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“When we had intruders carrying offensive weapons and looking to assassinate us, they’d be arrested and detained under the Mental Health Act. Now they’re waved straight through. How can I possibly expect to survive in this climate?”
“But the ritual was supposed to make things better,” I mutter, still clinging to this idea that Rory had so heavily invested in. “Make Lochkelvin safer.”
“I’d argue that my mother being murdered has made things a lot worse for me,” Luke says in a bitter tone, before adding, “But I think I can tell which side of the debate the castle is on. Surprised it doesn’t just install an ejector-seat and boost me out the window.”
My heart breaks for him. So composed, so clinical and cutting. He’s everything I wanted to be in the aftermath of my grief, and some I’d maybe been able to fool for a time… but the will bends. It strains. And then release is imminent, working against any and all sense of duty. Grief seeps out, whether wanted or not. That’s my experience, anyway: ending up under its life-snuffing control.
It strikes me how changeable Luke’s moods have been, even as he claims otherwise. Stunned and alone for hours behind the fireplace, asleep for most of the day, laughing to the point of hysteria at one simple joke, craving my body as a necessary distraction, making stinging barbs that cut straight through the bullshit, and at one point sharing his intense vulnerability in low-voiced reflections.
This is grief. This is what it does. A scrapbook of emotion, flicked through at speed.
Luke sighs and removes the blankets from himself. “Come on,” he says, grabbing his school blazer. “Let’s go down and get something to eat.”
As the small crown badge glints from Luke’s blazer, I fear that, despite his words, Luke’s emotions are too raw and that this is a mistake.
