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The attendants exchange wary glances at each other. “There’s an art book on the history of the hotel…”
“I don’t care about your stupid hotel.” Okay, that kind of comment doesn’t really help me look less deserving of having babysitters. “Is there a newspaper?” I ask, covertly running my eyes around the room like the sad little addict I am. “Anything? Anything recent?”
They exchange another glance, this time looking bewildered, and one of them mutters about entitled Lochkelvin brats. I watch as she unfolds a copy of The Times from a rack beside the sofa and thrusts it at me.
I rip it open, ignoring the attendant’s flinch. I bypass the usual front page guff praising Holy Emperor Benji to get to anything new, anything implied, any developments that look hopeful. Nothing exists. Lockdown remains unexplained. Every article has this tone of vagueness, as if having been rewritten by a team of lawyers. The only actual news story I can find is an article buried deep in the middle pages of a gossip column calledWhispers from Holyrood, which reads:
Oh, darling, have you heard the latest scandal in the political sphere? It seems like a certain high-profile MSP is caught in a juicy investigation! Rumor has it that they’ve been dipping their perfectly manicured fingers into the public funds cookie jar for their personal gain. How scandalous!
Our nosy investigators have managed to track down financial records that allegedly show the politician using their esteemed position to redirect money from government projects right into their own offshore bank accounts. Can you believe it? Talk about audacity!
Naturally, the party wants to keep this as hush-hush as possible, which is why they’ve threatened us with lawsuits if we spill names before the official story is approved. As everyone in the party knows, the official story is far more important than the truth. You think Hollywood's bad? Turns out image is everything in Holyrood, too, and this is its latest blockbuster.
Of course, the politician in question is playing the innocent card, denying any hint of wrongdoing. But darling, we all know how these stories go. If the allegations turn out to be true, they’ll be facing some serious consequences. We’re talking hefty fines and perhaps even a glamorous stay in the big house — bigger than the one they’re currently in! How’s that for a pair of golden handcuffs?
I simply cannot wait for the juicy details to unfold in the weeks to come. You know the saying, darling: where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and we reckon this is a whole burning bush. So let’s keep our ears perked for the next chapter in this scandalous Scottish tale. It’s going to be a thrilling ride, my dear!
I lift my head, wondering, and see that I’m being stared at by my two attendants. They’re obviously weirded out by my frenzied newspaper-flicking, and I shake my head, immediately reading the next article. There’s a picture of screaming Antiro protesters, and it announces an upcoming rally outside the V&A Museum. Some kind of march to show off their dickhead supremacy.
Either I’ve become so proficient at devouring newspapers, or there is very little of newsworthy substance, that I finish The Times in under ten minutes. I gaze at the crossword, trying to solve it in my head, but I’ve never been that great at puzzles, and I end up stuck on ‘Love goddess in Scottish tartan (6)’. Eventually, I give up on the crossword and close the newspaper with a forlorn sigh.
Finlay is staring at me from the door.
At first, I think I’m seeing things. Maybe the stress of the evening has affected my perception of reality. I glance around the room, checking on my babysitters, but they’re too engrossed in their magazines. When I return my gaze to the door, Finlay’s still there, behind the small glass porthole, his hair an inky explosion and a bright, teasing grin spreading across his face. I try to school my features into something neutral in case the attendants notice anything unusual. Finlay, on the other hand, gives me a big thumbs-up and wiggles his eyebrows. I try not to snort with laughter. His actions are somewhat at odds with his sophisticated clan chief get-up.
From behind the glass, Finlay mimes a series of gestures that I can’t quite figure out. He points to the side, clasps his ears, and silently screams. I shake my head, at a loss. Then he disappears, and I wonder if that’s it, if I’ve failed to read his signals, if that’s him gone for the rest of the night, leaving me all by myself…
And then there’s the most almighty din, like a perpetual wail, as a fire alarm screeches throughout the hotel.
* * *
It starts with just one note, piercing above the background noise, but it quickly grows into a cacophony of different notes and pitches, as though someone had pressed several keys at once on a piano and was attempting to play a full set of the wrong keys at the same time. It vibrates as if straight from the foundations of the building. I hear its piercing shriek through the heavy door. I hear footsteps stomping, doors being flung open, and yelling as well, as if hundreds of people are stampeding in a frenzy.
Oh, Finlay, you beautiful little anarchist.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” one of the attendants whines, tossing her magazine onto the table. “We just had a drill on Tuesday!”
“Out!” my other babysitter shouts over the alarm siren, gesturing at me to stand. “Follow me! This isn’t a drill.” I do as she says, pretending innocence. Finlay’s long since vanished from the corridor, his only evidence of existence a sparkle of broken glass on the floor that my two babysitters don’t notice.
I follow them through a maze of hallways until, after what feels like a lifetime, we burst out a side door and into bright moonlight. Hundreds of students have filed into the parking lot near the fountain, each sumptuously dressed and brimming with excitement. They stand huddled together in twos or threes, whispering to one another and casting intrigued looks at the surrounding buildings, as if expecting them to be burning down and quite enthusiastic about it. My attention suddenly darts forward, searching for the chiefs in the crowd.
Instead, I catch Arabella rotating dreamily on the spot, as if unaware of what’s happening. Li stands beside her, looking like her evening hasn’t gone the way she’d planned. In the distance, I note Dr. Moncrieff watching Arabella, white-faced with concern, fiddling with a cufflink as he stands obligingly beside an annoyed Baxter.
My heart skips a beat when I spot the chiefs, their heads bent low by our large coach as Finlay presumably fills them in on what he just did. Their bodies are hunched against the wind, the buttons on their handsome suit jackets glimmering. It’s the first time I’ve been able to see them dressed up together, and to my pining heart, they look unreal.
Danny’s kilt is of the deepest green and blue tartan, the fabric draped neatly across shoulders that somehow look broader. A gold brooch glitters atop the strip of fabric, an embedded amber gem catching the light of the full moon. Rory stands taller than the others, his jaw tense and eyes piercing as he scans the area. The Lochkelvin colors of his kilt match my dress, blue woven between purple, dark and moody to starkly contrast with the pristine white of his crisp linen shirt. A black leather sporran hangs from his waist. Finlay’s hair is even more tousled than usual. Compared to the bright purple punk kilt that he rocks as school uniform, this one is more muted: a light blue and gray tartan, the colors blending seamlessly with the soft-looking fabric of his black jacket. A simple pewter brooch adorns his shoulder, which he keeps toying with.
They haven’t seen me yet, though Rory’s eyes are closely scanning the area. I want to break away from my attendants, melt into the concerned crowd and heal my heart in the chiefs’ presence. But I’m forced to stand at the side, away from everyone else, like a dangerous criminal.
Finally, Rory spots me from beyond the melee. We lock gazes. His mouth opens as if he wants to call out my name. Instead, he thinks better of it, lifting a gloved hand and beckoning me forward.
I glance behind me. My babysitters are talking to each other, no longer paying me any attention, their focus instead on the hotel building and their expressions most displeased, as though personally offended by the concept of fire alarms or being outside and away from comfortable splendor. This is my chance. This is my opportunity to disappear.
“They always happen at the most inconvenient times…”
“I know, I was enjoying that magazine.”
“Andit’s always freezing!”
