Rosie frost and the falc.., p.1
Rosie Frost and the Falcon Queen, page 1
Also by Geri Halliwell-Horner
If Only
Philomel
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Philomel,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2023
Copyright © 2023 by Geri Halliwell-Horner
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 9780593623343 (hardcover)
ISBN 9780593690727 (international edition)
ISBN 9780593623367(ebook)
Cover art/photo by Shane Rebenschied
Edited by Jill Santopolo and Linas Alsenas
Editorial contributions by Joseph Elliott and Claire Baldwin
Design by Lily Kim Qian, adapted for ebook by Andrew Wheatley
Interior art created by Pieter van Loon
Illustration on this page created by Lily Kim Qian
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Contents
Cover
Also by Geri Halliwell-Horner
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue: Every Brick for Her
Chapter One: Pineapple Emojis
Chapter Two: The Journey to Bloodstone Island
Chapter Three: Rosie’s Initiation
Chapter Four: The Falcon Queen
Chapter Five: The First Day of School
Chapter Six: Sign-Up
Chapter Seven: The Black Lake Challenge
Chapter Eight: Little Timmy
Chapter Nine: Skidmark
Chapter Ten: Wildcat, Wild Girl
Chapter Eleven: . . . Who Is She?
Chapter Twelve: Smelly and Aggressive
Chapter Thirteen: The Little Purple Book
Chapter Fourteen: The Key
Chapter Fifteen: The Gutter Club
Chapter Sixteen: Frostbite
Chapter Seventeen: Proof
Chapter Eighteen: Goners
Chapter Nineteen: The Second Falcon Queen Challenge
Chapter Twenty: Dragons
Chapter Twenty-One: In the Band
Chapter Twenty-Two: Chicken Chow Mein!
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Court of Reform
Chapter Twenty-Four: Crumwell’s Shame Trap
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Bell Tower
Chapter Twenty-Six: Murder by Words
Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Blessing or a Curse
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Final Challenge
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Battle of Bloodstone
Chapter Thirty: Blood and Dust
Chapter Thirty-One: The Volcan Crag
Chapter Thirty-Two: Hildegunn
Chapter Thirty-Three: The Vipers’ Nest
Chapter Thirty-Four: If They Die, I Die
Chapter Thirty-Five: The Crown
Epilogue: The Case Is Closed. Or Not . . . ?
Falcon Queen’s Rules
Family Tree
Acknowledgments
Glossary
Bonus Music
About the Author
_145098186_
The world needs a new hero . . .
To Skye, Bluebell, Olivia
& Monty
Prologue
Every Brick for Her
JUNE 1ST, 1563—BLOODSTONE ISLAND.
The crowd’s murmurs rose into excited chatter as four black horses pulled the golden state carriage over the drawbridge. She was coming. The island’s wintry wind blew cold and hard in their faces as they watched it approach.
Their queen peered out from behind the red velvet curtain of the carriage window, the hood of her dark cloak framing her skin, which was so white it almost glowed. Tendrils of her hair, reddish and long, escaped and danced in the wind.
Hidden within the carriage, she clutched a small purple book with a golden bird embossed on its cover. “Thank you,” she softly whispered, then touched the ruby and diamond ring she was wearing. It contained a miniature enameled portrait of her mother, Anne Boleyn. The carriage went on through an iron gateway and trundled up the long path to the blood-red brick mansion beyond. A vast, opulent lake stretched all the way along the side of the path, and she watched the winter sunlight glisten off its surface as they went past.
The nineteen men from her Privy Council had already arrived, along with those selected members of Parliament who had also been summoned to meet with their sovereign here. All dressed in their best clothes, they fell to their knees as her carriage came to a stop in front of them.
She stepped slowly down, the light catching the diamonds embroidered into the lustrous white velvet fabric of her gown. Strings of pearls lay heavy around her throat, and one large ruby orb hung from her jeweled belt.
“Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth,” a groundsman announced, and bowed.
She smiled graciously at the old man, and a flicker of memory came to her. Of seeing his face before, when she’d visited once as a girl.
The crowd remained silent, expectant, waiting on her word, while she scanned the enormous building and extensive grounds. She then looked up at the sky and closed her eyes, breathing out slowly. Finally . . . Everything she had wanted, finished at last. There would be redemption for her mother. A large white falcon flew over the iron gates, past the many turrets, then over the crowd, eventually swooping down to rest obediently on a guard’s gloved hand.
