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“Ye think that’s whit I want?”
“I don’t give a fuck what you want. I wantyouin this school, with us, and if I have to bankrupt my father to make it happen then I’ll do it.”
“There are only six months left here, anyway,” Danny points out, and six months has never sounded like such a paradoxically long and short time, “so it’s not like it can cost that much?”
“It’s fine for you,” Finlay snarks at Danny, “your place is free because o’ yer dad.”
“So what?” I’m offended on Danny’s behalf. His words are completely uncalled for. “We all have different paths. Isn’t your mom meant to be the next leader of Scotland? Why does someone like her have money problems?”
“Because it’s a’ wrapped up in dodgy investments!” Finlay snaps, and lowers his head back into his hands with a kind of hot, burning shame, a knowledge that he’s pushed his sulkiness too far. Quietly, he adds, “Everything’sbeen financially mismanaged. We have nae liquid assets. None.” With a humorless twist to his lips, he adds, “Can pay the fees in boxes o’ chocolate, though. Got enough o’ them tae last till the next century.”
I mean,I’dtake that, I reason to myself, but I figure it’s best to keep my weak spots to myself.
“So what happens now?” Danny asks, his voice sympathetic, and Finlay shrugs.
“She isnae replyin’ tae Baxter. I’ll huvtae go through tae Edinburgh. See whit’s whit.”
“There’s a hardship fund,” Rory informs him. “Use that.”
“I’m no’ some charity case,” Finlay says, horrified at the thought, and I glare at him.
“I thought we’d left that kind of stuff back in the months when I first arrived.”
“It’s no’ aboutyou,” Finlay mutters in exasperation, and I’m about to ask if he needs a shovel to dig his hole deeper, but then he explains, “Ye’re perfect, sassenach. It’s aboutmeand how fuckin’ embarrassin’ it is tae come from a wealthy family that cannae get basic finance right. Everyoneelsehas access tae money. My maw puts it a’ intae investments she cannae access until they mature — which they willnae, because they’re shit investments, and we’ll likely lose everythin’. So aye, while we’re rich on paper, we cannae actually afford any fuckin’ paper tae print it.”
The candlelight trembles in front of us, making Finlay aware of his risen voice, and he shifts his agitated gaze around the library to check that no one has entered. Satisfied we’re still alone, he lowers his voice. “I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. Why’s it always fuckin’ me?”
No one speaks for a while, but then Rory says slowly, “If youweregoing through to Edinburgh, you could see Luke.”
“He hasnae telt ye where he is yet?” Finlay asks, looking relieved to move on to something else. Like it’s an impulse, I wrap my hand around the smooth toy egg inside my dressing gown pocket. It remains cold and static.
Rory purses his lips. “No… He’s made himself a target with that speech, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if he won’t announce his location for weeks yet, and not without a proper backup in case it’s somehow intercepted. The papers are still churning the outrage. It needs to die down first.”
I desperately hope that this is the case and not Rory trying to convince himself. If a wannabe bomber could break into his former safe house, what’s stopping it from happening in his new place? And Mack — can he genuinely be trusted? The thoughts whirl through my mind, so dark and dismal that I refuse to give them power by voicing them.
Rory seems to read our collective anxious silence. “Trust me, if something bad has happened to Luke, it’ll be splashed over the front pages the moment he breathes his last.”
“It’s why I hate looking at the newspapers,” I say softly. “In case that day is finally here.”
“And it won’t even be that day,” Danny points out. “It’ll be news from the day before.”
The implication falls sickly onto us, and I shudder: Luke could be dead right now, and we won’t find out until later in the week.
“I have a feeling something as big as that would make itself quickly known,” Rory says, looking like he doesn’t relish the way this topic has derailed. He glances at us in turn, noting our glum faces. “The only thing Luke had when he left this school was faith — in us, to be by his side, always. If we lose that faith, then why are we even bothering to fight?”
Licking his lips, Danny whispers, “It’s the silence. The not knowing. It’storture.”
“I know it is. My God, do I know. But there are others in this school looking to us to be leaders, and they need to know we aren’t scared. We aren’t intimidated. They need to know Antiro isnothingcompared to Luke, that Luke is ten steps ahead and safer than they give him credit for. But we have to believe in it ourselves before attempting to convince others.”
Nobody says anything. We know Rory’s right. But still, my hand squeezes the egg toy, praying for a sign from the universe, a flash of action to wipe away my worst fears.
Rory glances between us, still looking concerned. “You’re very quiet tonight,” he observes, sounding downhearted. “Perhaps we should discuss something else.” He pauses, letting the silence grow heavier. “Or not discuss at all…?”
My eyes flick to Rory, intrigued, but Finlay mutters, “I’m no’ feelin’ particularly turned on after… everythin’. Nae offense. It’s been a shit day.”
“Chin up,” Rory murmurs easily, and he draws out his phone again. “It might have been a shit day, my friend, but you created some grade-A gold.” He places his phone in the center of the table and plays the clip of Finlay with Arabella, the volume muted.
We watch Arabella grow comically apoplectic, her face red and her arms spinning like windmills. Finlay wrinkles his nose. “Is that whit my hair looks like?” he asks, unnerved, his fingers lightly touching a sticking-out tuft on the side of his head.
