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I swear I see lines between the trees. A whole network of glowing lines, like an underground map or the intricacies of the nervous system. I blink it all away. “Lochkelvin… has too many connections.”
“You unite kings and holy men,” Rory murmurs, stroking my cheek, “politicians and artists. It’s not Lochkelvin that does that. It’s you.” This sounds like a riddle, or the answer to one, something meaningful enough that Rory feels the need to impart it now. But I don’t understand. All I see is the moon as it spills its ghostly light upon us. All I feel are Rory’s gentle, guiding hands as he walks me to the island clearing, where we’d all made love last time beneath the shimmer of unshed rain.
Finlay and Danny are lying on their sides, an array of candy spread out before them on a tartan blanket. I’m momentarily distracted by the blanket’s neat, even lines crisscrossing underneath them before I give myself a shake. Danny gnaws on a gummy snake while Finlay downs a packet of chocolate buttons like a drink. I sit beside them, inspecting the small mountain of candy with interest, and pull out a bar of dark chocolate. Its percentage of cacao is so high, it doesn’t taste like chocolate at all. It’s pure, unsugary, sharp. I sink into its bitterness, letting it assist in my recovery. The others don’t seem able to tell I’ve just walked into the heart of magic but Rory doesn’t take his eyes off me once.
The radio beside us plays soft classical music.
I glance warily at Rory. “You aren’t still listening to that other station, are you?”
Rory doesn’t respond. The strange tension lining his face says it all. He licks his lips and eventually murmurs, “They’re saying Sophia Milton’s death is a conspiracy.”
I blink. “What, that she never actually died?”
“That Antiro isn’t responsible. Apparently, it’s now been censored online, tagged ‘misinformation’if you search. They were goading last night. That station is the only way I know what’s going on out there.”
“Canny bunch o’ fuckers,” Finlay mutters, tossing his empty packet aside. “They know how tae play the game. Scream about misinformation, and fuck whether or no’ it’s actually true — only the perception is whit matters. Get the authorities tae mark it as misinformation, offensive, hate, fake news, whitever, as lang as it serves yer cause and ye’re emboldened by the higher-ups, able tae trumpet it loud enough. They’re a’ so high on their ain power that they didnae even realize they’re pushin’ for full-blown censorship. So companies gie in, removin’ the offenders altogether, ‘cause it’s easier tae dae that than stand up tae bullies.”
“Isn’t that the same thing that happened to Tilda Raleigh?” Danny asks. “Everyone hates her now.”
“Aye, I couldnae even buy her books last time I checked, so I didnae know where they clowns are findin’ copies tae burn. Ye’d think one o’ them might have the self-awareness tae realize that at literally nae point in history have book-burners been the good guys.”
“They call the truth lies,” I murmur slowly, “then say misinformation’s to be censored. It’s a pattern. They’re the ones who actually spread it.”
“So just shut up and tell lies. Honestly, sassenach, whit’s yer problem? The only price is yer basic civil liberties.”
“The cornerstone of all enlightened societies is free speech,” Rory says. “People who bleat their enlightened credentials all over the place appear to have neglected this recently, which seems to me to indicate that we are no longer in a civilized, liberal democracy.”
“Have you heard from Luke?” Danny asks Rory, who shakes his head while peeling open a chocolate orange. He snaps it into segments and places the remainder onto the foil packaging.
“I told him only to get in touch in case of emergency. Too many eyes and ears. He could be traced.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Baxter’s spies?”
“Mostly dealt with,” Rory answers shortly, looking tired by that fact, as though it had been a task and a half to convert them. “I’m thinking more of the higher-ups. Hodgson’s still a concern to me.” He leans back onto his forearms, gazing up at the sky as he chews his chocolate thoughtfully. “I hope Luke’s okay. Most likely he’s bored, but… I wish we could be with him.” He glances at Finlay, who’s lying on his stomach with his legs swinging lazily in the air. In a brighter tone, he adds, “Turns out the first years are a big fan of your mum’s free chocolate, by the way. If you can ask her to send in a couple more boxes, it’d be appreciated.”
Finlay snorts. “If only she knew whit treachery she was fundin’…” The idea seems to delight him. “I can make a note. Cannae promise it’ll be read, mind. I’m just the dumpin’ ground for a’ her crap.”
Rory pops another segment of chocolate orange into his mouth and says around it, “Anyway, enough of all this. Someone kiss someone.”
Fire swoops in my belly. Tension captures us like a net. It slams down on us, the air hanging low and heavy with dangerous intent, as Rory comfortably holds court. Danny, Finlay and I glance between each other, unprepared to make the first move.
But then Finlay and I lock eyes, and I find myself leaning across the tartan blanket and the small heap of candy, to kiss him. When he kisses back, he’s surprisingly gentle, almost tentative. His mouth is infused with chocolate, sugar-high and delicious. As my blood begins to heat, our tongues toy languidly with each other and I find it difficult to resist speeding up to taste Finlay fully.
When we part, it’s to the snap of another segment of chocolate orange, and Finlay shoots Rory a withering look.
“If ye’re just gonnae shove food in yer face, I’ll huvtae charge ye. Ye’re no’ watchin’ a film at the pictures.”
“You can have the rest of my orange,” Rory offers, holding it out in his palm.
After a moment to think about this, Finlay says, “Aye, okay.”
We resume kissing once more, and this time Finlay steers me to the ground. My fingers cling to his black hair. Hungry lips press urgently against mine, his tongue exploring the needy heat of my mouth. This kiss isn’t gentle or tender as it had been earlier. It’s brutal, possessive. Our tongues intertwine as Finlay pins me to the ground, pulling away only long enough to release a rough, repressed groan. He kisses his way down my throat, lips lapping and teeth biting at my hollow.
“Okay, next,” Rory says, and Finlay’s eyes narrow.
“Whit did I just say? We’re no’ on a screen. Ye cannae just flick ontae somethin’ else, it’s no’ the telly.” His gaze turns suspicious as a tiny, lazy half-smirk twitches on Rory’s mouth. “Are you fuckin’ wi’ us?”
Rory’s smirk widens. “Next,” he repeats in a pointed tone, and although neither Finlay nor I move, Danny does. Normally, he’s better at resisting Rory’s demands, but not like this. Sexually, he’ll only ever be at Rory’s beck and call. He leans down on his stomach, lying beside me, and strokes a gentle palm across my cheek. He captures my mouth in a sound kiss, his lips bathed with warmth, his tongue tangy with the sweet-tasting acid of candy. I let him devour me. I let pleasure consume me. Danny reduces me to a whimpering heap, moaning and begging for more. I find myself writhing on the ground like a desperate, shameless snake, craving more touch, more bodies, hungering for moreeverything—