She cleared her throat and cast her eye over the men before her. Always, so many men. She thought of the petitions for her to marry that had come flooding in upon her succession to the throne. A foreign king, duke, or prince—but she didn’t want any of them. Her eyes sharp and firm, she began, “I say unto you all that, since I first considered myself born to serve almighty God, I have happily chosen this life. I am wedded to my country; I am already bound unto a husband, which is the kingdom of England.”
Her words pierced the cold air as her council listened intently. She raised her chin.
“You wish me to produce an heir to our throne. Well, here we will now have one. Today, as your sovereign, I give birth to life everlasting. My lineage shall transcend flesh and blood. This school, which I open today, will be a place to nurture the great minds, the hearts of polymaths, and the future leaders of our land. The children to come from within these walls will be my legacy, my successors, my heirs, and it is they who will go on to serve our kingdom. This school will house only the greatest of students, and of course, all of my father’s allies and descendants are welcome.”
Many of her advisors nodded appreciatively, while others conferred with their neighbors, the discussions growing in volume.
“Silence. I am not finished.” She raised her voice above the din. “My mother’s death was not in vain. She will live on, through our endurance, courage, power, and freedom. And every student here will embody the principles my mother taught me.”
The men frowned. Mention of Anne Boleyn had been forbidden since her execution.
Elizabeth’s lips folded in tightly.
Her voice grew stronger, darker. “I cast out the shadows, the lies about her. My mother’s name, her blood, lives on in me, and not just in flesh, but through ideas. The truth will out. Her power will spread, through the scholars and students who come here, shining out in their craftsmanship and philosophies.”
There was a doubtful murmuring from some of the men.
“I am your queen, and those who defy me in this venture will feel my wrath.” Her eyes were thunderous. The voices quieted.
She then smiled, her posture firm, and looked out across the crowd, who were listening to their commanding monarch with absolute attention again.
“Here, on Bloodstone Island, greatness can flourish. It is England’s own Garden of Eden, a place where all of God’s creatures live undisturbed by the hand of man. All who study here shall come to appreciate God’s divine majesty through the observance of his diverse creations. And the students will grow strong living by the foundational principles bestowed on me by my own blessed mother, the Falcon Queen: Animo, Imperium, Libertas,” she declared.
“So I declare my school now officially open.”
A large glass bottle with gold ornate trim smashed ceremoniously against the red brick of the building.
She turned her back on the mansion and looked over toward the estate’s entrance. Glinting in the sunlight was a monumental white-and-gold falcon, its wings spread wide, poised over the top of the huge iron gates. It hovered, regal and grand, the proud protector of the building beyond and all its inhabitants. In its talons it gripped a metal sign, engraved with bronze writing:
Welcome to Heverbridge School
“Thank you, Mama,” she whispered, still clutching the small purple book. “This is all for you.”
Chapter One
PRESENT DAY. WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 30TH. LATE MORNING.
Why did being left out hurt so much? Rosie Frost had always felt like she didn’t belong. All her thirteen years it had been that way, and she didn’t know why.
She was sitting alone on the edge of the flimsy school table, her rucksack neatly tucked under her worn-out old boots. Most of the other students were huddled together at the other end of the same long table. All of them packed together in the sterile classroom, under a low polystyrene-squared ceiling and fluorescent lighting.
Rosie chewed on the end of her plastic pen, accidentally grinding it on her braces, which made a cracking sound louder than it should have.
“Oi, weirdo,” Simon called out. “What do gingers and extinct dinosaurs have in common?” The boy paused, then continued, “Not enough!”
The others around him laughed, and Rosie self-consciously tucked her unruly ginger hair back down into the neck of her oversized hoodie. The giggling continued, longer than it normally would. She looked up. What was going on? And then she spotted the writing on the whiteboard.
Jane Eyre—shut up u turd, same to u Rosie Frost—no one likes a know-it-all
Rosie flinched. She never meant to be a know-it-all; she just found books interesting, and she couldn’t help it if she knew the answer when the teacher called on her. She certainly didn’t think she was clever in some extraordinary way, and she didn’t mean to make anyone else look bad, but somehow it always ended up that way.
“So who was it? Who was it?” stammered the teacher, Miss Metcalf, her clunky earrings jangling. “Which one of you wrote this?”
“Well, they have a point,” someone called out.
The spidery writing on the whiteboard seemed to scowl over the classroom.
“And where is my book? It was right here. Who took it?” Miss Metcalf demanded, folding her arms.
The late November rain lashed at the thin windows of the cold classroom, as though it was trying to point out the true culprit.
“I said, who wrote this filth, and who has my book?! That cost money, and this school has just had budget cuts.”
Still more giggles sounded from the other end of the table. Miss Metcalf sighed, scanning the room.
