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“Are you on glue?” Finlay snaps, glaring. “I could have telt ye that already. Whit’re ye daein’, hangin’ around wi’ these eejits?”
“I just wanted to see… I wanted to see if I could change their minds. And I can’t. Ican’t.”
Rory genuinely looks demoralized, and it worries me. I suppose he’s used to getting his way, changing minds and influencing the social structure at Lochkelvin. But we aren’t in Lochkelvin anymore, and Benji, with all his poisonous charisma, has managed to charm almost everyone else we’ve met into campaigning against their own interests.
When I take his hand in mine, stroking my thumb over his skin, he gives me a crooked, grateful smile. His hair hangs loose into his eyes, casting half of his face in shadow, and as distraught as he is, he somehow manages to look evenmoreappealing with this newfuck it, I’m doneattitude.
“Welcome to the wrong side of history,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Rory’s nose wrinkles. “I swear, if I hear them say that phrase one more time…”
“It’s vanity, isn’t it,” Finlay points out, “wantin’ tae say ye’re on the right side o’ history. Daein’ nothin’ good tae actually get there except sayin’ it over and over. People seem mair concerned wi’ makin’ themselves look good than dealin’ wi’ actual problems.”
“Attacking people for not believing in the same things as you doesn’t strike me as the right side of history, either,” I murmur, my mind still troubled by today’s protest and how quickly it escalated. “That’s not activism, it’s intolerance.”
“They have no tolerance,” Finlay adds wryly, “because they assume they’re onthe right side o’ history.”
And then there’s the most almighty din, the screech of feedback as someone snatches the microphone. “All right!” April says, sounding a hundred times chirpier now that booze has slid into her system. “I hope you’re having a grand old time! Coming up next, we have an exclusive remix from one of our third years, Jeremiah — give us a wave, Jerry!” In the audience, a guy draws his index fingers and thumb into a triangularAshape that has people cheering.
“Is that…?” I leave the question hanging.
Beside me, Rory nods grimly. “Antiro. They have their own hand signals now.”
“Can we bring the lights down low?” At April’s command, the lights dim and the hall is thrown into darkness. “Yessssss, that’s right! That’s the vibe we’re after! Now, everyone, get ready to gowild— and I think you will — because this is one hell of a remix… for one hell of an anthem.” Into the microphone, she screams euphorically: “We are the future!”
Synth beats pulse throughout the room. Everyone around us starts dancing in delight, glasses hoisted high into the air. A lone female voice sings, all sultry and warm:
The dove stops singing her song in the square,
The rabbit is sloping away.
They leave in their wake a bright new heir;
The throne is ours today!
I look around in confusion, the hard dance beat distracting from the lyrics. Only Finlay, Rory, Danny and I remain still as the world blinks between light and sound, shadows and darkness.
The sturdy old oak will shelter us all,
The island gives ghost to the gray.
He brings triumph with every haul;
The throne is ours today!
“This is so cringe,” Danny murmurs.
“This is mega-cringe,” I agree.
“This is cringe-tacular,” Rory drawls.
“The fuck is this shite?” Finlay roars over the bouncy, regimented tempo.
The beat picks up, hardens and solidifies into something more akin to a march than a dance. Brass winds through the harmony and enters the melody, drums booming in the distance like the break of thunder.
The lone female voice is joined by more singers, until a whole choir of voices harmonizes together to spread the gospel of King James:
Britain, oh Britain, let us claim the joy
