The Spare - Part One (The Kings & Queens of St Augustus Book 1) Read online

  The Spare - Part One

  Copyright © 2020 by Gemma Weir

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover design by Pink Elephant Designs

  Interior design by Rebel Ink Co

  Contents

  Also by Gemma Weir

  1. Tallulah

  2. Tallulah

  3. Arlo

  4. Tallulah

  5. Arlo

  6. Tallulah

  7. Arlo

  8. Tallulah

  9. Arlo

  10. Tallulah

  11. Arlo

  12. Tallulah

  13. Arlo

  14. Tallulah

  15. Arlo

  16. Tallulah

  17. Arlo

  18. Tallulah

  19. Arlo

  20. Tallulah

  21. Arlo

  22. Tallulah

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Gemma Weir

  The Archers Creek Series

  Echo (Archer’s Creek #1)

  Daisy (Archer’s Creek #2)

  Blade (Archer’s Creek #3)

  Echo & Liv (Archer’s Creek #3.5)

  Park (Archer’s Creek #4)

  Smoke (Archer’s Creek #5)

  * * *

  The Scions Series

  Hidden (The Scions #1)

  Found (The Scions #2)

  Wings & Roots (The Scions #3)

  * * *

  The Kings & Queens of St Augustus Series

  * * *

  The Spare - Part One

  (The Kings & Queens of St Augustus #1)

  The Spare - Part Two

  (The Kings & Queens of St Augustus #2)

  For the pictures that speak to you and the stories that follow.

  It’s virtually impossible to see where I’m going with my head down, but I still don’t lift it. Like this I’m invisible. No one sees me and I don’t have to see them either. This isn’t my first rodeo, I’m not a newb. I figured out how to survive this place in freshman year and I’ve been honing my skills five days a week since then.

  As long as no one notices me then it’s fine, because the problems only start when they see my face. The corridors are long and too narrow for the amount of students that attend St Augustus Prep, but when the school is housed in a building that dates back to the 1800’s no one’s about to start ripping down the original wood paneling to make it more accessible for the three hundred kids that go here.

  St Augustus is the crème de la crème of prep schools, complete with the obligatory tartan skirts, white blouses, and fitted navy blazers that mark us all as upper class Stepford kids. At first glance we all look the same, and I’ve lost count of how many times this ugly uniform has saved me.

  My cell beeps signaling a text message and for a moment I pretend I don’t hear it. There’s only one person at this school who has my number, only one other student who even knows I exist, and the only person I really don’t want to hear from.

  Reluctantly, I sigh, pulling my cell from the pocket of my blazer and entering the code so the screen comes to life. My cell is old; so old that all it does is make calls, receive text messages and allow me to play a game called snake, and I love it. The screen is black and white, it only has one very 80’s computer font, and it doesn’t even have a camera, but it works and does everything that I need it to do.

  Using the buttons, I scroll through the menus until I reach the little pixilated envelope that will take me to my text messages. Pulling in a deep breath, I exhale slowly, my thumb hovering over the button. The other kids at this school love texts and Snapchat’s and whatever the fuck else they get on their cell phones, but for me nothing good can come from reading whatever’s in this message.

  I close my eyes and purse my lips as I seriously consider ignoring it. My cell’s so outdated she won’t know if I’ve read the message or not. I could just pretend that my battery died, or that a teacher confiscated it.

  For a long, glorious moment I actually think about doing it, about ignoring her, but then a seed of doubt starts to grow in my stomach. What if it’s something important? What if she needs me? I depress the button and then it’s there, one new message, and I can’t pretend I haven’t seen it now. Hitting the button again, the message pops to life. Just one line of text, nothing more.

  Carrigan – Second floor bathroom, now!

  I don’t bother replying, she won’t read it even if I do. Because this isn’t about me, it’s about her. Lifting my wrist, I check the time on my watch. It’s 12:30, only ten minutes left of lunch and unfortunately enough time for me to do as I’m told.

  Glancing around, I realize that without even noticing, I’ve backed myself into the corner of the corridor, making myself as inconspicuous as possible. Survival is my default mode while I’m at school and from 7:30 am through 2:30 pm this place might as well be a Middle Eastern war zone.

  Keeping my eyes downcast, my shoulders slumped forward, and with my large St Augustus backpack covering most of my back, I trudge forward, weaving in and out of the kids that are loitering in the hallways. My books are clutched against my chest like a shield as I skirt the edges of the school until I reach the second floor.

  I don’t look up until I’m at the door to the bathroom. No one ever comes up here because it’s at the very end of the South wing, next to where a hallway was blocked off and rerouted years ago.

