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“Did you and Danny have fun?” I ask, hesitant, but Finlay just shrugs, gazing out the window.
“No’ as much fun as the two o’ you clearly had away from us.”
“It isn’t like that,” I say softly.
“So whit is it like?” Finlay asks, instantly grabbing hold of this conversational strand like a kitten tugging at twine. “Ye’re sneakin’ aff away fae us, noo ye’re bein’ a’ secretive and shit. I thought we were a team.”
“Weare,” I reassure him, though it does nothing to clear his doubt.
“Then whit’s the problem? Is Rory angry at me?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. The look on Finlay’s face makes me uncomfortable. His green eyes are wide and anxious, pleading for the truth, and I know he’s worried about his position in our group.Equals, he’d shared with me at Hogmanay, vulnerable and bitter and drunk. And I’d thought we’d done well this month to smooth over those fears, quashing the idea that some of us are more equal than others. Yet here I go, insisting on widening the divide between us, in hiding things from the other chiefs, purely because I know the reaction generated if I utter the wordmagic.
But even so, I don’t want this to swell disproportionately between us. So, with a weary sigh, I reveal, “Okay, fine, we had sex.”
He can tell from my tone that there’s something I’m not divulging. Still, Finlay gives a small, breathy laugh, as if prepared to let it go. “D’ye think I didnae ken?”
When he understands I’m not going to say more about it, Finlay leans back in his seat with a semi-satisfied fold of his arms. There’s a moment of silence as he mulls over our exchange, before asking suddenly, “Will ye be at the Burns supper tonight?” It’s such a departure from our conversation that I get whiplash. “Is Baxter lettin’ ye go?”
“I think so,” I murmur slowly. “She hasn’t told me otherwise. Why?”
Finlay gazes at me intently, his emerald eyes tinted with wickedness. “Because I want tae dance wi’ ye,” he declares seriously, taking one of my hands in his. My stomach flutters, sending wild shivers scattering through my entire body. He smirks down at me, his eyes never leaving my face. “I want tae dance wi’ ye a’ night, in front o’ Rory, tae see how he likes it when I keep youse apart.”
* * *
From our shared bathroom comes the sound of Li clattering around and singing to herself, followed by the unzipping of toiletry bags and hearty squirts of perfume. I try to block her out as I brush my hair in long, languid strokes, looking past my reflection in the small bedroom mirror to observe Arabella. She stands in front of the open closet, staring into space.
As if sensing my gaze on her, Arabella glances over her shoulder. I pretend to be busy, piling hair on top of my head and twisting it around. It falls over my face, which at least makes Arabella blink at me in bewilderment as it offers a moment of cover for me to properly study her. She looks peaky and pale and drawn. There are dark circles beneath her eyes. If she has any makeup on for tonight, it’s not showing.
Nobody speaks. It’s awkward. I resume brushing my hair like a normal human.
In silence, Arabella grabs a dress from the closet and the doors swing shut behind her. I hear her shuffling around, removing the hanger from the dress, and dropping it onto the bed. Li’s commandeered the bathroom for almost half an hour now, meaning Arabella and I are forced to get changed in the bedroom. There’s been an unspoken pact — literally — that neither of us engages with the other.
Arabella hides in the corner of the room, at the end of the bunk beds, farthest away from me so that no one can see her undress. Calmly, I tie my red ribbon around my brush-straightened hair, trying to make it look fancier than usual. The only sound in the room is the rustle of fabric as Arabella’s dress shifts onto her body.
When she steps away from the bunk, I instantly meet her gaze through the mirror. She chose well. It’s a beautiful dress — black silk embroidered with ruby thread, the bottom hemline flaring like wings. Her skin is so pale that it stands in stark contrast against the black. She looks classy and elegant. But Arabella doesn’t seem particularly pleased about it, or herself for that matter. It’s as if she’s waiting for me to laugh. Her eyes are haunted, and they stare at nothing in particular as she glides into the heart of the room.
The tension in the room gnaws away at me. “Are you okay?” I ask quietly, remembering the self-loathing permeating her diary entries. She looks appalled that I’ve broken our pact by choosing to talk to her. Arabella doesn’t acknowledge me directly, but her mouth twists into an unhappy grimace. I don’t know if I’m speaking out of turn when I say, “You look really good.”
Her gaze snaps to me, startled. “What, do guys bore you now? Are you onto seducing girls?” To be this testy and defensive over a single compliment… I blow out a stunned breath, taken aback by her ire, trying not to rise to it. Perhaps she thinks I’m mocking her. I’m not. She looks as pretty as her diary believes she isn’t. Venom seeps out of Arabella’s voice when she adds, “Just because we share a room, it doesn’t mean you get to talk to me.”
“Fine,” I tell her coolly, watching as she fixes a blood-red pendant around her neck. And I realize her dress has been deliberately chosen: black and red, the colors of Antiro. “Never mind, I take it back,” I drawl, sickened. “Wearing the skin of your masters. Howdareyou.”
Arabella’s eyes flash with anger.
“A shame,” I press on, not giving her the chance to defend her choice. “Because Ididmean what I said. You look good. You lookreally good.” I emphasize the latter words, but this time it comes out all weird, like I’m hitting on Arabella. She shoots me a bizarre look, for which I don’t blame her.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, her tone sarcastic. She stares awkwardly down at her gown, turning it this way and that, inspecting the low neckline, fingering the gleaming red buttons. Her hands twitch, itching to pick the dress apart, but her fingers stay still. Finally, her shoulders slump.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” I tell her, hunting for my own dress. It’s the purplish-blue one I wore at the senior dance a whole lifetime ago, before summer whisked me into a world of boys and betrayal. “Antiro doesn’t deserve you.”
She scoffs loudly. “You want me onyourside? The one that hurts people? The one that extends the political divide? At least Antiro’s inclusive. It’s a broad church. It accepts everyone.”
“You know even Orwell would find that a leap and a half? Acting against a political coup isn’thurtful. Being attacked for your beliefs isn’tinclusive. Get a clue, Arabella.” I unbutton my school shirt, and Arabella frowns at my use of her full first name, turning to face the wall.
“Just because you’ve been raised to be so intolerant. People are going to see how much more tolerant Antiro really is than their bigoted parents and grandparents.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” I slip off my white shirt until I stand, half-naked and unashamed in our shared room, refusing to give myself over to the bitter insecurity that secretly pecks at Arabella. I shuck off my tights and skirt, grabbing the Lochkelvin-colored dress and unzipping it down the side. “You’ll force them to see how lovely and tolerant you lot are, or have them kicked out of their jobs.”
