Page 164 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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Light falls across the bed in long, stretched-out rectangles, forcing me to screw my eyes shut. In the same instant, I abruptly realize I have the hangover of the century.

Every part of me pounds — the tightness at the front of my head, the blackness of the backs of my eyes, the sluggish blood in my veins. I give a soft, weak cry that gets stuck in my too-dry throat. I feel bludgeoned, bruised, tender in the most inexplicable places. Opening my eyes takes effort because sunlight hits them a certain way and they’re as sticky as glue. When I finally manage it, I have to suppress a gasp from my tight-lipped, fuzzy mouth.

So it hadn’t been a dream…

I’m surrounded by them. Rory, Danny, Finlay, Luke. I’m embedded in the center on this huge, pillow-filled bed, clutched possessively between Finlay and Rory. Danny’s head has rolled on top of Rory’s shoulder, and he snores lightly into his ear, strands of Rory’s hair shivering beneath his warm breath. Luke, on the other hand, is bright awake beside Finlay and staring into his phone.

Luke notices me stirring and smiles. “Morning.”

I lick my lips, not trusting myself to speak, imagining the giant, ungainly croak my voice has become during passed-out sleep. Compared to Luke, who is as relaxed and happy as I’ve ever known him, I feel as stretched and distorted as the sunlight from the square windows.

His fingers scroll idly across his phone. He looks light, free. The more I watch him, the more I envy him: clear-headed and calm, he’d barely drunk anything last night and hadn’t given in to Finlay’s mad pill-popping venture.

But then, last night had been electric. I don’t know how much of it had been the alcohol, the pills or just the fact of having sex in a luxury hotel suite with everyone I’ve ever wanted, but I find I don’t regret anything, no matter how hard my head thrums and whines like a broken lawnmower.

In contrast, the room is hushed with sleep.

Luke returns his phone to the nightstand, sinking into the bed so that we’re eye-level above Finlay’s curved neck. I realize then that Luke’s joy isn’t just about last night. There’s more to it, a kind of glittering, secret excitement.

“You released it,” I mumble, surprised by his positive mood. “You released the speech.”

He’s abdicated.

Luke says nothing but his smile widens.

“You’re happy?” I ask carefully.

Here, his expression turns wistful. “I’m not certain if ‘happy’ is the correct word. ‘Unburdened,’ perhaps? You showed me last night that I don’t need a country to feel like I belong to something important, something vital.” His deep brown eyes absorb me, taking in every inch of my face. “I’d give up my throne for you. In fact, I believe I just did.”

Something sharp catches in my throat. “You didn’t tell the others.”

“They didn’t tell me they’d be bringing down my family,” Luke responds, but there’s no malice in his words. “We’re even now. It’s done. I can attend Lochkelvin without being punished. No one has cause to attack me or my loved ones anymore. I’ve done all that I can.”

Luke’s low voice is extremely calm. It should be comforting, but all I can think is how sad and anti-climactic it is that centuries of rulership has ended like this: with the video of a speech posted from a phone in a hotel room in Edinburgh. Is this how history will be acknowledged, or will it be embellished, glamorized by academics who will never once step foot in this suite?

“What if you change your mind?” I ask, worried about the possibility. Maybe Luke’s abdication has been too glib, too hasty, maybe it’s too much too soon…

He shoots me a humorless smile. “Princes don’t have the liberty to frivolously change their minds,” he declares with great resolve. “They stick to a decision and let it play out. That’s what I’m doing now.” He reaches out for a pillow, sliding it beneath his cheek. “It’s funny… This time last year, no one cared this much about the Royal family. Anti-royalists were a fringe cause. We were able to live our lives in peace, to get on with things. When my father died, the referendum had been ceremonial, a barometer of the people, and even then very few had turned out to vote.” He pauses, staring at the glinting panes of glass. “It’s not ceremonial now.”

“Doesn’t it scare you?” I whisper, because a cause rising the way Antiro has terrifies me. “That people can suddenly feel so strongly about matters? About you?”

Luke is quiet for a moment. His fingers trace my face, looking touched by the worry in my voice.

“You are a sweet one,” he whispers. With a sigh, he closes his eyes. “The way I see it, in the olden days, there were witch hunts. Public square executions were a family day out. Modern outrage is an extension of that, and perhaps I should be thankful I get to endure its most neutered form. Not to say a lone Antiro hero won’t try to execute me in my sleep, but nowadays the majority of people want to live their lives in peace and comfort. The few that don’t will grab any excuse to go off the rails and give into animal bloodlust, and so they riot, they give into civil disobedience, and they hurt others because they can’t control their own suffering. But they’re the outsiders now.

“Life for everyone, from kings to the poorest, involves suffering of some kind — but not to the same extent as there used to be centuries ago. Most people aren’t carrying the same extremes of pain, and maybe there’s guilt there — guilt and resistance to being happy and content and free, because we’re all still burdened with a fight-or-flight response and expect all our joys to vanish through war or famine. In times of ease and plenty, a coddled populace has no true problems in their lives, and so new, softer ways to inflict suffering are induced, enemy demons and phantasms are invented where none exist, particularly internally, mentally.

“This is why I love history,” Luke adds enthusiastically, opening his eyes as he plumps up the pillow beneath his head, “because we can study how far we’ve come and occasionally discover instances where we’ve regressed, been led astray. The important lessons and life experiences we’ve lost along the way.”

In my sleepy, head-aching state, I can’t decide if this is a narrow perspective or not, but it’s surprisingly philosophical from a prince who’s just renounced all his titles.

“You were exquisite last night, by the way,” Luke murmurs, settling his cheek against the newly puffed-up pillow. My face turns pink the longer he looks at me, as memories of last night flood my broken, fighting brain: of mouths and tongues, long cocks and my hot wet cunt. “If not having the throne means having time with you instead, then — I may be mad in the eyes of my mother — but I’ll gladly take it.”

My heart gives a slow slam against my rib cage.

“You’ll be coming with us, then, to Lochkelvin.” I remember dimly that there’s to be a cross-country drive. Hours in a stifling car with the others, big wheels trundling along highways and eking an escape through rural roads. My stomach flips queasily at the thought.

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