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“We’re just reading the news,” I reply innocently. “Is that a problem?”
There’s no answer, as I knew there would be. The rustling of pages and the faint creaking of chairs remind us we aren’t completely alone.
“I’m interested in your opinion after what’s happened.”
“Miss Weir, I’m your teacher. I’m not allowed to have opinions.”
Spoken like someone unaware we’re being taught in Hodgson’s classroom beside an elaborate shrine to the Antiro gods.
“You had them the other night.” I allow my voice to grow louder. “Nicola Miller, you said. You said she changed everything. So what n—?”
“Shhhh.” He shoots me a severe glance, his gaze darting around the library, and I roll my eyes. “I swear, joining the so-called chiefs was one of the worst things you could have done… and yet, somehow, also the best. You really are rather formidable these days.”
I don’t reply but inside I’m glowing.Formidable. It brings to mind Dr. Moncrieff’s shockingly generous reference of me, in the hours before leaving for the St. Camford open day.
“As you’re my student, I’m much more interested inyouropinion,” he eventually hedges, before instructing, “Quietly.”
Of course he’d play these games.
Dropping my voice, I say, “She’s a journalist sentenced for dissent. Jailed for what amounts to treason. The whole thing’s an absolute farce.” I try to picture Finlay, the sheer apoplectic rage he must have felt when reading the news. “A Scottish woman in an English jail. It isn’t right. Iknowyou know that.”
“Youbelieveyou know that,” Dr. Moncrieff amends, a frustrating pillar of impartiality. Perhaps he realizes how much he slipped up the other night and is now over-correcting by acting as detached as possible in his conduct. He stares blankly at books on multi-cellular organisms, as though hard science is something out of his wheelhouse entirely. “I will say, if the rumors are correct, then there are reasons why she’s been imprisoned in England.”
“Oh?”
“Allegedly… she’s been bargained away on political grounds.”
“Like what?”
He lets out a small, weary sigh. “Give up Nicola Miller, and Scotland’s allowed to hold an independence vote.”
At first, Dr. Moncrieff’s words don’t make any kind of sense to me. But then I stare up at him in astonishment. If what he’s suggesting is true, then this is… huge. “They’re prepared to risk the country breaking apart for one woman? Why?”
“Because it kills two birds with one stone. It instantly gets rid of Nicola Miller, who’s interfering in things they think she shouldn’t. And longer term, it allows an increasingly republican Scotland to fight among itself on matters unrelated to the new revolution.”
“So it’s a distraction.”
Dr. Moncrieff inclines his head. It’s the most he’s given away of himself all night. “As the phrase goes, beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” he murmurs, “or rather, Oscar Munro having a sudden change of heart.”
And still, despite it all, my stomach performs an unwanted flip at his name.
I shake my head, trying to focus.
A vote for independence on the back of an investigative journalist being jailed is as much of a Trojan horse as the attack on Lochkelvin designed to insert Benji into the castle.
As I glance up at Benji’s older brother, I sense the tension yanking like a chain at the many thoughts he could share. I wish the chain would snap. Dr. Moncrieff’s mind is more tied up than a nervous dog. It renders him tame, toothless.
“So what happens now?” I’m at a loss, and perhaps it’s my tone that makes him speak.
“Nicola Miller was sent to jail for asking questions,” Dr. Moncrieff murmurs through lips that barely open. “When anything other than fanatical support is considered dissent, then there’s only one inevitable conclusion.” He pauses, and then answers my questioning glance: “That nobody’s able to say a fucking thing.”
I swallow my shocked intake of breath. My mouth drops open. I gaze up at Dr. Moncrieff in astonishment. His face is frozen, determined, while his words are grim and serious, the bite onfuckinga burst of pure catharsis as it unveils every private belief beneath the impenetrable surface.
He’s woken up, I think to myself, joy thundering down my veins.
A sleeping giant, the brother of the king, and he’s finally wide awake.
* * *
