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Again, Finlay shrugs. “But maist people think theyaregood, sassenach. Nae cunt’s walkin’ around, going, ‘I’m an evil bastard, whit ye gonnae dae about it?’ Maist people think they’re actin’ oot o’ their best interests, which is why it’s actions and principles that need praisin’, no’ people. Define the quality o’ goodness and then ye can make a start on the rest.”
My brow furrows as my mind circles back to the sins of tonight. Are we good people?Howcan we be good people after what occurred tonight? I can’t defend any of it. One man killed, and us having sex in the same room… Despite Finlay’s philosophical musings, we pushed it too far. I’m convinced in my heart of it.
Finlay must sense my anxiety because he leans over and plants a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Never apologize for acts o’ love.” When I stare at him, hopelessly lost, he says, “It’s a simple maxim. Ye know whit love is. And ye know when it’s reciprocated that it never hurts. Welovedeach other tonight, sassenach. That’s a’. We loved in the face of someone else’s immense loathin’ for us, and I’m no’ gonnae feel bad about that.” He takes my hand in his and murmurs tiredly, “Can who ye are, and a’ the goodness within yer heart, truly be undone by a single act of badness? I didnae think so.”
His passionate belief in me is a comfort that I take to the pillows. Nevertheless, when Finlay cracks a giant yawn and finally manages to drift to sleep, I still find myself quietly peeling back the covers and kneeling, tentative, by the bed.
I’ve never done this in my life. Instantly, I feel like a prize idiot. But the call for salvation is even greater, and so I clasp my palms together and close my eyes, bowing my head to my fingertips. Yes, we loved each other tonight, and yes, it was our most anticipated reunion, to the point our time together felt holy. But a man also died tonight. And while love is at its purest and most reverent when reciprocated, when bodies shine in the darkness like stars, tonight we twisted our gift into something weird and almost gloating, to the point I feel shame even if the others refuse to. I whisper my apology to whoever is listening, to whoever even cares, still feeling ridiculous. I picture the bemused expressions of the chiefs, and think to myself that probably only Danny would understand my overwrought handwringing, the rupture of guilt present in my soul. That only Danny would be the one to soothe the jaggedness in my heart with sympathetic brown eyes, as I pray and I pray for the salvation of both me and all the men of tonight.
18
Acold sun shines down on us as we pass the green curves of the Scottish Highlands, one of the few cars driving the snaking road on New Year’s Day. Finlay and I are bundled up in many layers, topped with warm coats and fleecy gloves. I gaze out of the silver frosted window, wondering where Luke is now, hoping to God he’s safer than before. I carry the smooth egg in my coat pocket, waiting for a sign, holding it in my fist for comfort.
The music is soft and classical as we swerve through the glens, passing stray deer and scurrying rabbits. Finlay’s quiet as he drives, perhaps politicked out after our discussions last night. The dark smudges beneath his eyes remind me of a year ago, when he’d been crafting the dossier for Benji, but at least I know he slept far more than me last night; I’d been awake for most of it, gently stroking his tormented body as the golden sun had split the sky.
A flutter of excitement tickles my belly as I begin to recognize various landmarks on the road that I recall as being near Lochkelvin. We must be about an hour’s drive away at most. The air thickens strangely, the sky growing a darker, more foreboding gray. The Lochkelvin forest is a pinprick of blackness in the distance, the loch surrounding it a thin, glittering thread. It should be the stuff of fiction, of gothic novels. And yet, now more than ever, Lochkelvin calls to me like home. To be with Rory again, to be with Danny… I rub my gloved hands together for warmth, resting my temple against the icy window, and wish the interminable drive would end.
“Sassenach,” Finlay says urgently, and I realize I’ve drifted off, my head idle against the slick glass. “Sassenach, listen.” The radio has been turned up, and I jolt in my seat as the low, soothing voice of Luke emerges, hauntingly, from the speakers. I stare at Finlay in wide-eyed confusion. Finlay’s frowning, concentrating on the road ahead, his fingers tense around the steering wheel.
“…and New Year is a time for making new traditions. So I speak to you in this spirit, having watched with dismay as my country has devolved into chaos in the recent weeks and months, to offer you the comfort of tradition as a solution once again.
“If you are unhappy with current circumstances, rest assured that I am, too.” Anger is bright in Luke’s voice, a steely coldness that seems to frost up our already fogged windows. He’s restraining himself, his words deliberately clipped, each a meticulously fired dart. “At present, I do not know the whereabouts of my mother’s body. But I have learned of images in the dark spaces that the trolls of Antiro inhabit online. Images that no right-thinking person should ever see. They remain unverified — but all the same, whether or not it’s my mother, they still considered doing this to a woman. Stripping her, slicing her, and burning her body with the Antiro brand. My mother.” My mouth drops in horror as Luke takes a moment to compose himself. I hadn’t known. He hadn’t shared a word of this with us, and all of a sudden his initial frostiness makes sense. With the things Luke’s been through lately, it’s no wonder his trust is a hard-earned prize. His pain is rightfullygargantuan. “They beg for kindness as they whip up the chaos of revolution,” Luke continues in a tight, terse tone, “for faith in an enlightened new age when they indulge in acts of savagery themselves, joking freely about a victim’s terror. They are hypocrites, drunk on what they perceive as victory.
