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32
The stalls have emptied completely, and with the fall of the sun, the lush green grass has now been shaded amber. Coupled with the sumptuous, overblown backdrop of St. Camford, the whole campus is an ethereal-looking, dimly glowing spectacle almost as magical as Lochkelvin.
By following the raucous chants, we learn where everyone has disappeared to. Through the stone pillars of the quadrangle, students squeeze themselves into the small grassy square. Someone stands on a platform with a megaphone, babbling incoherency unsuited to real-life acoustics. Others are swinging from the pillars like pirates, victoriously hoisting banners high above the square as though staking a colonizing flag.
I can barely walk after our dalliance in the computer lab. The last thing I want is…this.
As I scan the crowds of faces, I realize all of them are here to support Antiro. “Where’s Jonie?”
“At the back,” Rory answers grimly, his old self returning, no longer serene and relinquishing control as he’d done in private, but switched-on and ever-vigilant in public. He points to the very corner of the square, where a flash of color resides that’s neither red nor black. A small but fierce cluster of placards is projected above the protesters. Through the Antiro supporters I’m able to make out ‘Jamie Crieff - Not Our King,’ which the drowned-out group also chant, and ‘The Monarchy is STILL a Mistake’.
As we edge closer to the protest, though not so far in to claim a side other than spectatorship, Finlay murmurs, “There cannae be this many against Luke. It disnae make sense.”
“It’s not against Luke,” Rory surmises. “It’sforBenji. Their whole ethos changed overnight.”
We’re close enough to hear the person with the megaphone, who’s cajoling the small anti-Antiro group in the corner, “The truth is not offensive! Jamie Crieff willsaveour country! He’s standing up for the silent majority!” Everyone around her claps like well-trained seals. “The level of abuse against Antiro supporters is at an all-time high! We are persecuted! We are oppressed! But we — will — be —seen!” There are cheers after this defiant statement, from those within the radius that can make out the mechanical crackle of the megaphone. “The people don’t know the truth. It’s not their fault they’re asleep, but comrades, we cannot waste our anger on them — not when the truth will never be reported by our fascist media overlords! But to be aware of the truth and to remain silent? Your silence means you are complicit! To be aware of the truth and to standagainstKing James?Thatis political terrorism!”
More cheering. More whooping. I’m beginning to grow a headache.
From the side of his mouth, Finlay murmurs, “How can people be uninformedandthe silent majority?”
I rub the side of my head. “And what’s Antiro’s version of the truth?”
Rory shrugs, gazing out into the courtyard. “Lies?”
Jonie’s gang has no megaphone. They aren’t standing on boxes. But despite the wave of Antiro aggression Jonie and her small band face, they’re united in mood and message. They sing and clap and stamp in time —Jamie Crieff, Not Our King— and it’s so rhythmic, so cheerfully musical, that it gradually ends up overwhelming the din created by the person shouting through the megaphone.
I know which side looks more fun.
In the distance, I see Arabella firmly on the Antiro side. Her hands are cupped around her mouth, and she’s directing it at Jonie’s group. The crowd begins to jeer and boo, and almost comically they yell, “Shame!”
Jonie looks stunning. She takes it all in her stride, unflinching, and I really don’t think anyone has inspired me as much as she does at that moment. Her face is calm and serene, but her eyes blaze with the most beautiful female rage.
And it must be this composure — her ability not to be goaded by the crowd — that’s her secret weapon. It’s the one thing that makes her stand like a mountain against the screaming wind. I watch her in awe, listening, learning. And then she catches my eye and smiles.
It’s the smallest instant. A connection through a sea of cruel, snarling faces. But it’s enough of a pause for Antiro to attack.
“Smirking bitch!” a man at the front yells. “Are you actually laughing, you ugly piece of shit?” And before anyone can stop him, before anyone can hold him back, he launches himself at Jonie and strikes her in the face.
I cry aloud and move to enter the crowd myself, but Finlay and Rory instantly grab me, pinning me into place. Instead, I watch from the sidelines as, within milliseconds, the protest turns violent and discordant.
Cheers and hollers fly up from the quadrangle. People push forward, gleefully pressing into the small corner. I can’t see Jonie anymore, only a mass of Antiro supporters grinning from ear to ear and cackling, whooping.
“You got what was comin’ to ya, dirty bitch!” someone shouts, and there’s a ripping sound followed by more cheers. Two shredded halves of Jonie’s placard are flung into the air. When they land on the ground, they’re swiftly trampled and spat upon. “Traitor! Scum! Shame on you!Bitch!”
“This is what they wanted after all,” Rory murmurs under his breath. “Violence.”
I glance around helplessly. “We need to do something!”
The crowd surges forward. Arms are in the air like this is a nightclub, not a protest. The Antiro anthem is sung throughout the quadrangle, punctuated by the sound of boots landing blows on bodies. Chills spring up the back of my spine as I’m whisked away to that night at the theater, when they invadedToscawithout repercussion.
“Security’s comin’.” Finlay nods as two burly men move into the crowd, and the crowd obligingly parts.
After a tense few minutes, Jonie and her friends are escorted away with the Antiro anthem continuing in earnest. One is limping, a handful of dirt shoved onto his head and smeared down his cheeks. As Jonie emerges from the crowd, I barely recognize her. Her right eye is puffy and her lip has been cut, blood dripping over her chin. She leans gratefully against one of the guards, blood trailing from a gash at the side of her head, her clothes ripped to shreds.
“What the fuck? They tried tostripher?”
I note no one calls the guards traitors or scum, possibly because they’d be decked in a heartbeat. Much easier to pick on a five-foot-nothing woman, after all.
