Page 23 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

This goes all the way to the top.

I walk through the expansive room, quietly examining ornaments that I come to realize are intricate works of taxidermy. Small, stuffed birds, their iridescent plumage shining like spilled oil. A large Scottish wildcat is positioned behind them, stuck mid-prowl, never able to catch the birds. It’s a beautiful animal, stocky yet lithe, striped like a tiger with snarling, lion fangs and thick whiskers thrust out like needles.

“One of my favorites,” he notes, watching me idly from his chair. “I’ve named her Caitrìona after the esteemed First Minister. Stuffing her has been most satisfying. One way to stop her from talking, at least.”

It’s such a casual handwave of hate that it takes me aback. It makes me wonder if Finlay knows his beloved party leader is being mocked so cruelly by his political enemy.

I study everything in the room with fascination, mainly because watching dead things is so much easier than being close to the very alive Oscar Munro. Captain Porthos, meanwhile, is curled in a comfortable snoozing semi-circle between his master’s feet and the roaring fire.

Oscar Munro rubs his dog’s side, his eyes never once leaving me. I get the impression my nosiness is a source of irritation for him, but I don’t know if I can face him yet.

“You’re incredibly curious for a girl.”

I can’t resist this supposed jibe. “Are girls not curious?”

“Not in my experience, no. They sit and do as they’re told, and very good at it they are too.”

I bite my tongue. I don’t exactly know what girls Oscar Munro’s been hanging out with, but the description of them is not one I identify with.Unless, a wicked voice whispers to me,I’m with Rory, and then I’ll obey him to the ends of the earth.

Feeling like I can no longer draw out my interest in his grotesque art collection any longer, I approach the man and sit in the opposing chair. It’s hard-backed and designed for a man, uncomfortable and stiff for a girl almost half the size. Oscar Munro appears not to notice, pouring a dram of whisky for himself and inquiring belatedly if I’d like some, too.

I decline and concentrate on Captain Porthos, who’s lounging beside his master’s slippered feet by the fire. Now more cat than hound, his paws are splayed out at various angles as he enjoys the ruby flicker of heat on his round belly.

“Better,” he says approvingly, noticing me seated and lifting a diamond-ridged glass to his lips. “It’s difficult to focus with you sauntering around my house as though you own the place.” He drinks as though savoring it, his eyes drifting closed for a moment. “Lagavulin,” he adds, as though my curiosity extends to his whisky selection. “Allegedly whisky possesses sleeping properties. If it does, they are quite weak to my insomnia.”

“You have insomnia?”

“It comes and goes. Currently, it has very much arrived.” He drinks again and then asks, “And you? Is it insomnia you battle?”

I hesitate before speaking, because really, how much of my soul do I want to offer Oscar Munro? I expected to be shooed away by him, not studied and cross-examined in his private rooms.

“I haven’t really slept properly since… since my dad passed.” I don’t know why I tell him this. To become stronger? To battle my fears? Because every time I voice it out loud, every time I give those words power and meaning in the world outside my head, I expect there to be a lessening, a weakening, of the bonds that control the lump in my throat, in the shock of tears behind my eyes. But no. I realize now that it never fades. It never weakens. If anything, saying it over and over to the adults who’ve cared enough to ask has only made the words that little bit more brittle, that little bit harder to say pain-free.

Oscar Munro drops his glass to the table with a dull clink. “My condolences,” he says, eyeing me with a raw fascination that I don’t understand or expect.

It’s strange. He needs, above all else, a distraction. I can sense it, the scrabbling in the back of his head, that this is the main reason he’s being so intent with me. I’m his distraction, something for his mind to play with, to puzzle over in his scant moments of off-duty serenity. This is a man who enjoys solving problems. And right now, with me in his house — that’s a puzzle all by itself.

“I confess I’m similar,” he murmurs, his gaze turning unseeingly to the roaring fire. There’s the pop of sparks shooting from the tips, the crackle of firewood burning beneath. “My wife… I don’t recall having a good night’s sleep since.”

We sit in silence, clouded by grief. It’s one sentence, not even a whole one, but it’s laced with so much stunned and bitter pain. It forces me into the realization that his expose inTattle, the one I’d doubted the truth of behind the gloss of PR, had been sincere. His wife had been his heart, his rock. And without her, lacking her in his life, is a man who doesn’t know what to do with himself. A man, a widower, kept awake into the long, dark hours by grief and memories.

“What are you to my son?”

The question is asked casually, his voice mellowed by whisky, but it still throws me. Because really, what am I to Rory Munro? He’d told me once, with all the arrogance of his spoiled brat self, that he’d described me to his father ashis plaything. Was that the truth? How much does his father actually know about me? How much is he aware of my existence?

And what words can I possibly use to define the fucked-up relationship between me and his son?

Dancer.

Secret.

Plaything.

Victim.

Lover.

Perhaps my anxious silence is enough for Oscar Munro to uncover the truth. He gives his head a solemn shake. “He assured me he would stay the duration with the Zhihao girl. I was against bringing girls into Lochkelvin for this very reason,” he mutters, his eyes sliding closed. “I knew my son would be like me. I knew he would be unable to resist.”

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