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The commotion dies at once. You could hear a pin drop. All heads swing around to Luke.
Rory steps away from the plinth and crosses over to Luke. He holds him firmly by the sides of his arms. “No. Don’t let them do this to you. Don’t let them break us apart. Lochkelvin is safe — this is just posturing — we’ve made itsafe—”
“It’s not about that,” Luke says, his gaze fixed on the ruined statue. “I don’t want to just betolerated, dealing with stupid acts of spite when our backs are turned. Besides, I miss Becca. We should be together. We should be grieving our mothertogether.”
Rory pinches the bridge of his nose, his thumb and forefinger sweeping across dull gray eyes. He looks exhausted. “There’s no way you’ll be able to make it to America,” he states. “There are too many spies. Becca only got away because she’s second-born with no intentions of claiming the throne. They won’t just let you go, not when you’ve been a stubborn thorn in Antiro’s side all this time. Youinspire.”
Luke meets Rory’s eyes. In a low, miserable tone, Luke murmurs, “Do you honestly think I want to be royal after this? Really?”
This seems to stump Rory. He says nothing, just gazes into his fellow chief’s dark brown eyes. “Please don’t go,” Rory eventually whispers, distraught, and suddenly this feels much too private, much too intimate a conversation to watch. There’s something about Rory on the verge of shattering that makes my protective instincts surge into overdrive. “We’rechiefs. Musketeers. We aren’t meant to be apart.”
Luke draws Rory into a tight hug. “I just need someplace safe. To lay low. Somewhere to just… be.” His eyes close. He breathes Rory in deeply. “I know you care, brother. You care so much for each of us, and I love you for it, but you have to let me go when I ask.”
“Ask?” Rory repeats in the kind of subtle, hopeful tone that pierces my heart. He’s never like this. He’s never like this — willfully submissive — with anyone else.
After a moment, Luke amends with pained resolve, “Decree.”
Rory’s eyes shutter. He takes a deliberate step back from Luke. The tension in the air is blanket-heavy and stifling. After a moment, Rory gives a small nod and regroups himself.
“I can make arrangements,” he says tonelessly, sounding more official, as though bureaucracy and administration bring a certain amount of comfort to him. “We can have you settled elsewhere by the end of the week. If that’strulywhat you want…”
Luke inclines his head. Briefly, he meets my torn gaze and appears to stop, but then his head continues its downward slope, unabated, his lips pressed into a tight, firm line.
A loud ripping sound comes from behind us. Finlay’s scowling darkly, viciously tearing up sign after sign. “Fuck this. Fuckthem. Fuck every shitty wee word they’ve ever said and done.” He chucks the pieces onto the stone floor, then sweeps his arm against the plinth, all manner of trinkets smashing onto the gray stones. He drops himself to the plinth, sitting in front of the rearing unicorn, his face glum between his hands as he stares down at his scuffed black Docs. Robert quietly picks up the remainder of the decorations from the statue, untangling black bunting from the unicorn’s horn, and throws it all onto the growing pile of detritus.
“I’ve never had the urge to start a bonfire more,” Danny murmurs, and he too looks and sounds broken.
I wish I could say something wise and comforting. I can’t. I’m overwhelmed. But I manage to reach out for Luke’s hand, and he takes hold of it in an instant.
“So do it,” I eventually say instead, picking up Danny’s trail of thought and feeding it to the inferno of anger that’s been building inside me since I first heard the nameAntiro. Steel flashes in my voice and I feel like my eyes may be gleaming red and evil, but I’ve had it. I’ve had enough of this petty cat-and-mouse game. Eventually, someone has to win. “Tonight. We’ll gather the crap they left us and burn it.”
Several curious sets of eyes land on me, and taking a steady breath, I say, “Let’s show these Antiro bulliesexactlywhat we think of them.”
* * *
After detention — for those still exist, mind-numbing hours-long sessions of bitter silence and tedium as innocent sheets of paper are destroyed by pre-prepared lies — we go upstairs to the chiefs’ dorm. From under his bed, Finlay pulls out the large sack of Antiro junk he’d collected this morning and begins to split it into several smaller bags to make the bulk more manageable. And as though it’s some kind of compulsion, Rory flicks on Benji’s radio again, twiddling the volume. I brace myself for the worst.
“—and we’ve had some really concerning stuff brought to our attention today. St. Camford,again,” a male presenter says with a jaded sigh. “My old uni. According to insiders, they’ve formed a new Royalist Society, which has been posting royalist propaganda throughout campus.”
“Another reason to burn that place to the ground,” a second male presenter mutters. “It’s just a hotbed of hate at this point.”
“It’s a shame. I won’t lie. It is a shame. It’s also come to our attention that the president of this society is none other than raging royalist loon Jonie Delgado.”
“Oh, God,” the other presenter says witheringly. My heart begins to pound.Jonie. Our Jonie.
“Listeners will of course know her from her incredible unhinged rants online, where she blogs under the name… well, I won’t give her the oxygen of publicity she desperately craves by reading it out on air.” The presenter sighs again, and in a sick, cloying tone that instantly gets my back up, adds, “You know what, I’m really worried for her — I mean that, genuinely. This isn’t a woman who’s in a good place. Youcan’tbe of sound mind to be carrying on this way. She’s at St. Camford, the most prestigious university in the world, and spending all her time obsessing… overthis? It’s got to be a cry for support because it’s too embarrassing to be anything else.” Behind the condescension, he sounds like he’s trying to hold in his laughter. “She’s gotta be unstable, off her meds or something. The poor woman needshelp.”
My teeth are gritted. I don’t realize how tightly I’m grinding them until Danny gently nudges me with his elbow.
“First point of order for St. Camford is that this propaganda group should be disbanded, like, yesterday. Secondly, Jonie Delgado needs to be expelled. There’s no other option. We’ve heard stories like this about her for too long now and nothing has been done. She’s a troublemaker — and above all else, a headache for such a well-regarded university. She needs to be brought in for misconduct, re-educated, and then booted. And thirdly, we need an official mission statement confirming that St. Camford is indeed anti-royalist, with a fixed strategy in place to prevent any potential future uprisings. None of this would have happened if St. Camford had instantly established a cohesive brand ethos denouncing anti-progressivism. They’ve been dancing around the issue for far too long, especially when we all know it’s the destination of choice for members of the ex-royal family. So let’s see where their loyalties truly lie.”
“Absolutely,” the other presenter fawns. “Lip service just isn’t good enough. If your organization isn’t anti-royal, you won’t get onto our scoreboard.”
“Exactly — and remind our listeners about that.”
“So last month we started an advisory service to help organizations navigate upcoming policy changes in these turbulent political times. For a one-off fee, we provide tailored advice to your company to make it up-to-date and compliant with recent regulations. After being burned too often by meaningless lip service and not enough action, we decided to set up this scheme in the hopes of helping businesses prove their anti-royalist credentials with meaningful action and to strategize with anti-royalist causes. We’re a one-of-a-kind business solution. As an incentive, there’s an end-of-year scoreboard, where prizes are handed out to those who’ve gone that extra mile. We’re delighted to say thatallpolice forces in the country have now signed up, as have national broadcasters, banks, councils, retailers, government departments, the civil service — all major household names, everyone you can think of, has already signed up to this scheme, or is in the process of applying. We are one cool and groovy VIP club, and more are entering the fray all the time!”
“The Army hasn’t,” Rory murmurs. “They still know who they serve.”