  This is where we meet. It has been since freshman year when I thought high school would be an exciting new adventure. Back then, I was looking forward to coming to St Augustus; now this place is just something else to survive.

  Pushing through the door, I mentally tense. This won’t be good, it never is, and no matter how much I want things to be different, no matter how much I wish things could change, they never do.

  “Where the hell have you been? I texted you ten minutes ago.” Carrigan screeches, her voice so full of venom and hatred I barely recognize it.

  “I was all the way…”

  “I don’t care,” she says cutting me off, her hands on her hips, her lips twisted into an ugly, imperious snarl. “You’re going to go to my physics class. There’s going to be a pop quiz that you’ll need to take.”

  “I can’t. I have English and Mr. Harper’s already said he’ll fail me if I skip any more of his classes,” I say, my eyes wide, panic filling my chest.

  “So,” she replies simply, as if my concerns are of no interest to her. “You’re going to go to physics, because I told you to. No one cares if you fail a class, but Mom will lose her mind if I fail this quiz. Do you want to be the reason why I don’t maintain my perfect 4.0?”

  “Will you go to my English class?” I ask, a slither of hope flaring to life.

  She arches one perfectly shaped brow. “No.”

  I don’t bother arguing with her. There’s no point. She doesn’t care about anything I
have to say. She hasn’t in longer than I can remember.

  Glancing past her, I see my reflection in the mirror. I look the same way I do every day: blonde hair styled just the way she likes, makeup done how she insists. I look perfect—just like her. Exactly like her, but I suppose that’s to be expected when you’re identical twins. The only discernible difference between us, and the only way to tell us apart is my eyes, but no one ever gets a chance to see them for long.

  “Go, you’ll make me late,” she says dismissively, her voice polished, just the way we were taught.

  Turning, I leave the bathroom and my sister behind me. I hear the door swing closed, but I don’t look back. Instead, I hurry down the corridor until I reach the alcove I’ve hidden in more times than I can count. Darting into the shadowy corner, I pull my backpack off and quickly slide my English books into it, then I hook the straps back over my shoulders and emerge into the harsh artificial light of the hall.

  Rolling my shoulders back, I take a deep breath, then call on years of practice. I move with my head held high, each step purposeful, powerful; an enigmatic smile tipping at the corners of my lips as I make my way to the science wing and Carrigan’s physics class.

  No one questions me when I stroll into the classroom and like so many times before I smile regally as someone calls out my sister’s name in greeting. I take my seat, three rows back, three rows in, just like in every other class, then I take a pop quiz on physics while my English assignment sits forgotten in my bag. Fifty minutes later when the bell rings, I hook my backpack onto my shoulders, pick up my test and drop it on the teacher’s desk before sashaying out of the classroom.

  It’s two hundred and thirty-six steps to the photography darkroom, and I count each one as I walk confidently through the school. My hands are shaking as I pull the darkroom key from my blazer pocket and it takes me a moment to get the key into the lock. Turning it, I push open the door, darting inside and closing it behind me.

  My back hits the cool wooden surface and I pant raggedly as I try to take in enough oxygen to calm my racing heart. After all this time I should be used to pretending to be my sister—it’s not like it’s a rare occurrence—but it never seems to get any easier.

  Reaching behind me, I search for the lock, twisting it into place before I lift my weight from the door and cross the room to the worn leather couch sitting beneath the blacked-out window. This room is another that’s never used. St Augustus Prep molds the children of the wealthy and successful and there’s no time for the liberal arts when there are so many more influential lessons the students could be learning.

  I stumbled across this room during my freshman year, just after my great-grandfather died and who I was and when I was born became my only defining factor.

  It’s a strange notion at fourteen to realize that you’re obsolete. When Harold Archibald the third was still alive I rarely saw him, he had no time for little girls. So the day old age and ill health caught up with him, I wasn’t that sad to lose a man I hardly knew.

  Perhaps if I’d known then what an impact him dying would have on me, I’d have mourned him a little more. My parents come from old money. We’re rich, or at least I’d thought we were rich. When my great-grandad died, we went from rich to mega wealthy and I went from beloved daughter to inconvenient spare.

  You see, when a huge inheritance is dropped straight into the lap of the first-born grandchild, when you were born becomes the only important thing about you. And me…? Well, I was born second. It doesn’t matter to anyone that my birth was only three minutes after my sister’s, because she’s the heir and I’m the spare.

  Exhaling a shaky breath, I hold my hand out in front of me. I’m trembling, the same way I always am after I have to pretend to be her. Carrigan Prudence Archibald is my sister, my identical twin sister. Most people assume twins, especially identical twins, must be close. That we should share this unique bond that no one apart from other sets of twins can understand. But we’ve never had that kind of relationship.

