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“I… hadn’t heard,” Finlay says carefully as he pulls out a chair at the table.
“You are lying,” Luke snaps, his eyes narrowing on Finlay’s face. “You do not lie well, Fin. This has Oscar Munro’s fingerprints all over it, which means it has Rory all over it, which means I have wasted my time in being his friend, in trying to make him see reason.”
Finlay opens his mouth slightly but nothing comes out.
Luke stands abruptly, cutlery chiming as the table jolts from his ascent. “Let this be a lesson to you and your little separatist cause. Because I understand now. Friends are not there to be lobbied. Rory will soon turn on you, too, and he will yank a knife straight down your back at his father’s behest, and you will never be free.”
There’s a thunderous slam of the door as Luke exits the dining room. Armstrong quietly clears away the remainder of Luke’s untouched breakfast with a muttered, “I knew goose egg would be a waste,” and leaves for the kitchens.
Finlay and I don’t speak for a long time.
“He doesn’t know,” I eventually say, feeling strange, an out-of-body weirdness as I realize I know more than the boy who would be king. “No wonder he’s lashing out, he’s been kept in the dark and thinks all his friends have turned against him.”
“Is that untrue?” Finlay asks darkly, plucking at a crust of toast. He drops it limply onto a saucer and exhales, his body sagging into his chair. I note that his accent is nowhere near as strong as it had been yesterday, perhaps because of Luke’s plummy-voiced presence, perhaps because he’s finally sobered up. “I didnae want tae hurt Luke. No matter whit he says, he’s my pal and I never wanted that. But… his life is a lie. His lineage is a lie. His mother knows that and I’d be surprised if he didnae. Are we supposed tae be supportin’ a delusion? A grand delusion that affects millions? He isnae entitled tae the throne.” He blows out a long breath and shakes his head. “I did the right thing. I’m sure o’ it. But maybe I did the right thing in the wrang way.”
“Truth is the most important quality in the world,” I insist, because I feel it in my bones. “You’re fighting against structures that have been established for centuries. The ruling classes. Didn’t you mention this yourself? What would Marx say?”
Finlay lets out a soft laugh. “Eat the rich? Is that one o’ his?” He meets my gaze, his green eyes flashing. “You know I’m still one o’ them, right? The rich. The elite.” I find this difficult to believe when Finlay acts like a saboteur against his own class. He shrugs slightly, fiddling with his napkin. “I suppose I’m the Robin Hood kind.”
“Like a fox,” I joke, remembering his Hallowe’en costume.
“Like a fox,” he says thoughtfully, as though confirming it. “Sleek and cunnin’ and dangerous and, above all, handsome. A fox.”
* * *
Time on the Lochkelvin estate passes even slower than at school. At least in school, there’d be a gremlin kicking around to ruin the walk to class. Here, the manor is so vast and the people so few that the entire afternoon passes in a blur as I read alone in the sunroom.
Finlay drops in from time to time, seemingly on edge without Rory around.
“I dinnae understand it. Why’s he fuckin’ aff intae the middle o’ nowhere? Does he have a death wish?”
I haven’t mentioned the eagle chicks. I haven’t even mentioned the kiss — the many kisses, hot and heavy in the midst of a storm. It still feels dreamlike, as though maybe it didn’t happen, or at least not to me but someone else.
“Maybe he’s trying to avoid everyone,” I say, and the moment it leaves my lips is the moment I know it’s true. He’s avoiding us, the growing pile of responsibilities and dissatisfied people that await him on the other side of admiring cute eagle chicks.
Finlay growls. “He’s detonated a bomb and thinks he can walk away fae it scot-free. Arrogant prick.”
When faced with eagles and solitude or two thoroughly pissed-off chiefs, I’m not sure I blame Rory for vanishing for hours and taking long country walks along the moors.
“He has to talk to you sooner or later,” I say, moving from Mary Wollstonecraft and ontoThe Female Eunuch.
“And he’d choose the latter every time. He’s a damn self-servin’ coward.” Finlay shows no sign of stopping his rants any time soon. “Ye know he has a flat in Edinburgh? I bet he’s pissed aff there. I bet he’s fucked right aff, leaving us a’ in the dust o’ his disaster.”
I sigh, deciding that perhaps feminist texts are too much for me right now. “Maybe you don’t need Rory to deal with your quarrel,” I suggest, gazing up at the chimes decorating the window and the ivy twisting around the stuffed bookshelves. “Just do your little fencing thing and, you know, to the victor go the spoils.”
I say this so casually, like this is a spat — Tweedledee and Tweedledum fighting over a nice new rattle. Not two best friends arguing over intentional sabotage and political betrayal and the potential downfall of the British monarchy. For some reason, it’s easier to think of it more like two boys squabbling over a toy.
“‘Dae yer little fencin’ thing’?” Finlay scoffs. “Way tae denigrate a noble, age-old tradition, sassenach. The fencin’ piste isnae for fun and games. It’s for serious breaches o’ the chiefs’ internal moral codes.”
It’s news to me that the chiefs possess any morals whatsoever never mind a code, but nevertheless I add helpfully, “Well then, isn’t it the perfect use?”
Finlay’s mouth turns down, considering it. “Maybe. Getting Luke tae agree, however…” He shakes his head. “Getting him tae agree andno’decapitate me, that’s where the real struggle is.”
I think back on that dossier, on the document I’m sure I saw beside Oscar Munro’s glass. “Do you know,” I ask hesitantly, and I’m about to spill it all out —do you know about the Death Room, do you know about his wife, his grief, his pain, do you know there’s a copy of that dossier in this very house, do you know he’s invited me back to talk with him tonight? But I pause and put a button on the secrets I’ve yet to share. “Do you know when it’ll be released? The dossier?”
Finlay shakes his head. “My job’s done. I gave it tae Benji, and God knows whit’ll happen tae it noo.” He visibly balks as he relives it, his face growing whiter by the second. “I still feel sick over it. I think about going back in time, stoppin’ myself from writin’ it oot. If I saw that dossier noo… I think I’d rip it tae shreds.”
His words are so visceral that I’m taken by surprise. “But you said… You said it was the right thing to do.”
