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I roll my eyes. That’s us ruled out, then.
Whatever.
* * *
Dr. Moncrieff’s politics classroom is not usually a place I consider a haven, but I find myself breathing a sigh of relief when entering. We have a place, a space, just for us, and in this restrictive old castle, that’s huge. It means we don’t have to dodge curfew-patrolling teachers or wake up at two in the morning just to meet in our pajamas. We can just exist, belonging somewhere, even if that somewhere has been gifted to us by the most morally gray man I know.
The other chiefs are already inside the classroom. The blind is rolled down the window pane to hide the activity beyond, and Danny and Rory have brought candles with them so the main light source won’t have to be used. It’s not quite our usual round table, where we exist as equals in our thoughts, but there are desks and places to sit. A mix of newspapers cover several surfaces and Finlay’s hunched over one of them, nose almost touching the paper as he pores over minuscule text. As I sit down at an adjacent desk, I hear him give a weary sigh and snap, “Fuck this.” He hunts inside his bag and pulls out a case, removing from it a pair of glasses, which he shoves angrily onto his face.
Finlay doesn’t quite meet our blank stares but he mutters, “Cannae read a fuckin’ thing these days. My eyesight’s gettin’worse.” He finally looks at us in turn through his glasses. “Go on, each o’ ye. Get it oot yer system. Speccy four-eyes, ha ha ha.”
With a roll of his own silver eyes, Rory murmurs, “So fucking dramatic. It’s a pair of glasses, you tit.”
When I’d first seen Finlay wear glasses, he’d been painstakingly plucking little pieces of glass out of Benji’s bleeding hand. Funny how times change. It had been a big deal for him to wear glasses in front of me then, so for him to do it in front of all three of us — well, I suppose we ought to be honored or something.
“You look good,” I say simply, trying not to pathologize it any more than Finlay already has. Finlay shoots me a grateful smile, green eyes shining like large jewels through the lenses. “So — careers fair? Burns Night? That’s our big exciting news?”
“Yawn,” Rory mutters, arms stretching overhead as though already in the middle of one. That’s when I see the fresh red marks along his hands and wrist. He catches me staring and says, with a disturbed half-smile as he inspects the damage, “Spoke up in class. They didn’t like what I said.”
“I got one, too,” Danny adds quietly, pushing up his sleeves. “I don’t even know what I did. It was like it was my turn or something. Just hauled me out for…nothing.”
I examine the fading, pastel pink marks sliced across my wrists, and count my blessings. No one’s come after me since the first snap of the belt. “I’m sorry,” I tell them, but Rory shakes his head.
“Hardly your fault.” But nevertheless, I take both their hands in mine and lift their wrists to my lips. I kiss their striped, tender skin, holding both palms in front of me, and kiss my way down each, softly lapping at their pulse points.
“I, uh, Ialsogot the belt,” Finlay says cagily as he watches me, clearing his throat but hiding his wrists. I smirk at him, opportunist that he is. “Look, I’m gonnae be leavin’ Lochkelvin soon, so ye better be willin’ tae pull oot a’ the stops then, sassenach.”
“You won’t be stepping one foot out of this castle,” Rory growls. “They can take a running jump.”
Finlay smiles slightly. “Ye could hold me hostage, like ye did wi’ Benji. Make me dae things against my will. My poor wee innocent virgin self, held captive by my brutal English oppressor.”
“The fuck are you on about?” Rory asks. “Just shut up and read your paper.”
“Aye, sir,” Finlay says, looking quite pleased to be chastened by Rory.
The split between us is driving us all slightly mad. At least we have here. It’s new, and although it feels like we’re waiting for class to start, for Moncrieff to stride through the door and lecture us on the impact of devolution, it’s somewhere.
When nobody speaks, I ask the customary question: “Has there been any news?”
Finlay tilts his head to the side, considering. “Loads mair shite opinions on Luke’s speech.” He flicks through the broadsheet he’s currently reading and tugs out a relevant page. “This one’s the real creme de la crème o’ shitegasmic opinion.”
I skim-read it, feeling like some random opinion columnist’s thoughts probably don’t deserve to take up prime space in my already-stuffed brain. And although I’m correct, I find I still have to slow down my inspection of it and end up reading one passage aloud just to make sense of its absurdity:
In this unprecedented speech by the phony man demanding to be called king, the true sinister nature of his words becomes apparent. From the safety of an anonymous room, likely far removed from our frontline fighters against fascism, he boldly proclaims that ANY act of violence is automatically attributed to Antiro. Can you believe it? This disgraced ex-prince, comfortably perched on his grand public platform, essentially declares that Antiro should bear the blame for any violent act in our country. It’s utterly absurd, the ravings of a madman. While a superficial listen to his speech might not immediately reveal this truth, that’s the cunning beauty of meticulously crafted, multi-layered rhetoric. His intention is clear: to demonize Antiro and anyone who dares defy the fallen House of M—. It’s nothing short of his fascistic masterplan.
I’m frowning down at the paper. “Funny how they give no actual examples of this in Luke’s speech.”
“It’s because Luke’s so manipulative, duh,” Finlay says easily, turning a page. “His strategy is taeno’criticize Antiro so that it looks like heisnaecriticizin’ Antiro. Whit a bastard.”
“Pacifists,” I note, voice spiked with sarcasm. “They know what they’re playing at. The most violent of the lot.”
Danny scratches his head. “So,” he begins slowly, trying to piece together what I just read. “When someone you don’t like says something, it means the exact opposite… and it also coincidentally means whatever makes you look the most victimized?” He shakes his head, bewildered. “They sound petrified of their own shadow.”
“They aren’t. They’re lying.” Rory’s voice is blunt. “Liars lie and lie, because optics are more important than the truth.” Rory glances up at me. “Which Antiro moron wrote that?”
I shake my head. “Not Antiro. The head of… Crownery?”
Rory snorts. “Ah,Clownery. Basically Antiro. Another anti-royalist lobby group pretending to be a charity. They’re popping up like Hydra because these things are making money now and every grifter wants a slice of the pie.”