“It was Frost, that wannabe Hermione. It’s ’er,” called out a boy with a gruff voice, his red cap pulled down over his eyes as he nodded toward Rosie. “The weirdo wants the attention,” he taunted, straining to stretch his leg out and kick Rosie’s chair.
If only I could stand up to these bullies, thought Rosie. She flinched, tempted to kick him back.
No, don’t do it.
Say nothing, do nothing—silence is your shield. Keep calm; it’s your armor. Then you don’t have to apologize for the words you haven’t said, things you haven’t done, her mum always advised her.
Rosie really did feel like the odd one out here. Apart from one other person in her class, she was probably the only one who had bothered to do the homework. But she didn’t have the teacher’s book. She slowly placed her hand in her hoodie pocket, reaching for her phone, then looked down and sent a pineapple emoji:
This was her and her mum’s “Batman” code. A secret signal, her mum had called it. Just send me one whenever you need to, so no matter what happens, you’ll know someone’s got your back, she’d said. Long ago, apparently a pineapple was a symbol of friendship. (It was also both of their favorite pizza topping.)
Those bullies will make you stronger. People are just threatened by anyone different or smarter, her mum always reminded her, after every rubbish day at school. One time, Rosie had accidentally leaned on her phone and sent a succession of pineapples. Her mum had immediately turned up at the school with a worried look on her face, informing the teacher that Rosie had “an important dental appointment” that she’d forgotten about before. But Rosie was okay; it had just been a false alarm.
One day, when the time is right, you’ll go to an amazing school, for exceptional students. That’s where you belong. Once you’re there, none of this will matter. I promise, her mum had said.
Miss Metcalf looked at Rosie and raised her eyebrows, and right now, Rosie certainly didn’t feel exceptional. Rosie swallowed as she looked up at the words on the board, her mouth dry, then glanced at the other students. Who had taken the teacher’s book? It could have been Jayden, who hadn’t been able to answer Miss Metcalf’s questions yesterday about the chapters they were meant to have read. Or maybe Becky, who got called out for being on her phone during yesterday’s lesson. Rosie scanned the room to see if she could spot the book, but it didn’t seem to be anywhere.
Still silence, then a few murmurs and more sniggers came from the back.
“If no one owns up, then I shall have no choice but to hold the whole class back after school for detention.”
Everyone groaned.
“And—and—I will ring your parents.” The room went quiet.
Miss Metcalf paced the room like a hawk eyeing its prey. “I want it back, now.”
“She’s the book thief,” Jayden called out, pointing at Rosie. “Just admit you did it. We know you’ve got it.”
“Yeah,” said Jayden’s best friend, Wayne, smug in his brand-new trainers.
Rosie sent another pineapple emoji. No reply yet, though. Her mum was probably busy.
“Yeah, little girl, loser, trying to be all clever with her big words.” Connor, the third boy in their trio, kicked Rosie’s rucksack, and the contents spilled over the floor.
Miss Metcalf walked over toward Rosie. “Well?”
Rosie’s face went red. Wayne nodded down toward Rosie’s rucksack, directing Miss Metcalf to take a look. And there it was, on the floor. Miss Metcalf reached down and picked up her missing copy of Jane Eyre.
What?! No, it wasn’t me! Someone must have planted it—it was a setup. Rosie’s eyes began to fill up, hot with tears.
She blinked. No crying, not here, not in front of this lot.
“Detention for ya,” sniggered Jayden.
Don’t let them get to you, she heard her mum’s voice in her head again. She swallowed hard. Never let them see your tears.
But she couldn’t take the blame for this. She had to be back home on time today, for her mum. Mum had been too quiet this morning, so Rosie knew that she needed her, and was expecting her, and Rosie had promised she’d pick up milk, and . . . and . . .
Suddenly there was a knock on the window of the door. The school secretary entered, then whispered something to Miss Metcalf, whose face turned gray. She then looked down at Rosie, frowning as she listened to the secretary. Once they’d finished, Miss Metcalf cleared her throat and said, “Rosie Frost, would you please go to the head’s office immediately.”
What the . . . ?!!! But it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me! Rosie’s stomach tightened. She reached for her phone in her pocket; quickly looking down stealth-like, she sent her mum another pineapple emoji:
Then she stood up, her chair scraping back on the linoleum flooring. All eyes were on her as she followed the secretary out of the room. This clearly wasn’t her week.
* * *
Rosie entered the stark, sparsely furnished headmaster’s office with its gray tin filing cabinets, drawers half-open with papers spilling out. The headmaster nodded to her as she entered, his face giving away nothing.
