Page 1 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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There are Degas paintings on the walls.

Girls with feather-soft tutus ghosting their thighs clutch at the sky with grasping hands. The broad ruffles of their skirts are a slapdash blur of cream-white paint, giving a sense of movement and fragility. An older male instructor stands impassive in the background, his drab brown suit adding a touch of darkness to the scene as he surveys the girls, observing them as though they were unfeeling mechanical ballerinas atop jewelry boxes instead of real human beings.

I can’t tell if they’re real Degas paintings, but in Lochkelvin manor I wouldn’t be surprised.

The Lochkelvin estate is sheer luxury. Everywhere I explore — and I’ve done alotof exploring so far — there’s some beautiful work of art gracing an otherwise dark and dismal corner. Silver broadswords line the varnished wooden walls alongside paintings, with antique firearms and gleaming-eyed stag heads dotting rooms devoid of life intermittently.

When I reach up to stroke the muzzle of one poor stag, thick clumps of dust fall from my fingers.

The manor is unloved. Velvet drapes conceal most of the daylight, as though Oscar Munro were a vampire allergic to the sun. The only place with any brightness is, fittingly, the sunroom. A bright and airy room, it’s the one cheerful space in the entire manor. Lush evergreen plants bloom from giant, fat flowerpots and bright green vines wind through the ceiling beams and wall trellises as though in a bid to become one with the greenery beyond the manor.

It’s my reading spot, the place I go to curl up and try to forget my surroundings for a necessary moment. It’s like reading inside a jungle.

I come here often. Because there’s a lot I want to forget right now: where I am, what I’ve done, the things I’ve seen.

If small acts have big consequences, then what kind of consequences do big acts have?

I’ve deliberately helped incite a war.

Even though I’m ensconced in luxury, in peace, war is coming. I know it is. I sense it. This scorching, shouting world is lurching toward boiling point and I’ve helped stoked the fire, fanned the flames, all because I was stupid enough to be the messenger of a boy to whom I couldn’t say no.

Benjamin Moncrieff is a smooth-talking, charming bastard with religious fervor shining in his amber eyes.

What have I done?

“Get your things.”

I glance up, unseeingly, from my book.

With the number of empty rooms in Lochkelvin manor, it’s a surprise every time Rory’s blond head ventures into one of them. He peers around the bamboo sunroom door, his gray eyes as bleak as billowing clouds. There’s the pad of excited paws beside him as Captain Porthos scurries into the sunlight, the whip of a long tail energetically beating the air. And then, after his brusquely articulated order, Rory leaves.

He expects me to follow him like the dog by his feet.

He knows I will, no matter how stubbornly I wait to do so.

Aside from the staff — all of whom have been kind, bordering on pitying, toward me — only Rory and I reside in Lochkelvin manor. I’ve been here three days, breakfasting on huge banquets and dining on extraordinary creations that resemble art more than food. Chefs here do things with vegetables that I’ve never tasted before, spreading them out into delicate rainbow fans and drizzling them in all sorts of delicious sweet and spiced sauces. And the breakfasts? Yeah, no wonder a black market had sprung up around Lochkelvin’s banned continental breakfasts.

The incredible food never ends and the conversation rarely begins. I don’t know what Rory’s up to but he’s absent much of the time. I never see him at breakfast. For the most part, when Rory deigns to turn up, we sit in silence at each end of the long wooden banquet table. He observes me, as though I’m in any way observable, or perhaps my fish-out-of-waterness is just too entertaining for him.

On a day spent entirely on my own, I turned eighteen and read books about how shit men are. He’s given me space to explore the manor, and maybe his standoffishness is a deliberate ploy to make me settle here better. But I don’t want to be here — I do and I don’t, because the manor is too big and I should have said no.

I should have said no to him.

And I did. I did many times. I did, coming up the driveway to this massive estate. Being chauffeur-driven in a big black car past the tall wrought-iron gates and past acres and acres of grazing land. And then, when it drew into view, the sheer bulk and sad, ancient beauty of the Lochkelvin manor hit me squarely in my chest and took away my breath.

The guilt is unbearable. I should be in my own home, back in crazy old Florida with its baking heat and unflinchingly proud weirdos. I shouldn’t behereon a whim, in the home of a boy who wants to mold me, train me, into his political doppelganger.

But then the intrigue of actually seeing Rory’s home, the place where he plays and grows each summer away from that cold, barren, stone school… My curiosity is more powerful than my desire to return home has ever been.

I pick myself up from the palm tree-patterned wicker sun lounger and brush myself down. I’ve been given new clothes made from freshly pressed lightweight fabrics. The buttercup-yellow sundress I’m currently wearing feels tailor-made and luxurious against my skin.

I don’t know who I am anymore but I’ve a feeling the answer might beRory’s.

There’s a loud yip from Captain Porthos further down the main hall, which I follow grudgingly. The closer I get to him, the more frequent and happier his barks. He’s a sweet, wiry-haired hound, always up for a soothing belly rub, but he’s also almost as large as a horse with sharp, nipping teeth.

“Where are we going?” My voice reverberates down the hall, bouncing over nimble metallic figurines and vast porcelain vases.

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