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47
If Finlay had been apoplectic, Rory is in an entirely different universe of rage. He stands in his dorm, examining the letter for a full ten minutes with his brows furrowed and his fingers concealing his mouth. It looks like he’s deep in thought, but I sense it all, the animal fury simmering inside his veins. He’s struggling to keep himself composed.
“You were attacked,” Rory states in an unnervingly cool voice as he neatly refolds the letter and slips it back into the envelope, “under my roof by the people who supportthis.” His fingers snap against the envelope.
“It’s fine,” I say. It was only Li, after all, and she wasn’t even as bad as last time.
“Is ithell,” Rory snaps, and the full force of his anger suddenly reaches the fore. It had been moored deep below, and only now is it thrust to the surface as he launches his attack. “I should have protected you.Lochkelvinshould have protected you.” He leans against the stone wall, rubbing circles into his forehead. “And it should have protected Luke, too.”
“Li and Arabella are off my back,” I remind him. “They won’t bother me ever again. If I had to fight them for it to happen, then I’d do it a thousand times! I don’t get why you’re so hung up on this—”
“BecauseI love you,” Rory says, and it bursts out of him with such tremendous power that I take an automatic step back. “And I let you down. You and Luke should be protected here. Especially now. Especially after all this.”
He reaches his hand out to stroke the purple blemishes on my cheek, and for a brief moment I lean into him, appreciating his hurt, the deep care for me that lurks behind it. He pulls me forward, tilting my head up so that I’m looking into his iron-gray eyes. His fingers twine into my hair and then he’s crushing his mouth against mine, a sear of fire that travels from my lips down to my core like a flame-tipped arrow.
“It’s my duty,” Rory murmurs, his lips brushing mine with every soul-bared word, “to protect you. To protectallof you. That’s what it means to be the heir of Lochkelvin. Andthis.” He rustles the envelope in his hand. “Thisshould never have darkened Lochkelvin’s doors.”
I watch as he stalks over to the wardrobe, where he grabs his school blazer and slides it on with his usual aristocratic grace.
“He’s not going to pay it, is he?” I ask, worried that Luke might give in just to get rid of Antiro.
“Pay it? I doubt he could even afford it.” Rory turns to me, rubbing the front of his head as though it pains him in some way, and says, “I’m going down to the loch. I desperately need air.”
This seems an unusual request when the castle is freezing with the stuff, small silvery puffs of vapor radiating with each breath and word, but I follow Rory obligingly out into the grounds to keep him company.
“You know bell hooks,” I say, and Rory makes a vague, noncommittal noise. “She said something about people who try to destroy you because they don’t want your power to exist. That they see it and they’re intimidated by it so they do everything to stamp it out.” I’m not doing the quote justice at all. When Rory says nothing, I add, “I don’t know. It reminds me of Luke.”
“A lot of people don’t want Luke to exist, right enough,” Rory agrees, and I keep myself from remarking that he sounds like Finlay at that moment.Right enough. He sighs heavily. “We need to win this thing, little saint. It’s crucial. I don’t want to consider the alternative.”
Nevertheless, he continues in a downbeat mutter, “You say Benji isn’t king, or even the name Benji at all, and what? They come after you. No one seems to care what the next line in the sand will be, the mark that cannot be crossed but will be shifted — by them. Because with Benji in charge, that mark will be constantly moving. God, why aren’t more peoplethinking? Why aren’t theyafraid? Who measures wrongthink and who dictates its punishments? It’s worrying, little saint. No one’s looking ahead to what the next step out of line will be. No one thinks he’ll come for them.”
The trees in the forest grounds are a patchwork of seasons. Some are stripped to the trunk, crisp amber leaves skittering around our ankles. But the dark forest ahead is as plush and evergreen as always.
“Luke said you wrote to your dad,” I begin hesitantly. “You think everything’s falling apart.”
Rory cocks an eyebrow at me. “Is it not?” He sighs, gazing ahead at the ancient trees. “Belief in Antiro is stronger than ever. It’s messing with stuff.”
“Messing with… rituals?” I ask, and Rory is quiet for a long moment. We slide down the grassy ravine, passing the protruding stone plinth that Rory had lounged on a year ago, and I wonder what became of that Rory, the one who’d been fanatical about his father, the one who’d never questioned or stood up to authority before, the one who’d mocked me heartlessly all term. I wonder if he’s happier now, at the forefront of truth, than he’d been a year ago. Somehow I doubt it. Knowing the truth, and being the only one brave enough to speak it, is a lonely position — when fault lines in public opinion suddenly split into giant crevices, it’s difficult to find yourself shouting alone from the other side.
“I can’t feasibly protect Luke if half the school wants him gone,” Rory murmurs. “It’s impossible.”
“Oi!” I turn to see Finlay galloping after us, but Rory pushes on ahead, seeming to deliberately ignore him. “OI!” Finlay staggers across the dew-soaked grass, and I grab hold of his hands tightly as his heavy boots skim the diagonal edge of the verge. He whispers a breathless thanks to me, kissing my bruised cheek tenderly, before staring after Rory. “Whit, ye just gonnae ignore me?”
Rory stops walking, though he doesn’t turn around. We’re standing at the entrance to the forest. I can’t contain the nervous flutters in my belly, and I glance overhead to the treetops, expecting to see the worst but finding… nothing. Of course there’s nothing. It isn’t Hallowe’en, and also rituals don’t exist.
“Why are you here?” Rory asks wearily.
“Tae see whit ye’re mad enough tae try next.” Finlay rushes over to face Rory, grabbing him by the shoulders. Rory instantly turns away from him. “I get it. I dinnae want anythin’ tae happen tae Luke, either. Butyou… Whit’s next on yer mad list? Satanic rituals? Or have ye already crossed that line?”
“You laugh,” Rory sneers, “and yet it’s worked so far. It worked every year before last year.”
Finlay presses his forehead insistently to Rory’s. Again, Rory turns away. Behind them, the trees loom like giants. “Ye’re convincin’ yerself o’ somethin’ that isnae true. And it’s eatin’ ye up inside. Ye’re seein’ patterns where there are none.”
“Our lives haven’t been the same from the moment the saint stepped foot in that forest. The ritual should have made everything better for Lochkelviners — instead everything’s gone wrong.”
I frown at this, not appreciating being dragged into this squabble, not wanting the blame to be apportioned ontome, the victim of that night. “Or maybe you could own your mistakes and take some responsibility instead of blaming some mystical political voodoo.”
“Trust me,” Rory snarls, turning to look at me, and I feel his swift and sudden anger like a wave. “I take on more than my fair share of responsibility. You’re the one who messed up the ritual — and every singledayI’ve had to—”
