Page 32 of Bad Winners (Lochkelvin Academy)

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In the low lamplight, he’s cast half in shadow, but there’s no mistaking the glinting, shoulder-length hair of Dr. Moncrieff. I sit up in an instant, too aware that it’s only me guarding Luke until Finlay arrives later in the night to take over.

Dr. Moncrieff closes the door quietly behind him, then stops in the middle of the aisle when he notices me.

“What are you doing here?” he asks in surprise, his tone almost friendly, as though bumping into each other like this should be a pleasant occurrence.

“Protecting Luke from people like you,” I snarl. I don’t have a weapon, but there’s a pen in my hand and they say it’s mightier than the sword, so…

He glances down at the ex-prince, subdued for a moment. “I’m not here to harm him,” he says, and his gaze flicks across to the pen tightening between my fingers. “He’s a student here. Making any kind of political overture would be indecent of me.”

“And yet here you are, safe in the knowledge that someone else did it for you.” It hurts to look at him. Him, Baxter, Arabella. A trio of dangerousnumpties, as Fin would say. “This is what you want?” I gesture at Luke’s prone body, where he looks more mummy than man. “Thisis what you want?”

“Not that I need to justify myself,” Dr. Moncrieff says quietly, lifting a chair to Luke’s other side, “but I have never wished harm upon any student here. Never. It’s the truth I’m interested in.” He studies Luke’s sleeping face — peaceful, beautiful, content. It makes me bristle, like I should shield Luke from view. His vulnerability is a gift that others don’t deserve to see. “What happened today was an unfortunate accident—”

“Unfortunate he survived, yeah?”

Dr. Moncrieff shakes his head in sad exasperation. “You’ve gone too far to the other side now,” he says solemnly. “You don’t trust anything else anymore, not even reason — I can see it plainly, you and those so-called chiefs. All of you against the world, or so it seems. Must be an attractive prospect for a teen, for outsiders.” He meets my gaze, full of academic curiosity, as though I’m nothing but a complicated passage in a book. “Why is that? Guilt?”

“Luke’s my friend,” I tell him in a tone of ice. “Perhaps you should ask yourself why you project guilt onto others where there is none.”

Dr. Moncrieff almost laughs, his head tilted as though to saywell played. “Today was an accident. That’s my belief. But you will never be convinced of anything other than conspiracy.”

“Why should we? We’ve been right all along.”

“I suppose Harry Wells’ son being the one to throw the hammer only provides you with more ammunition,” he muses. “As opposed to the idea that Callum Wells can’t throw for toffee.”

We’re silent for a moment. Forget physics. There’s no chance of me doing any homework with Dr. Moncrieff daring to skulk around the medical wing. “So whyareyou here then? Unless it’s to act superior around Luke and anyone who chooses to be his friend?”

“I wanted to see,” Dr. Moncrieff murmurs. “The nurse estimated a few weeks for recovery.” He pauses and adds, “No doubt he’d rather have the royal medic than a school nurse, however.”

I shake my head. “You always give yourself away. Tell me you hate Luke without saying you hate him.”

Dr. Moncrieff scoffs. “I don’t hate him — he’s aboy. But everything he stands for? You know my opinions well enough by now.”

“And Ishouldn’t,” I snap. “You should be neutral! And if you’re incapable of that, then you shouldn’t have been a damn teacher!”

Dr. Moncrieff says nothing. I’m not even sure he’s listening. Whatever. I’ve said my piece, and honestly, I can’t stand the sight of him. He looks so much like Benji that it hurts — and yeah, so maybe that’s a factor that affects things, spiking my anger whenever I see Dr. Moncrieff’s tired face. I know he’s not his brother, but in some ways Dr. Moncrieff is an even slipperier character. Says one thing, does another, and claims it’s for the greater good.

At least with Benji, you know what you get.

Flirting. A devil-may-care grin. The optimism of youth. The kind of instinctive knowledge, a magnetic pull, that whispered he was always going to be famous.

“Some things are too important not to speak out on but I see we’re never going to agree.” Dr. Moncrieff stands, casting one last glance at Luke.

“Why do we need to agree on anything at all? Why are you so desperate for me to give you validation?Thatsounds like a guilty conscience to me. You want forgiveness and repentance for being a—”

“Because you’re smart, Jessa,” Dr. Moncrieff states quietly, stunning me into silence. “You’re passionate. And you’re wasting your brains and passion on what I perceive to be the wrong side.” He slides his hands casually into the pockets of his tweed suit. “It would also be nice not to be judged quite so harshly for standing up for my beliefs, but I know we’ll never see eye to eye on this topic.”

“Luke isn’t atopic,” I inform him spitefully. “He’s myfriend.” Under the circumstances, it’s the only thing I can say, like an automatic reflex to protect Luke at all costs, because I’m so taken aback by Dr. Moncrieff’s compliments. Dr. Moncrieff gives me a small nod, like he knows he’s never going to change my mind, and strolls out of the medical wing.

Despite his kind words, my blood is boiling as he leaves, my face red-hot. How dare he. Howdarehe. It’s sick of him to arrive here while Luke’s injured in front of him, a sacrifice he no doubt approves of. A sacrifice he probably caused in some way, and I don’t care how wild and irrational that is, I’m convinced somewhere deep inside the castle, he’s gloating about the results of this afternoon with Arabella adoringly curled up beside him.

I want to puke.

My bright, shimmering rage must still be on full display when Finlay arrives, because he takes an automatic step backward when I meet his gaze sharply.

“You okay?” he asks warily, hauling his satchel over his shoulder. “Whit’s up?”

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