to look out for me by suggesting an absurd thing," the Miss said evenly. "External pressure... I don't need it. Lucien and I will fight it out within the rules of this school, fair and square."

  "Of course, Miss," Patrice answered. "Forgive me. I was wrong to think of it."

  The pen was withdrawn, and Patrice let out a breath. It was in moments like this that she was reminded of her thorns. Miss Clarendon never bared them unless it was necessary, or unless someone forgot their place. Yet, no matter how many times she had been pricked by the same thorns, Patrice's loyalty remained steadfast.

  Corin Clarendon was the one person who believed in her, who saw that she could be more than just a household maid. She had given her a life beyond polishing cloths. Only a few had truly seen how warm this winter rose could be.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "What are you still kneeling for? Get up before you wrinkle that skirt."

  Patrice stood. Another one of the Miss's idiosyncrasies: wrinkled uniforms.

  "One more thing, remind me to send Victor a gift basket." The Miss began reading the other reports on her desk. "Something suitably expensive. I heard he lost a tooth. Not showing his face, though—that's a tad too dramatic."

  Patrice logged the task. "I'll make sure he comes to class starting tomorrow."

  "Yes, do that," the Miss said. "I hate it when people accuse me of things, even when I actually did them." She grinned.

  ***

  One week before the Mocks, Billard still pretended to be itself.

  The lawns were trimmed with obsessive care. The fountains ran on schedule. Lower forms laughed too loudly in the quad, blissfully unaware, their ties loose, their conversations orbiting trivial rivalries and inconsequential grades. First-years whispered myths about Upper Sixth like campfire stories—who broke whom, who owned which hall, who would inherit what.

  They mistook proximity for understanding.

  To them, the breeze felt no different.

  But for Upper Sixth, the air had changed.

  Not just the air, though even that seemed sharper somehow. It was the knowledge of what was coming. The Mocks.

  They were not announced. No bell rang differently. No notice went up on the boards. The halls remained polished, the clocks faithful. But the atmosphere tightened all the same, like a room sealed for examination.

  Patrice noticed it first in the schedules.

  Practice rooms booked past curfew. Revision halls reserved under false pretenses. Medical slips issued more frequently, often vague and carefully worded. Students who once laughed too freely now spoke in measured half-sentences. Boasts became quieter. Confidence fractured into rituals—lucky pens, repeated routes, superstitious habits performed with near-religious devotion.

  Upper Sixth had always been cruel.

  Now it became efficient.

  The weakest burned themselves out early, studying until their hands shook and their eyes dulled. The clever hoarded resources, guarding notes and tutors like state secrets. And the truly dangerous grew quiet.

  Patrice walked the corridors with her tablet in hand, posture unassuming, steps soundless. Assistants were invisible by design. That was how one saw everything.

  She stopped outside the south wing first to watch Subject #01: FAUST ROTHWELL

  Mr. Rothwell prepared publicly.

  His door was never closed. Light spilled out at all hours, catching on polished desks and neatly stacked papers. He studied where he could be seen doing it—sleeves rolled just enough to suggest effort rather than strain. During reviews, he asked questions he already knew the answers to, his tone pleasant, confident, calibrated for an audience.

  Patrice watched him lead a small group through drills later that evening. Partners rotated. The pattern did not. Rothwell corrected others, never himself. He won most bouts, but never decisively.

  He did not need to dominate.

  He needed witnesses.

  His schedule never changed. Same hours and deliberate rhythm. Patrice logged the repetition. No deviation could be discipline.

  Or it could be arrogance.

  She logged the observation and moved on to Subject #02: ALISTAIR ASCOR

  Mr. Ascor prepared in fragments.

  He never booked long sessions. Never stayed in one place. One hour of conditioning, half an hour of theory, then nothing logged at all. He smoked more. Slept less. His professors complained quietly—brilliance paired with absence, insight followed by silence.

  Patrice caught him late one night in the west hall.

  Alone.

  His hands were wrapped, knuckles split and poorly healed. No opponent recorded. No sparring partner listed.

  He did not look surprised to see her.

  "Don't report that," he said lightly.

  "I wasn't going to," Patrice replied.

  He smiled, but it never reached his eyes.

  Ascor trained like a man uncertain which version of himself would be required at the end. Patrice flagged his medical file yellow. She disliked variables that bled.