  Carrigan—never Carrie—doesn’t particularly like me. She hates that she’s one of a matching pair. She hates that we share parents and a home, and she especially hates that we share a face. There are millions of sets of twins in the world, millions of pairs of similar faces, but Carrigan and I are truly identical. Our height, frame, hair, face, everything about us is the same. The only distinguishing difference between us, is that where her eyes are blue, mine are violet.

  When we were six months old, my eyes changed color shocking everyone, because up until that point no one had been able to tell us apart. My parents took me to specialists and apparently, I have a very rare genetic condition that makes eyes look purple, or in my case a deep shade of violet. It’s the only unique thing about me and I’m fairly sure it only makes my sister hate me more.

  All our lives, we’ve been the Archibald twins. Carrigan and Tallulah Archibald, the only children of Frederic and Vanessa Archibald, only grandchildren to Alfred Archibald, great-grandchildren to Harold Archibald the third. My great-grandad was the epitome of old money, the kind you can date back to the American revolution. But instead of basking in his wealth, he decided that more money was always better and so he invested in property and shipping and a hundred other things that only made him richer than any one person should be.

  My father and grandfather weren’t as industrious as Harold Archibald the third and instead made careers out of living in the lap of luxury. When he died, we all assumed his money would pass to his only child who would in turn pass it to his only child. But on the day my great-grandfather’s will was read, my life changed forever, because instead of the money going where it was supposed to go, it all went to my sister.

  Carrigan inherits everything. All of his businesses, property, and fortune; or at least she will when she turns twenty-five, on the condition that she exceeds in life. As per Harold’s will, she has to graduate St Augustus with a perfect 4.0 grade average, she has to be accepted and graduate from one of the four pre-approved Ivy League colleges he selected, then she has to marry an approved son from another prominent old money family. Her entire life has been planned out for her so that she can be obscenely wealthy. And me? Well, I was born three minutes too late.

  The day the will was read, my entire family lost their minds. My grandfather tried to contest it saying his father was out of his mind, but it was overruled, and so now Carrigan is the gatekeeper, the key to a fortune so large she could probably buy herself a country if she wanted to.

  I love my sister, or at least I love the person she used to be before she found out she was going to be mega rich. We’ve never been as close as I would have liked, but no matter what, I want her to be happy and getting this money will make her happy.

  That’s why when I found her sobbing and crying at fourteen years old, terrified that she would fail a test and ruin her grade point average, I offered to take the test for her. We’re identical, so identical that in the same clothes no one would ever look close enough to realize I wasn’t her. Back then, I thought I was just being a good sister. I had no idea how that one event would change everything.

  The door handle rattles and I freeze, not breathing for fear that whoever is on the other side will hear me. I was a freshman when I literally stumbled upon this room. I’d just taken my third pop quiz for my sister and I’d been so flustered, so worried that someone would realize it was me and not her, that I’d darted from the room the moment the bell rang, hoping to get somewhere out of sight before the corridors filled with kids.

  I’d been running when I fell over my own feet and straight into this door. When I’d reached for the handle to help pull myself up, it had twisted and the door had opened. This room has been my sanctuary even since. After about the tenth time of hiding in here, I noticed a set of keys hanging from a hook. I wasn’t expecting any of them to be the key for the darkroom, but there it was, old and tarnished and just begging me to lock the room and see if anyone noticed. They didn’t. Not whe
n I left traps to see if anyone else used the room, not when I added stuff to make hiding in here a little more comfortable. That was three-and-a-half years ago and up until now, never—not once—has anyone ever tried to come in while I’ve been in here.

  The handle rattles again and I lurch into motion, grabbing my backpack and darting behind the back of the couch, staying as hidden from view as I can get. I wait, rasping short hollow breaths as I listen for the sound of a key in the lock, of the door opening, but nothing comes. After several long moments crouched in the tiny space behind the couch, I push up onto my knees and peer over the top of the leather. The room’s empty, the door handle still. A relieved rush of air bursts from me and I crawl out from my hiding spot and wilt down onto the couch, the old leather cushions almost swallowing me.

  My situation at St Augustus is complicated. I’m a registered student and the office, the principal, and I’m assuming all of the staff know that sisters Tallulah and Carrigan attend. We both have our own class schedules, but only me, Carrigan, and our parents know that I switch places with my sister to make sure she stays the perfect little student.

  When I took that very first test for my sister all those years ago, I assumed it would be a one-time thing, a secret between me and Carrigan that would bond us, have us giggling over the trick we’d pulled on the teacher and all the other kids.

  Looking back, I should have known that was a naïve hope.