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Luke wipes his eyes with his palm, his shoulders sagging in relief. “She’s in America.” He whispers the word like it’s sanctity and begins to laugh brightly. “She’s safe. My clever, clever sister. Thank God!”
His laughter is loud enough to startle Danny and Finlay awake. They take in the scene through surprised eyes. Only after listening to the babble of the radio and Luke’s laughter do they begin to piece together what’s happened.
“Becca’s left?” Danny asks, looking amazed. “How?”
“I don’t know. But she’s managed to use her wits to flee this wasteland of a country without them stopping her. Good luck to her.”
“Eh, we live in a glorious republic noo, so careful talkin’ doon Britain like that or Antiro HQ will dae ye in,” Finlay says dryly, positioned on Rory’s bed and concentrating deeply on the radio. Staticky voices fill the air again, their angry tones at odds with the huge relieved smile split across Luke’s face. “So… they’re claimin’ she’s a traitor who’s playin’ the victim. No’ a lassie who’s just been hounded oot the country she loves by a bunch o’ fuckin’ zealots who murdered her maw.”
“Do you think these people do any self-reflection, ever?” Rory looks tired. He sinks back onto the pillows. “Do you think they have self-awareness? It’s our side’s fault, always. They’re the untouchable ones because they have the power.” He indicates the radio, where the speaker is currently engaged in an explosive rant about Becca’s supposedly aloof attitude.
“I didn’t know there was a manual on grief.” The speaker’s words are making me angrier on Becca’s behalf. “How dare she not be submissive enough for these pricks to control.”
“This is gaslighting, right?” Danny asks quietly, rubbing Luke’s arm in sympathy. “‘She brought it on herself. It’s all her fault for existing. The brutes who killed your mother are the real victims here.’”
Rory slumps deeper into the pillows, his hands behind his head as he gazes intently at the stone ceiling. “Belly said the same at dinner. I still can’t believe the nerve of her.”
“Personally, I’m waitin’ for phase two: ‘It didnae happen. Or if it did happen, it wisnae that bad. Or if it was bad, how about ye shut the fuck up and get over it.’”
Rory makes a soft noise of agreement. “I wouldn’t put anything past these people. They want power and control so badly—”
“—they’d sell their grannies for a lick o’ it.”
“Diplomatic immunity,” Luke breathes reverently, still lost in his daydream. “She has diplomatic immunity.”
“America,” I say with a tiny, uncommon hint of national pride. “America took her in.” And Luke gives me the most beautiful, radiant smile.
“But obviously we still have our very own fragrant Pwince Wucas still lurking about,” the woman on the radio continues, undeterred. “I believe it’s high time we removed this vain peacock of a boy.”
Luke remains undaunted. In a cool voice, he states, “The removal of meisa trillion-dollar vanity project.”
“Do you think he’ll go the same way as his sister? Try to brute-force his way into another country like the entitled royalist filth he is? At least then, I suppose, he’d be closer to his, ah,heritage.”
Luke’s eyes narrow sharply.
“What does that mean?” I ask, trying to unpick her sly, euphemistic tone. “Closer to your heritage?”
“My mother’s grandmother arrived from the Caribbean almost a century ago.” With a sneer, Luke adds, “They want me togoback to where I came from, and a private maternity hospital in Kensington isn’t the correct answer.” When he notices my startled expression, he adds, “The precise level of melanin within me has always been a sticking point for certain types.”
Danny frowns across at him. “This is getting ugly.”
“I’ve expected it,” Luke says grimly, and my heart breaks. “Criticize my beliefs and call me royalist filth — whatever. Bring the color of my skin into it? They do it deliberately to tilt the playing field.”
“It shows them up, not you,” Rory reassures Luke quietly.
“It’s difficult to say,” the radio plows on, resolute. “The family has always enjoyed a much friendlier reception from the colonies, so no doubt wecouldsee a similar gamble from the Bastard Prince.” I frown —colonies, really? “Only time will tell. At least with him, we’ll always know his whereabouts. He hasn’t gone underground like his female relatives, which I think shows the extent of his unpleasantness — he clearly thinks the world of himself, that he’s invincible, even now. We know he’s lording it over us at Lochkelvin Academy, still acting like he’s better than the rest of us at his fancy fee-paying school. Obviously he feels quite comfortable there. Perhaps he needs a reason to jump?”
I glower at the radio. Unpleasant? Invincible? Comfortable? Only the other day I’d seen Luke at his worst, broken down and weeping.
“Flush him out, you’re saying,” the interviewer says, to soft noises of agreement.
“Yes, exactly,” the woman replies, and then gives a tinkly little laugh. “We’re coming for you, Bastard Prince! We’re coming for you!”
2
“We’re Coming For You, Bonny Prince!” is splashed in dark ink across the newspapers the following morning. Every single front page has a variation on this theme. I note that the word “Bastard” has been replaced with the much nicer“Bonny,” and that altogether this has the opposite intended effect by making it sound like Luke is an idolized rockstar prince on the run from a bunch of errant groupies.
Flicking through The Financial Times in irritation, Finlay drawls, “Ye’d think them callin’ ye ‘prince’ would, like, eviscerate their souls or somethin’.”
