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Danny leans his head against mine in comfort. “I’m getting real tired of this bloody radio station.”
“Look, Nicky,” the presenter continues with an air of deep condescension, given a new lease of life as he’s buoyed by his sycophantic co-presenter and the privilege to say whatever the fuck he wants on air, “if you’re so convinced that we have it wrong, why don’t you come on our show and discuss it? Give us all a laugh. No, genuinely, I’m being serious. If you’re listening, Nicky — and weknowyou’re our biggest fan, haha! — this is anactual invite. Come on our show. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
If Nicola Miller has ticked these two idiots off so badly they’re calling for a humiliating public spat, I can’t help but find myself cheering her on.
“Our fact-checkers are satisfied nothing illegal happened to Sophia Milton. So why aren’t you, love? Why are you hopping down conspiracy rabbit holes, interviewing former members — who were never even really,trulyone of us — saying you’ve looked at the timeline and thatwe’rethe ones lying?” Now I hear the icy rage in the presenter’s voice. “We don’t need to convince you, but we don’t like the way you’re spreading hate about Antiro. So how about you come pay us a visit and we can correct the record live on air. A little invite from us to you. Let’s see how brave you are with a microphone shoved in your face.”
“I hope she goes on their stupid show and thrashes them,” Danny mutters.
“Goady fuckers,” Finlay growls, his oars slicing roughly into the water. Rory’s calm gray eyes level with him as the boat lurches across the loch, and Finlay grudgingly reins in the angry vigor.
“A palate cleanser for our dear listeners now. Yesterday, we received an encouraging message from our friends at the Department for Public Integrity.” The presenter gives a self-important clear of his throat. “They said we’re ‘constantly the best mainstream broadcaster for anti-royalist commentary’ — a glowing report there, and they also went on to criticize the rest of the British media establishment as ‘still playing catch-up, if not telling downright lies.’ Well, thank you very much indeed. Obviously, wearebastions of factual, intellectual reporting, so it’s great to be openly commended by a major government department like this.”
“Yer da sendin’ fanmail?”
“Highly doubt it,” Rory says. “Sounds more like civil service overreach.”
“And finally, some more disappointing news, just to make your morning even better. TV doctor Christopher Law has come out in favor of the Milton brood. Last night, he shared a picture of him and the Miltons living it up at some stinking rich party, with the caption ‘In better times.’ Tone-deaf or what? You’d think a doctor would have better judgment than that.”
“It’s just so disappointing, isn’t it? He’s a well-respected man with a lot of followers and a lot of connections, but thankfully the majority are calling him out on this. Antiro’s also on the case to make sure he realizes his error so hopefully he’ll be making a sincere public apology by noon.”
“Why is it,” I begin, growing uncomfortably aware of this realization, “that when someone doesn’t comply with Antiro, the woman’s a bitch but the man’s just a disappointment?”
“Because they’re fucked in the head,” Rory mutters, and the boat lands on the shore with a timely, gracelessthud. “I only listen to learnhowfucked.”
Still, it bothers me. It seems as if, at some point in time, a worldwide consensus had been reached at a meeting no woman ever attended or was even invited to, where it had been systematically agreed upon that men should hoard all the world’s respect. They would receive so much unearned respect that it would compound like interest in a never-ending vault, and they’d be unable to bankrupt themselves even while instigating global catastrophes that knock out everyone’s senses. All male washouts have their supporters in the end. Women, however… Women are denied respect from the very start, and even the small fragments that certain determined individuals manage to scrape together over a lifetime are still seized and confiscated due to trivial, insignificant acts. At the same meeting, it must also have been decided that a woman with ambition is a problem to be quashed.
“And that’s today’s ten-minute round-up of twats,” the radio chirps, “because winners like us don’t want to spend more time on losers like them than necessary. But the invite still stands, Nicky! We’dloveto get our claws into you.”
There’s something overly salacious about the way they talk about this female journalist and I fail to suppress my shiver. “Gross.”
“And that’s enough from you,” Rory says, snapping the radio off. “Sorry for bringing down the mood but it’s good to know what’s going on outside our bubble.”
“I like our bubble. Can’t we just live there permanently?”
Rory leans forward with a fond half-smile and kisses my cheek. “I like our bubble, too. I’d love nothing more than to just live there with all of you. But we can’t. You know we can’t. Luke’s still on the other side of the country, and—”
“—our bubble’s not complete without him,” I finish for Rory with a sigh.
He’s right. And as we link our fingers together, walking through the woods without fear, I think of returning to the city I fell in love with, a city I called home for one hot, wild summer.
When we leave the woods, a snowflake falls on my nose like a kiss. I look up at the iron-gray sky to see a soft descent of sleet.
Seasons change. Hot, wild summers morph into cold, dark Decembers. But both are beautiful in their own way, because this world is beautiful, and it deserves to be saved from forces craving the destruction of truth and beauty above all else.
9
Christmas arrives in a flurry of fresh snow — so much snow, in fact, that most of us remain trapped inside Lochkelvin for many more days than anticipated. The first wave of students who managed to leave was able to do so before the blizzard but following the Christmas service, held by a new, younger, and seemingly kinder minister, who is, most importantly, unrelated to Danny. He is, however, only a temporary addition, and Rory informs me that they’ve had trouble recruiting a permanent minister to middle-of-nowhere Lochkelvin. It doesn’t stop Rory from singing loudly from his hymn book aboutdogsrather thanGod, all the while shooting me a mischievous grin.
The hall is much fuller on Christmas Day than last year. It could almost be an ordinary day. Several tables are laden with food instead of one, and most of the staff are still on duty and bitter about it. No one particularlywantsto be at Lochkelvin over Christmas. For whatever reason — call it Christmas spirit — Baxter turns a blind eye to the chiefs associating with each other again. We eat mince pies and pull crackers, and I understand with affection what these traditions are now. Danny wins a silver whistle while I receive a miniature pack of playing cards.
Li brags about her new helicopter — a real one, not a toy. Arabella is apparently in receipt of a racehorse — also a real one and not a toy. I roll my eyes, quite content with my tiny deck of playing cards, which Danny and I use to play several hilarious, rowdy games of Cheat.
But the chiefs pull me aside that night. On the seventh floor, with the stars shining down on us from the tall windows and the silence thick inside the decorated castle, Rory produces a small wrapped box and offers it to me. I stare at him in panic because it’s not as if I got any of them a Christmas present — whatcanyou get these people?
“We got it for you because we wanted to,” Rory murmurs as though reading my mind, when I still haven’t taken the box from his fingers. “Not because we expected anything in return.”
Still dubious, I unwrap it in front of their eyes. And when it’s free from packaging, I stare at it in a kind of horror.
