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Dr. Moncrieff smiles grimly. “There are several rare political records that have been miscategorized — either willfully or not, I’m making no allegations.” He says this in an even tone though there’s a thread of cynicism running through it. “I’d like you to put them in a more obvious place instead of buried at the bottom beside Internet guides from 1999.”
He hands me a list of books and I go searching for them. It’s actually quite fun, like a treasure hunt, and I’m able to locate most of them in fifteen minutes. They’re all ridiculously huge and I have to pick them up one by one to take over to the table.
“What’s so special about these?”A History of Twentieth-Century General Strikesreminds me of Arabella and the gang and their plans for tonight. I wonder how they’re getting on.
Dr. Moncrieff leans against the table with his arms across his chest. “Do you know where the biggest library dedicated to political texts is located?” He gives me a moment before gesturing around us. “Here.Thisis the biggest library in the UK for political references. Not the esteemed university library of St. Camford, where I studied to become a doctor of politics. Not any of the parliaments across the UK. Here. Aschool. A centuries-old ancient school. The school that feeds students into St. Camford and then onto Westminster.” He scoffs. “There are books here that historians and researchers have assumed lost for decades. But they’re here. They’re all hidden here. And they’re being utterly wasted, lying unread and covered in dust.”
On Lochkelvin’s official website, they’d boasted of a giant library but I hadn’t quite realized the scope of it. It seems a waste, too, if the most action the books are getting is witnessing the Prime Minister’s son hooking up with the daughter of a high-profile business magnate.
I gaze up at Dr. Moncrieff, who appears lost in thought. “Is that why you came to work here? For the library?”
His eyes flick across to mine. There’s a small upturn to his mouth, though not enough to call it a smile. “Am I so transparent?” He sighs. “It took a lot of persuasion to let me work here, for a variety of reasons.” He gazes off into the distance again, the small radio crackling behind us.
Hesitantly, I note, “You knew Arabella.”
He nods, not looking overly surprised I’m aware of this. “I had a feeling she’d tell someone. She’s a good girl.” His tone is achingly fond. After a long moment of silence, he adds in a quiet voice, “I know her family well. It’s complicated.”
Dr. Moncrieff paces around the library for a moment, his hands resting in the pockets of his dark pants. I mentally chide myself.Trousers. They call them trousers here.
He gestures to the empty row of shelves beside him. “If you could put them up there, that’d be grand. I’ll give you a hand. I know you’ve been working hard recently.”
My laughter is sad as I sort out the books on the table. “You know I’ve deserved none of my detentions? But they just keep giving me more.” It feels easy to talk to Dr. Moncrieff. Maybe it’s his relative youth, or the fact that he seems genuinely interested in my wellbeing, but I feel like I can tell him things I can’t with any other teacher here.
“I know,” he answers in a quiet voice, and then glances at the door to check no one’s there. “I genuinely didn’t want to give you detention today. I don’t agree with what’s been happening, but… they have their rules. I’m going to recommend any future detentions — because between you and me, I believe there may be a few more in the pipeline — to be held here. This way you get to be productive helping me and it won’t be anything as cruel as before.”
I stare at him, aghast, as I shelve his stupid books. “How can you say that? That I’m definitely going to have more detentions?Why?” I gaze up at him, at the eyes that refuse to meet mine. “Why am I being targeted like this? Because I’mdifferent?”
Dr. Moncrieff sighs heavily and gives me a sympathetic look. “Lochkelvin isn’t a school. It’s a political institution. The training ground of the elite. And if you want to come out on top, you have to play their game.”
“Whatgame?”
“There’s only one thing a politician needs to survive, Jessa. And right now, you’re the perfect embodiment of it.” I frown down at myself, at my small hands carrying huge books. What is he talking about? Embodiment ofwhat?
“The only way you’re different is that you don’t have the same support structure. The network. Nor does Arabella, and I worry about that girl so much. The both of you are in trouble from forces outwith your control.”
I don’t understand how Dr. Moncrieff manages to make attending school sound like a threat to the universe.
Instead, I ask in a puzzled tone, “Outwith?”
“Outside,” he clarifies with a wry smile. “Old habits die hard when I come back home.”
He’s Scottish, I realize suddenly. For some reason, this surprises me. His accent has been disguised by years of education in England to the point that there’s no way I’d have considered him anything other than a genuinesassenach.
We shelf in silence after that. When Dr. Moncrieff leaves the library to run a few errands, I mull over his words and try to figure out my position at this school.There’s only one thing a politician needs to survive.Damn it, I don’t havetimefor riddles.I’m hanging on by a thread and theoutside forces— I’m taking a wild freaking guess at Rory — want to snip that thread and have me plummet back into the depths where they think I belong.
But I cast my mind back to that boy on the rock, his eyes shining for once with curiosity and not hate as he asked me,Why were you dancing?
I think of Finlay, and him idly watching my descent into humiliation as leaves scattered across my body and swept into the entrance hall like a cloud of migrating butterflies.
I think of Luke, who remains in the background, under the deluded belief that he’s in the limelight, the whole world fighting for his family.
Forces outside my control.
Suddenly I feel stupid for even thinking Finlay could help me with politics, and that thought causes a shadow of loneliness to creep into my heart. He might not act like it but Finlay’salsopart of the political establishment. I sigh. Maybe Operation Strike First is a bad idea — it’s only going to thrust me more directly into their crosshairs.
The sound of a clock bell striking comes from the radio and Dr. Moncrieff arrives in time to turn up the volume. A cold female voice provides the headlines for the day:
“Government officials deny a leak from Downing Street. The Ministry of Health refutes investigations for fraud. Riots continue in the capital, with seventeen critically injured.”
Dr. Moncrieff sighs heavily, looking like he expected something different. “Same old, same old,” he mutters, changing the station. Soft jazz music comes out of the speakers just as I finish shelving.
He looks at me with approval. “Well done. You did good today, Jessa. There’s still a long way to go, but with your help we’re getting there.” He glances over at the stacks of books that still have to be categorized, marked, and shelved. I estimate it’d take around twenty detentions to get through them all.
I have a feeling the staff here are more than willing to give me that many detentions this week alone.
But I’m free and that’s something. Dr. Moncrieff waves me off, sitting down at the wooden desk with a trio of large reference tomes and a notebook filled with his tiny writing.
My first mission is to find out howstriking firstwent. But I don’t have long to wait, because all hell breaks loose as soon as I leave the library.
