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Finn stepped out of the car, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. The sky loomed overhead, a tapestry of gray threatening rain, as if nature itself shared in the crowd's tumultuous mood. He approached the perimeter where the protesters stood like an ancient army protecting their besieged fortress.
"Good morning," he called out, attempting diplomacy over the din of discontented voices. "I'm Finn Wright with the Home Office. I'm here to help sort this mess—"
"Help?" A voice cut through, sharp as a blade. An elderly woman, her hair a wild halo of white, jabbed a finger in his direction. "You lot are all the same! American money tearing at the fabric of our heritage!"
"Ma'am, I assure you—" Finn's words faltered as more voices joined the chorus of accusation. He hadn't reckoned that his accent would provoke such a reaction.
"Another Yank come to trample on history!" shouted a man with a face as red as the bricks of the castle behind him.
Finn's jaw tightened. He wasn't one for losing his cool, but ignorance bit at him harder than the chill in the air. His past was littered with debris from misconceptions; he didn't need more piled on here.
"Listen," he tried again, "I understand your concerns, really, I do—"
"Concerns?" The woman spat the word as if it were poison. "Our history isn't some concern—it's our soul!"
“But both of the Richmonds are dead,” Finn said. “Why protest like this?”
“Because no doubt the castle will still go to another outsider!” a shout rose. “And they need to know they won't get away with vandalizing King Arthur's resting place!”
“It should be in Cornish hands!” another yell went up, followed by some cheers.
Finn knew there was going to be no reasoning with them.
“We need through,” Amelia said loudly, seemingly losing patience. “Police business.”
“Hey!” another voice yelled from the crowd. “That's Harding in the back of that car!
Harding, clearly not thinking, or overestimating how much protection he had, stepped out of the car.
“Scum!” someone shouted.
“Traitor!” another in a barrage of insults.
"None of you have even got it right!" the broker bellowed above the hostility. "The castle was going to bring in tourists with its unique look. It was an art project!"
"Art? More like desecration!" The retort came fast and fierce, followed by a surge of collective fury that rippled through the crowd like a wave poised to crash.
“This is going to get out of hand,” Amelia said quietly to Finn. “We need to either find a way through or get Harding somewhere else.”
“I don't know,” Finn replied. “Kind of would be enjoyable to see what the locals do with Harding.”
“No time for jokes, Finn!” Amelia said, harshly. “If something happens to him under our watch, we'll be off the case for sure.”
“Our past! Our past!” a chant went up. Some of the crowd moved forward towards the car where Harding stood.
Suddenly, he didn't look so confident in his safety anymore.
Finn squared his shoulders, ready to intervene, when suddenly an egg arced through the air. It connected with the broker's suit with a satisfying splat, yolk dripping down the fine fabric like liquid gold.
"Damn it!" the broker exclaimed, wiping at the mess, face contorted not in humiliation but in anger.
Four constables now appeared from the door of the castle.
“Make way! Make way! They shouted, parting the crowd.
The crowd seemed satisfied by laughing at Harding's fine suit.
"Let's get inside before they change their minds!" Finn ordered, the situation spiraling beyond verbal spats, every second increasing the risk of someone getting hurt.