“But they are not victorious. History will judge these infiltrators as nothing but sinners. They will never be victorious until every last secret hope for better leadership, for an improved alternative, has died. I am well aware of the strength of my people. I know a great many of you are angered by this mob, by their righteous assault on our country’s long-held democratic values. They pretend to champion liberty while drawing up laws on what can and cannot be said, all the while protecting their unsuspecting followers.
“I refuse to bow to their orders. I will speak the truth, always, when they demand to be placated with lies.” In a slow, stately voice, Luke declares, “So I am telling you now that Benjamin Moncrieff is a danger and a liability to our great country.” These words are so explicit, so direct in their sincerity, that my jaw drops open.
“I may not have my father’s blood, that is true, but I have his teachings, his love. I’ve had the guidance of the longest-serving queen regent, and I have a greater claim to the throne than anyone else. I’m Britain’s protector, but I cannot do this without you. I believe in you, my people. I believe in your ability to rise against violent ideologues and demagogues who seize control of our way of life. I believe in your power to see the truth for what it is, and to demand true liberty in the face of fraudsters. May courage be with you.”
The car is filled with stunned silence, echoed, I imagine, throughout the entire country. It’s broken by the radio announcer, who clears his throat awkwardly and informs us, “And that was theformerPrince Lucas of thedefunctHouse of Milton with a rare public broadcast.” I don’t miss the emphasis placed on his words, so unsubtle it’s as if he’s trying to let listeners know he’s been forced to say them.
“Rhetoric,” Finlay breathes, a tiny flicker of a smile splitting his mouth. “He has rhetoric.” He presses his foot on the pedal as if urging us to get to Lochkelvin faster, to discuss this development with the rest of the chiefs.
We drive up the steep incline, the castle in full view, and my heart soothes at its familiarity. Lochkelvin ground — sacred, lethal, Rory’s. But my eyes are caught on the castle turrets, where the deep blue Scottish saltire usually battles in the wind with the Union flag. Both have been replaced, I realize, with a large flag I’ve never seen before. It’s the same pattern as the Union flag, but the blue representing Scotland has mysteriously been shaded black.
Finlay parks the car and leaps from it in an instant, gazing up at the new flag, shielding his eyes from the white-yellow sun peeking through parted clouds. “Am I seein’ this right? Whit the fuck is that monstrosity? Where’s my flag?”
I follow him up the iced stone steps, gripping tightly to the castle wall. The singed grass from our bonfire, I note, is now lush green and shimmering thickly with frost. When Finlay pulls open the great wooden entrance doors, they squeal with disuse, and the wind suddenly roars at us, whipping us inside. The door slams shut behind us, loud and final, almost with a sense of huffiness.
Clearly, I’m losing it. Castle doors don’thuff.
Finlay and I glance at each other. It’s quiet, eerily so. We walk into the middle of the entrance hall, gazing up at the many stone floors above us, not a soul to be seen by the wooden railings where Finlay had threatened to chuck Callum Wells… It’s empty. No one wanders, no one laughs. There’s no life anywhere in the castle.
“What’s going on?” I whisper nervously, and that’s when I notice the golden lion and unicorn statue at the base of the stairs — or rather, thelionstatue, for that’s all that remains of it.
Finlay’s eyes widen. “Naw. Naw, whit the actual fuck?” He storms over, crouching down to inspect the plinth, which has been cleanly sheared. The golden lion is in the middle of its powerful roar, its great paw batting victoriously at the crown — and the unicorn of Scotland is gone.
“D’you know Rory’s new room?” I ask, and Finlay gives me a grim nod, already taking the main staircase two at a time. I dash after him, giving the statue another curious glance over my shoulder, because this is weird. It looks wrong, off-balance without the unicorn to challenge it, to provoke it in their eternal battle, and I sense, somehow, that the castle is unhappy about its current state.
I quiet that part of my mind again.
We meet no one on our ascent, not even a teacher, and although this shouldn’t be unusual during the winter break when most students are with their families, the semester is starting soon enough that everyone should have already returned. Fearless, Finlay marches across to the door of Rory’s new room and knocks quickly, his expression one of livid determination.
The door snicks open, slow and reluctant, and all I see through the narrow gap is one of Rory’s scrutinizing silver eyes. But his face relaxes when he sees us, and with a glance down the corridor, his expression a careful blank mask, Rory drags us both inside by our wrists and locks the door behind him.
Instantly, Rory presses me against the solid wood, his mouth a hungry violent storm against mine, a vicious tangle of teeth and tongue, his hand clamped around my wrist as a fine vise — a vise also still locked around Finlay. He kisses Finlay, too, breaking away from me forlornly, before claiming his best friend’s lips in an act of haughty entitlement. I hear Finlay’s soft whimper, soon overpowered by the deep groan of Rory’s desire.
When they part, breathless and raw with want, Rory releases our wrists. Already they’re red from the pressure, and I rub the bracelet of pain with interest.
