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“Souls?” Luke raises an eyebrow and adds tartly, “Plural, really? The singular is already too generous.”
I nod over at Finlay’s newspaper. “Anything good?” I’ve given up on the news, only listening to the snippets Finlay deigns to read aloud, usually in tones of sheer disbelief. For whatever reason, he has the strongest stomach out of all of us for cutting through daily reams of bullshit, and Rory tasks him with providing a thorough summary each morning.
“Mm. Westminster’s gone full steam ahead on pushin’ forward legislation against protest rights and civil disobedience.” This attracts Rory’s attention. “The Opposition’s desperately whitewashin’ the royalist divisions in its ain party in case it freaks oot the bourgeoisie — apparently being liberal and democratic means it’s vital tae chuck oot those wi’ the wrang opinions. The governor o’ the Bank o’ England is raisin’ interest rates while earnin’ ten million a year in bonuses. The Prime Minister—” and here Rory raises an anticipatory golden brow, “thinks ‘make dae and mend’ is the answer tae the risin’ costs o’ livin’. A gushin’ article on Benji’s favorite brand o’ toothpaste… And the BRP are simply existin’ in a permanent state o’ ecstasy noo we’re a’ livin’ in their new world order.”
He folds The Financial Times with a small sigh, the pink sheets a contrast against the dark brown wood.
“All hail King James,” Danny says blandly. “Huzzah. All hail King James and his pearly white teeth. Huzzah.”
“‘Make do and mend’?” I repeat, glancing at Rory. “Isn’t your father a multi-millionaire?”
Rory shrugs. “On paper, probably a billionaire.”
“Notinthe papers, though,” Finlay says, now flipping open The Observer, “because that’s the part they conveniently fail tae mention when he advertises just howgreatausterity is.”
A sudden commotion from the entrance hall makes all our heads turn. A kind of shocked wail pierces the air, and Robert staggers into the dining hall, looking aggrieved. He stumbles across to us, acting completely unlike his usual dispassionate self, and for someone who has such a mean face, I’ve never seen him on the verge of tears before. Angry tears, but still.
He addresses Rory like a commander he’s failed. “I’m sorry,” he says at once, distraught. “I couldn’t stop them. I tried to salvage it, but there’s justtoo much.”
Rory instantly rises from the table. “What’s happened?”
The rest of us follow. It turns out not to be something that needs words to explain, and Robert gestures vaguely to the golden statue in the entrance hall.
Every single inch of it has been trashed. Cards ripped, rabbit sculptures smashed. Banners torn, flags underfoot. Petals and leaves and berries shred onto the floor and squashed, twigs snapped into little pieces. The myriad candles have been used to set paper alight, covering the golden lion and unicorn statue in soot and ash.
And in its place, draped to conceal the golden sculpture of the crown, is a large black cardboard sign with red painted text:ANTIRO FOREVER.
My stomach lurches. This is Operation Strike First all over again, on a more meaningful scale.Jessa Says Hello. It’s Arabella. Now she’s hiding her cruelty again — this time not using me as her shield but by hiding her treachery behind her activist group.
It’s not the only thing, either. Black bunting, the black Antiro flag with the red spideryA. A long scroll that says “Leave Anti-Royalists Alone.” There’s even a framed photo of Benji wearing a crown and smirking at the camera. The whole ensemble looks insane.
“Wow,” Luke says softly, his dark eyes sweeping across the sculpture. Not one inch of it is free from Antiro propaganda. Little paper messages decorate the strong, muscular hinds of the lion and unicorn:“Let Anti-Royalists Live,”“Respect Anti-Royalists Or Else,”“Anti-Royal Hate is Illegal.”
Robert genuinely looks heartbroken, and from his reaction it occurs to me that he must have organized the original vigil. “I’m so sorry.”
Luke slides a compassionate arm across Robert’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault. At least I got to see it yesterday, before…”
“Tear this shit down,” Rory instructs Robert, and Robert takes a moment to wipe his eyes before giving a tight nod.
“I mean, even stylistically it’s as ugly as melted shite,” Finlay remarks, gazing up at the Antiro-skinned statue and trying to break the tension.
I move across to Luke, wrapping my arm around his waist. He’s standing motionless, reading the Antiro messages with a soft frown. He doesn’t react to my touch, standing deliberately stoic.
“They want me to crack,” Luke eventually concludes, his eyes scanning the entrance hall. Several of the younger students have come out to see what’s going on — and Luke’s reaction. Rory shoos them away. “They want to celebrate seeing me cry.”
“Becca’s safe,” I remind him, my voice pitched low. “You know they’re doing this to get back at you for her. They’rebullies.”
“We could complain,” Danny suggests.
“Oh, trust me,” Rory says scathingly as he rips the largest Antiro sign in two. “I will be making a full complaint to our esteemed headmistress for allowing this to happen.”
“What, Arabella’s aunt?” I ask with a raise of my eyebrow. I remember my first year at Lochkelvin only too well. I remember from my year of unfairness trying to seek justice, a concept I knew with a sinking heart would be too elusive for anyone to provide when I learned that the headmistress was a blood relation of one of the biggest sneaks in school.
“It’s my father who has the ultimate authority over the running of this school.”
“And he disnae even talk tae ye any mair,” Finlay reminds him. “Face it. Fact is, naebody’s standin’ up for us except the grassroots. It’s us against a’ o’ them. We cannae dae this wi’ teachersoradults.”
In a small, quiet voice, Luke says, “I think I want to leave.”
