7. Flesh Wounds #3
Westby lounges back against his bed cushions. ‘Adams doesn’t like to talk about it, and for good reason. You walk through the fire to prepare yourself for the rigours of Temple.’
‘The rigours of reading long books that don’t make any sense and studying contract law?’
‘Aha, so Adams has been buddying you, has he? Can’t have been Watson, she’d never be so friendly.
Anyway, no, not the rigours of texts, the rigours of being locked up with a bunch of megalomaniacs for seven years and then told by the board of governors you’re never ever to discuss it with anybody outside the fold for the rest of your life, on pain of .
. . well, pain of dire consequences. Perhaps they just use suppressed texts to muddle your memories, perhaps they send someone to garotte you in your sleep. I don’t intend to find out.’
‘But they wouldn’t really kill you.’
Westby finishes his tea, smiling archly.
‘You seem very attached to the innate goodness of man, Jones, and I hope a few weeks here will cure you of that affliction. There’s a lot on the line.
Fortunes. Careers. If Buck aims for my head next time, I doubt he’ll miss.
’ He puts down his cup, looking suddenly pleased.
‘It’s good having you, isn’t it? NDA signed, and truly no hope of escape.
I can say absolutely anything. It’s like talking to one of Mummy’s dogs. ’
Before Briar can respond to this, the door flies open and ricochets off the wall, and Hadley marches in. Her hair is scraped into a haphazard ponytail, and she appears to have coloured the chips in her nails in with black sharpie, purple stains on her cuticles where she scribbled outside the lines.
She spots Westby’s leg immediately. ‘It’s true, then? That bastard. I swear to God, I’m going to - oh.’ She gives Briar a once-over and then looks meaningfully at Westby.
‘Any violent intent can be declared in front of Jones. They won’t faint.’
‘I mean, what the fuck, West? What the fuck! He shot you with a gun.’
‘I know,’ says Westby. ‘I was there.’ The jollity is gone from his voice, and Briar looks at him properly, past the bluster. His eyes are quite bloodshot, pupils huge. His hands continue to shake.
Hadley’s voice lowers. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come. We had practice, nobody told me.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Oxy? I’ve got loads.’
‘They have me on codeine.’
‘Well, that’s something.’ Hadley sits down on Miller’s bed and starts furiously unmaking it at the corners. Briar feels like they’ve intruded somehow, even though they were here first.
‘Miller has a crush on her,’ Westby confides.
The word ‘crush’ sounds weird in his mouth.
Briar imagines it might feel the same as hearing Shakespeare say ‘vibes’.
‘I told him she’s unavailable, but still, he pines.
He’d sulk for a week if I messed with his bed, but when he finds out it was Watson, he’ll be happy as anything. ’
Hadley snorts. ‘No he won’t. He’ll go all red and say no girls in the dorms and then start furiously reorganising his thesauruses.’
‘Dictionaries,’ Westby and Briar say in unison.
‘Whatever,’ Hadley says, shooting Briar a wary look before turning to Westby. ‘The Prince is fine, apparently. I think it’s time for next steps, West.’
‘I was just going to ask if you thought we should lay low for a while,’ Westby says mildly.
Nothing about Hadley is mild. ‘Show me your leg.’
‘Can’t. It’s all tucked in for the night. It really was just a graze, Watson. He was only standing a few feet away from me, it was a very carefully calculated warning.’
‘I’m done with warnings.’
‘Oh, stop it,’ Westby says, his voice startlingly sharp. ‘I can’t take you seriously when you’re like this.’
Hadley narrows her eyes. ‘Well, maybe you should.’
For a beat, nobody speaks, and Briar thinks wildly about running for the door. There’s some old argument here, something that’s been simmering for years between them.
‘Buck. Wolfe,’ Hadley says. ‘Belcourt. Sokolov. The Prince.’
‘The Prince?’ Briar interjects.
‘Rudersberg’s not a real prince,’ says Westby, still snappish before he softens. ‘I mean, he sort of is. Descended from one of those German royal families that doesn’t actually exist any more. He’s rightly embarrassed by it all, but his dad still styles himself His Royal Highness, so there you go.’
Hadley ignores all of this. ‘Buck or Wolfe are the worst.’
Briar twitches. Westby, who’s been looking at nothing in particular, is suddenly very much looking at Briar.
‘Jones knows Wolfe,’ he says. ‘From outside.’
Hadley pauses, clutching a handful of bedding. ‘No. Wolfe?’
‘Not really,’ Briar says quickly. ‘We were kids. It’s been years.’
‘Still,’ says Westby. ‘Might come in handy.’
Briar crosses their arms. ‘Probably not.’
‘So yes, then?’ Hadley is looking at Westby.
‘I’m not really entertaining this.’
‘You will.’
They don’t explain any further, but all seems to be peaceful again between them. Westby offers to reboil the kettle, and Hadley nods, then silently starts dismantling Miller’s pillow so that she can put the case back on inside out.