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We arrive at Lochkelvin carrying daggers and Benji’s scratched, abandoned radio. Each of us is now armed, and although I protested that I would never in a million years use mine, Rory refused to accept it, insisting that I should keep it on me at all times.
“You know I’m not going to use this,” I’d said, holding the dagger limply between my hands as though it were a dead rat, something foul.
Rory only pushed it closer to me with a roll of his gray eyes and muttered, “Just keep it on you.”
I know it’s out of concern that there’ll be an attack on Lochkelvin, but I want nothing to do with threatening murder.
That’s whattheydo.
As all of us walk into the entrance hall, it feels like there’s a loaded gun in my bag. The others are fine, barring maybe Danny, who seems equally lost while in possession of a sharp object. I remind myself that the chiefs are used to this. Only last year, Finlay had carried a sgian-dubh in his sock like a true Highland warrior chief. It had been a lot smaller than these daggers, but it had still done the trick in threatening Benji.
In a tired voice, Finlay now says, “Cannae wait tae find oot whit lies are in the papers today. The many ways in which my beliefs will be slandered and I’ll be targeted over my porridge for political re-programmin’.”
Returning to our routine is easier said than done. The chiefs have always maintained a larger-than-life presence at Lochkelvin, but overnight it’s as though they’ve turned into actual superstars. And I realize with an odd jolt that it’s not just the guys — it’s me, too. All eyes are glued to us, whispers following like cloaks. It’s exhausting. All we want is to eat breakfast in peace — Danny playing his morning chess game with me, Finlay poring over the newspapers, Rory and Luke talking quietly to each other off to the side. That morning it’s impossible. From the number of eyes on us, you’d think we’d decided to start fucking on the table.
It’s no better in class, where even the teachers act nervously around us. Dr. Moncrieff is absent again so we have a substitute, which at least offers some reprieve from the endless gossiping. Arabella keeps trying to catch my attention, but really, she’s one of the last on my list of people I want to see, let alone speak to, so I ignore her.
Just as we’re getting sick of the interest in us and contemplating not turning up for dinner, the five of us make a weary effort after class to go downstairs once again.
We walk arm in arm — and then stop.
Because on our way down to dinner, the most incredible scene greets us on the staircase. My breath hitches as I drink it in.
Every gremlin, dozens of them, stands at the edge of the stairway, holding a lit candle in front of them. Their heads are bowed in solemn contemplation, not meeting our eyes. Down and down the staircase they’ve positioned themselves, each one as poised and silent as a statue as we slowly walk past. We descend the stairs in fascination, touched by the gesture.
Luke slants a glance at Rory. “Did you…?”
But Rory just shakes his head. “No.”
They’ve done this of their own accord. A vigil. It’s the most explicit gesture anyone in Lochkelvin has ever made in favor of Luke or against Antiro. We’d made pins, yes, but they’d been subtle. It’s clear as crystal that this is a sign of allegiance — and to whom.
At the bottom of the stairway, Robert gives Rory a small, respectful nod, his candle flickering gently in a holder between his hands.
Candles and tea lights have been dotted at the base of the statue of the lion and the unicorn fighting over the crown. Gold crown-shaped badges lie next to wildflowers picked from the grounds. There are ribbons and bunting, saltires linked in harmony with Union flags, handwritten sympathy cards, and notes. Illustrations of majestic flying doves and small, sweet clay rabbits. Of the gold statue, the lion wears a crown of berries, and the unicorn is adorned with vivid amber leaves.
Art from nature decorates art from human hands. It’s beautiful. For a scene commemorating death, the whole piece seems vibrantly alive.
Luke doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure he can. I wouldn’t blame him for being utterly speechless.
They care about him. They care enough to make this.
Death, it seems, has a way of frightening complacency out of others.
Even known Antiro supporters look somewhat chastened by the display. Arabella and Li linger by the doors to the dining hall, watching our reactions without saying anything. For whatever reason, maybe one that extends beyond politics, they let Luke have this. They don’t interrupt Luke’s silent, thoughtful perusal of the statue to reassert their own beliefs. They give him space.
Humans are social creatures with complex bonds. Everyone knowsgriefanddeathare words of great magnitude, that some things are too wrong and insensitive to be glib about within a particularly raw and heartfelt moment. That flippancy in such scenarios can only ever boomerang to hurt you back. I know it’s pure self-preservation that makes the Antiro crowd say nothing. Their feelings against Luke haven’t waned; they just don’t want to be hit by their boomerang and look even more like the bad guys.
Finlay rubs Luke’s back. We stand together for several minutes, regarding the golden statue and the gremlins’ hard work before moving into the dining hall, our hearts touched with warmth.
“That’s just in Lochkelvin,” Rory murmurs to Luke. “Unprompted. Think how it must be across the country.”
Luke swirls a spoon in his thick parsnip soup. “It’s kind of them. Brave, too. They have to be aware there’ll be pushback.”
“Don’t think about pushback,” I urge him, and Luke’s deep brown eyes flick toward me. “Just take the moment for what it is: people loving you and caring about you.”
This type of indulgence doesn’t seem to come easily to Luke, but he nods nevertheless, as though agreeing to fall into the moment will make it more likely to happen.