  Subject #03, VICTOR VANDERCOURT, returned loudly.

  The floral arrangement arrived at his dorm suite. Expensive. Public. Paired with a handwritten card so polite it bordered on obscene—the kind of civility that dared its recipient to admit offense. The final line of the card contained a single, imperious command: Apologise.

  The next day he arrived with a split lip poorly concealed and a smile stretched too tight to be convincing. He carried the ostentatious basket directly to the dining hall, placing it near Mr. Green's plate of waffles.

  "I'm sorry, Lucy," he said, loud enough for Miss Clarendon's table to hear.

  Patrice watched closely.

  Mr. Green did not prolong it. To her surprise, he was the one who extended his hand.

  "Just don't do it again."

  Victor clasped it, grip firm, expression earnest. "See you at practice."

  Polo club drills resumed immediately—harder, meaner.

  Patrice watched the returned captain on the field as he brutalized a second-year for a mistake that did not warrant blood. The other club members did not intervene. They rarely did with Mr. Victor.

  He ignored the pain in his fist.

  It was nothing compared to the humiliation he suffered. He couldn't take it out on the one person he really wanted to hit. Not Mr. Green, but the Miss.

  He noticed her by the fence and approached, knuckles still red. "Enjoying yourself, Patrice? Planning to snitch on me?"

  Mr. Vandercourt was not like the other heirs. He did not hide behind false smiles and he was not afraid to show his temper. Patrice checked her watch and looked back at him. "It's almost time for your study session, Mr. Vandercourt. You don't want to be late; you have a lot to catch up on."

  He laughed. "Oh, I will catch up," he assured her. "I'm getting back at that brat, and I'll do that by marrying her."

  "You're not the only one who wants that."

  "I already outranked the other bastards. I can do it again," he said, arrogant as always. He was a dark horse, his hate fueling his desire to achieve the impossible this term. But now, there was another dark horse in the race.

  "You might not have heard," Patrice said mildly. "Mr. Green has challenged the Miss for top rank."

  Victor scoffed. "That nobody?"

  "He's the only one here you haven't beaten," she replied. "I'd worry about him if I were you."

  Victor smiled, sharp and joyless. "I'm a Vandercourt."

  His name meant nothing here, only his final ranking.

  "Have a good afternoon, Mr. Vandercourt," Patrice said, and left to observe the new problem.

  LUCIEN GREEN, Subject #04, prepared where no one thought to look.

  No reserved halls or extended permits. No public sessions.

  He used open spaces at inconvenient hours. Studied from borrowed materials. Practiced alone—or not at all—depending on who was watching.

  Patrice noticed his numbers before she noticed him. Steady improvement. Nothing dramatic but certainly relentless.

  Professors began adjusting their expectations around him without realizing why. Practice problems grew harder. Evaluation rubrics shifted. The curve tightened.

  She did not see him ask for help, not even once.

  He did not perform like the rest.

  One evening, Patrice passed the old library wing and saw him seated at a long table, bruised, sleeves down, reading without annotating.

  That was a thing about him: the boy had an eidetic memory. He read things and remembered them without difficulty. His file offered no official IQ indication, as he had never been tested, but his consistent performance demonstrated an intellect significantly above average.

  He looked up only once and their eyes met.

  Lucien Green did not look like a challenger. He was too calm, too easy. He was a variable no one had accounted for.

  I should not worry, she told herself, closing the file with a quiet unease she did not enjoy. Miss Clarendon is a genius; she won't be defeated by a Green boy from nowhere.

  Patrice checked on her last. Subject #00: CORIN CLARENDON. Not because she began later, but because everything else seemed to orbit her preparation whether she acknowledged it or not.

  Her schedule appeared lighter on paper than anyone else's. Fewer sessions. Shorter durations. No redundancies.

  But nothing was wasted.

  Patrice watched her move through routines refined to near-mathematical efficiency. One correction per session. One adjustment per day. Corin did not study until she was tired.

  She studied until she was satisfied.

  She slept.

  She rested.

  That alone set her apart from the heirs.

  There was no visible strain. No urgency. And yet—she had changed.

  She no longer asked Patrice for comparative reports. She no longer checked the board to see who was climbing. She had not once let Lucien Green's name pass her lips.

  That absence unsettled Patrice more than anything else. Miss Clarendon had always been meticulous about her threats. And this time, she seemed content to wait.