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We have two teachers escorting us for the day: Professor Hodgson and Luke’s history teacher, Mr. MacKechnie. I note that Luke sticks firmly beside his history teacher, so he must be more trustworthy than the average Lochkelvin staff member. Rory, Finlay and Danny remain next to Luke like bodyguards while I take a walk around the perimeter of the castle and glance up at the grandest building I’ve ever known.
It’s overwhelmingly vast. It’s Lochkelvin stretched out in both directions, widened and heightened with an added layer of even more history in the dark gray wearing of the stones. It looks like a sandcastle made real, all gray craggy rock.
In the distance, there’s a cluster of white stalls and marquees, with people handing out booklets and brochures and chatting enthusiastically to potential students.
“Okay, everyone,” Professor Hodgson says, clapping his hands together so we gather around him. “There’s a talk in the main lecture theater about the university in an hour, followed by a guided tour, and then tonight there’ll be an afterparty where all prospective students can associate with current students.”
“Whoever heard o’ an afterparty wi’oot a party?” Finlay drawls.
Professor Hodgson glares at him. “Attending St. Camfordisthe party, Mr. Fraser, and we’ll be having none of your lip for the rest of the day.”
We’re waved away to explore the grounds, confirming to meet back at the entrance of the university in under an hour for the open day welcome. Luke sticks rigidly beside his history teacher, who seems like a calm man with clear, almost opalescent eyes that are hyper-vigilant. In the crowds of chattering students from around the country, all of whom seem to be wearing the trendiest togs emblazoned with luxury brand names I could never afford, Luke doesn’t stand out as much as I’d imagined.
I stroll across the manicured grounds, past a vast quadrangle surrounded by stone pillars and buildings, and find myself drifting toward the stalls.
“This place is too big,” Danny murmurs as he catches up to me, gazing suspiciously at the towering university behind us. Even though we’re further out from it than before, its enormous height extends far enough into the sky that it dominates our vision. It’s like a castle in the shape of a skyscraper. “I don’t know if I could study here without, like, falling down a well.”
“I don’t see many wells,” I tell him in a practical tone. “You may trip over the son of a billionaire, however, and be sued into the ground for damages. I suppose that may feel like falling into a well?”
The stalls are awash with other students. Even now, there are buses of hopeful students arriving in their hundreds for a university that guards its few enrollment places jealously.
Stalls are giving away St. Camford brochures with free candy, pens and tote bags. There’s a stall with some kind of shirt-printing press, where you can design and print your own tee. There are even stalls dedicated to careers and large companies — though only for certain industries, I realize after a quick perusal: banking, law, politics and business. Anyone considering straying from these rigid pathways doesn’t seem catered for at all.
Danny collects something from every stall and, against his will, ends up getting dragged deep into conversation about the benefits of studying a law degree.
Finlay’s away with Luke and the history teacher, having been shuffled off into a private area, smuggled from one part of the university to the other to remain undetected. I frown. Luke can’t be enjoying this at all.
To my surprise, I catch Rory gazing intently at an army recruitment stall, his hands buried deep in his pockets and worry lining his face. The stall is covered in camouflage and decorated with netting, images of rifles and tanks and exotic locales pinned in the background.
“Feeling bloodthirsty?”
Rory turns from the stall as though I’ve caught him red-handed.
“Little saint… Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “I was in another world.”
I glance between him and the army stall speculatively but Rory’s already strolling away.
“Are you thinking of joining the army?” I ask semi-jokingly, and Rory’s mouth twists.
“I was waiting for Fin.”
I note this isn’t an answer but it seems pertinent enough to ask something that’s been bothering me. “What’s the deal with Luke’s history teacher? Luke seems to trust him a lot.”
Rory glances around before lowering his voice. “Former palace guard. He retrained as a teacher to be closer to Luke. Not everyone knows about it, not even Baxter. He got the job on his own merit. So keep it on the down-low, yeah? He’s one of the few adults loyal to Luke — and the only one at Lochkelvin trained in combat.”
My eyes widen in surprise. It seems Lochkelvin really does have spies of all different persuasions working inside the castle.
At the end of the line of stalls, there’s one — as I had a sneaking suspicion there would — for Antiro. My jaw clenches. Rory makes a faint scoffing noise and searches to make sure Luke isn’t nearby. The stand is a blast of red and black and gold, and they proclaim that time is up for the monarchy, while in the same sentence praising King Jamie as their lord and savior.
It’s something I’ve noticed: his followers call him Jamie and official sources call him James. Whatever. I’ll never call him anything other than Benji, except perhapstwat.
“Sign up to Antiro and defeat the fascist scum!” the woman behind the stall yells. She looks punky and edgy in a way I’d usually covet, with choppy colored hair and a dozen piercings on each earlobe. But her association with Antiro has totally ruined my admiration for any kind of experimental aesthetic. “Strength in numbers! Make history now! Victory is ours for the taking!”
The worst part is, there are people gathered around the stall, asking questions and nodding intently. She’s giving away those red belt toggles Arabella wears, and people are cooing over them and clipping them onto their belts as soon as they receive them. I look again at the crowd, trying to discern faces, and suddenly make out Arabella herself at the front. She’s perusing some leaflets, her head bowed and her belt toggle shining in the sun.
“Did you know Antiro supporters have been beaten in the streets and arrested, held in detention camps?” She exclaims this with a strange gleeful relish through a megaphone. “We’re one of the most persecuted political groups in the UK!”
“Sincewhen?” I mutter to myself, growing irritated as the assembled crowd gasps and oohs appropriately. “Try being a damn royalist. Hell, trying being frickin’neutral.”
“We are the most at risk of state violence!”
“They’re lying. The police are ontheirside.” I remember it well enough over summer, having seen it with my own eyes: the utter uselessness and standoffishness of the police as Antiro pounced on an unassociated man in broad daylight.
“You know what that means? They’re threatened by us! What we’re doing isworking! So let’s crush the filth of the opposition!” Cheers fly up from the stall and across the smooth green lawn, in this untouchable place that only the worthy and wealthy may experience. “Let’s destroy these fascist goons once and for all!”
“Fight fascism with fascism. Sure. That makes sense.”
“Everyone hates fascism so much,” Rory drawls quietly as we keep our distance from the stall, “they’ve all inadvertently slid into it.”
On a black fluttering flag, the wicked-looking Antiro “A” shines down on the scene. It looks so dark and sinister, like a blood-red spider, that I don’t know how they’ve never once asked themselves if they’re the bad guys.
