Page 90 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

There’s a long moment of silence that, for a while, I don’t expect Luke to answer. But eventually he says in a hollow tone, “That is not an apology.” He gives an ugly, twisted kind of smile to the screen, his eyes glued to the footage of his family. “At least you primed me with a warning that this would occur after you decided to write me out of existence.”

I meet Danny’s awestruck gaze and jerk my head over at him to follow me out of the room. He does so, his hazel-brown eyes wide as he closes the door behind him.

For a moment, he says nothing. But then, through a deliberately quiet voice, Danny hisses, “What – the –hell –is – happening?” His eyes are so round with shock. In a panicked voice, he continues, “Do you know how awkward it’s been, spending the afternoon watching the news with someone who’son the news? And it’s notgood news? Oh my God, Jessa, I need out of this madhouse. What the hell’s going on?”

So I tell him. I explain the research, the dossier. I explain Oscar Munro and Benji. I tell him the truth, that Luke isn’t a prince, that he isn’t royal. That Finlay stabbed him in the back by writing a dossier of passionate, intense words. By the time I finish, Danny’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“You’re telling me the chiefs collaborated to get Luke off the throne? WithBenji?” He raises his eyebrows in astonishment. “How the hell are they even talking to each other? How has Luke not gone on the rampage?”

I shrug, helpless. “Because it’s the truth. He can’t claim otherwise. It’s just one long drawn-out lie his family’s forced him to keep hidden all his life.”

“I can’t believe this,” Danny mutters, trying to make his voice as low as possible. “I’m in the same room as thecrownprince, watching him being thrown out of power. Do we even have a monarchy anymore?!”

“I don’t know,” I answer, biting my lip. “It seems like the world’s in chaos.”

As dramatic as this statement is, I’m not wrong. When I re-enter the living room, I’m rooted to the spot by the face blooming across the screen.

Dominating every pixel is a face I’ve seen in my dreams and in my nightmares. Sand-colored hair falls into his forehead, which he shakes away dismissively. A black skull-and-crossbones mask covers the lower half of his face but it doesn’t matter because I’d recognize the fiery amber eyes glinting above them anywhere.

“We are Antiro! We will never let these phony royal—” Here there is a beep, disguising whatever insult Benji’s used that’s too hot for TV, “—back down! There are more of us than there are them. So if they’re not gonna behave and abdicate nicely, then we’ll crank up the pressure. How about we storm the palace?!”

An impassioned cheer rings around whatever anonymous city square Benji’s currently in. Benji glances around, and his gaze settles on the camera recording him. Even with the mask covering his mouth, I can tell he’s smirking. He’s absolutely loving this.

“This country needs to wake up! When’s the last time the public protested on a mass scale like this? This is democracy in action! We’ve been sleepwalking into the abyss, being ruled by unelected elites. No more!”

“No more!” the others cry.

“Today, every household in the country received our report. We’ve leaked this information on good authority. The Royal family is – a –lie. So now it’s time for our own revolution!” There are more cheers, even some smaller chants of – oddly –Jamie, Jamie, Jamie. “The French managed theirs, and they usedguillotines. It’s time for the Royals to go! Chop-chop, motherfuc—” Again, there’s an extended beep, though not early enough that we don’t get the overall picture.

“We are Antiro — the people’s revolution! My name is Jamie Crieff, and I say we dethrone the Royals!” His eyes are firmly secure on the camera, and it’s as though he’s staring straight at us. Others join in the chant. “Dethrone the Royals! Dethrone the Royals!”

He raises his right fist into the air, a gesture the assembled protesters copy en masse. And I stare in horror. Because around Benji’s wrist is my ribbon, the red ribbon I gave him the night of the dance. “Join us! If you’re anti-royal, then Antiro needs you!”

Luke, as though he’s had enough, presses the button on the remote control that switches off the TV. His head lies planted against his sprawled fingers.

Our reflections appear hazily in the black rectangle, a cluster of statue-still vague humanoid shapes.

“Whit the fuck? Put it back on,” Finlay says, looking aghast, though he’s already checking his phone, his thumbs furiously scrolling the screen.

“No,” Luke says simply, and he stands.

Apart from Finlay speed-reading the latest news updates, none of us do anything. It’s as though Luke is a bomb, about to detonate somewhere close by, and we can’t make any noise to distress him. He drifts between us, heading for the fridge, where he pours himself a tall glass of orange juice. It’s such a strange, human gesture from someone whose life has been shaped by people pouring and probably hand-squeezing oranges for him.

When he finishes the glass, he then takes the entire carton of orange juice and lifts it to his mouth. He drinks from it heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing in slow, hypnotic pulses, until the entire carton is drained.

Luke wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then, meeting my awed gaze, shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“Government’s issued a curfew in England,” Finlay says, catching none of this interplay, his eyes rapidly scanning his phone. “Naebody oot after ten.”

Luke laughs bitterly. “Cute little two-timers.” When Rory glances sharply at him, Luke laughs again. “What? This isallOscar Munro. Your father has courted a bloodthirsty mob via the idiot now calling himselfJamie Crieff. Is my family that much of a threat to him?”

It’s impressive how Rory’s able to keep his emotions in check. He says nothing, watching Luke carefully. It’s one of the clearest indications I have that Rory’s loyalty to his father is waning.

Luke massages his temples, his dark eyes containing a kind of stunned blankness. “Your father acted so softly-softlyon the monarchy until he found the perfect person to exploit and deliver the killer blow. And now listen to him. It is not even about pruning back the tree, the section that offends him so. It is about uprooting the entire structure.”

“The polis are patrollin’ every city,” Finlay notes, “and if there’s any sign o’ trouble, the protesters’ll be arrested. The folk startin’ fights are agitators.”

“Can they rightfully be called agitators if the whole protest is full of them?” Luke asks in a waspish tone. “If they are rolling out the red carpet for the police, then clearly big money is backing this farce.”

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