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“But they never…sawhim, though. Did they?” I ask. There’s a bubble in my chest, turning to froth and jumping up my windpipe.
“No,” Finlay says grimly. “But it’s escalated. There are too many suspicions. Someone knows someone who must have known the guy who broke in.”
The guy Mack murdered.
I repress a shiver, the sick sensation in my chest doing the opposite of abating. Our fragile world suddenly feels claustrophobic, as if in some way Antiro has already breached it. All I can do is sit at a school desk, dismally detached, so far away and remote, from a lonely, isolated Luke. My head drops to my hands, my eyes ready to spill. Danny strokes my back in long, soothing waves. He’s Luke’s friend, too, yet he’s still able to offer me comfort. I lean into him, grateful.
There’s nowhere Luke can turn. He’s cornered, or will be soon enough.
And with Mack barely cogent…
I don’t know. I just don’t know.
Luke’s doom falls across me, in the shadows of exhaustion pictured on the faces of everyone in this room. He’s been fighting for so long, and I’m shattered worrying about him every hour of every day. Finlay steps across to my desk, and I find myself with barely the energy to rise to meet him, to allow his arms to wrap securely around my shoulders as we bury our damp eyes in each other’s necks.
41
The following day, everything changes.
As we wait outside our English classroom, I overhear Rory’s insistent whisper to Finlay that he still has to locate the missing unicorn. Finlay’s lips press into a firm line, as though unwilling to upset Rory. As noble as this is, he can’t quite control the dull green sheen of his eyes, which say everything about the listlessness currently enveloping his body like a thick blanket.
“Did ye see the list o’ names doonstairs?” Finlay asks, trying to shift the conversation onto something else. “Trip tae Dunhaven this weekend. Based on hoose points, so guess who came last. After everythin’, Belly’sstilltap o’ the list.”
I flick my gaze over to Arabella. She stands against the wall, staring at her shoes, downcast and alone, detached from the rest of the class. I have the urge to talk to her, to ask her if she’s okay. An Arabella lost in her thoughts, without the confidence to project them, is one that unnerves me.
“I can’t be arsed, anyway,” Rory grumbles. “There are more important things than this stupid trip. Would rather be here.”
“Dinnae think we get a choice.”
With some surprise, I ask, “You mean we’regoing?” I’d assumed we’d be blacklisted from anything remotely resembling Baxter’s idea of fun. I certainly can’t remember the last time I was awarded a house point.
Finlay nods. “Aye, a’ sixth years were on it — we were at the bottom, mind. I think they’re daein’ somethin’ for Burns Night.”
An impromptu trip. It doesn’t exactly thrill me, because Rory’s right — this couldn’t have come at a worse weekend. The amount of time before our exams is rapidly shrinking, as if being chomped by famished demons. I’ve been studying every evening and in every spare second during the day, cramming and cramming, but it’s difficult to be on top of everything when more material is still being taught, when we’re still learning new concepts every day.
We’re all immensely burned out.
As I look through the large window at the end of the hall, the sky has already morphed into a deep, bitter blue with frost-sparkling stars. Our breaths are silver in the air, cold hands bunched into blazer pockets. With temperatures constantly below freezing, the chill seeps into our bloodstreams like grim-black depression, turning us sluggish and slow, until our minds play tricks, believing that a perpetual sleep beneath blankets, soothed by a mattress and many pillows, is our only remedy. There are few beasts more brutal than a Scottish January. With the misery of the weather and constant exam pressures, it’s no wonder we fight — for distraction, for warmth.
“Is this class on or what?” Danny mutters, rubbing his arms in frustration. He cranes his neck over the group of us waiting for our teacher to show, for someone to at least unlock the classroom door and let us out of this drafty corridor. But after five minutes, no one shows up.
“Psst,” Finlay hisses to Arabella. She glances up, gloomy-eyed and lethargic. “Whit’s goin’ on?”
“How should I know?” she asks, and I frown. Her voice is guarded in a way I’ve never heard before.
“You know everythin’.”
“Not anymore I don’t.”
My frown deepens. Even Finlay looks bemused. Is she actually licking her wounds? Self-pity on Arabella is a strange look; it’s a reaction I assumed would be impossible for her.
She’s saved from engaging with us when Professor Hodgson arrives, panting and shambling upstairs. His white hair is as frenzied as ever. “Children,” he addresses cheerfully, and I sense the collective bristling between the gathered students at this word, “I’m afraid the last lesson of the day has been called off. Apologies — someone should have let you know sooner.”
Somebody cheers with joy at this news and several students instantly peel away, chatting happily about this rare win that frees up space in our study schedules. But the chiefs remain — as does Arabella, who lurks behind us.
“Why is class not on?” she asks in a mournful tone, as though this sudden cancellation has added unnecessarily to her woes.
But Hodgson ignores her entirely, in a way I don’t believe is accidental. He turns his attention onto us, and it’s then that I see his face… “No, no, this isn’t on. You four aren’t supposed to be standing so close together.” He gestures at the chiefs to separate, which we do with deep, foreboding reluctance. Arabella, without her answer and looking shaken by Hodgson’s rejection, flees upstairs to the girls’ tower. I squint at Hodgson. At first, I think I’m seeing things, the light too dim in this part of the castle. But no. Hodgson turns, and I realize what the shadow on his face actually is…
