19. Drunk #2
Westby waves his hand. ‘Both. Monks who became saints. Big promotion. Corner office. Well, corner cell. They were anchorites, you know? Holed up with nothing else to do in about the thirteenth century. Made a deal with . . . God, or the universe, or whatever. Best way to write a Working, in a monastery. They were all doing it alongside each other, and then when one died, it didn’t matter, because there’d be someone else still living and breathing it to pick it up and get it over the finish line.
It’s a shame they don’t do that any more. ’
‘You’d be a fucking terrible anchorite,’ says Hadley. ‘If you’re alone for more than two hours you start chewing on the walls like a husky.’
‘I’d look darling with a tonsure,’ says Westby.
He really is very drunk. ‘Anyway, the Workings were all buried with them in their tombs or something, and then in the 1550s Lord Beauchamp wanted the land for his holdings and he dug them up. Pride of the Renaissance. Discovered he could read them, shared them with his friends, let the ones who understood the writing in on the secret. Originals are all in Latin, but we don’t read many of them, or at least not the ones that haven’t been translated.
Principles are the same, a sort of . . .
spiritual legalese, Procedural. It’s a deal, in exchange for something.
Follows basic legal frameworks. You know .
. . writ of covenant, action of assumpsit, quid pro quo, consideration.
The slightly newer texts tend to be the more useful ones, and they’re in English. ’
Briar has only followed about half of this. ‘Action of . . . what?’
Hadley gets up suddenly, slamming both hands on the table. ‘More wine.’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Westby. ‘Get some of that table swill. Something with a foot on the label, or a . . . blossom.’
‘They called last orders,’ Tate says, glancing over at the barman, who’s pointedly clearing up. ‘And we’re due back. Well past, actually.’
‘Oh, the barkeep won’t mind dipping back into the fridge for us. And once you’ve had a glass of foot blossom, you’ll forget all about the late demerit.’
It’s busy enough now that Briar has to clumsily shoulder their way through the crowd to get to the toilet. They spot some other young faces in the crowd, presumably scholars, and wonder exactly how loud Westby and the others have been talking. Too loud, probably.
They bounce off somebody’s elbow, apologise, make it to the sanctuary of the single accessible stall.
God, they’re drunk. So drunk that as they wash their hands, the stitched and bruised reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger.
Briar admires them. They look sturdy. Tough.
Even a little scary. Marlon Brando. James Dean.
They quirk their slightly split lip into a smile, and then, unbidden, think of Bastian.
Bastian, this close. Bastian, his gaze unwavering.
What had Briar looked like through his eyes last night during the fight? The shortening distance between them?
The kiss?
Goddamn Bastian. Why had he done it? Just to fuck with Briar?
Consider Briar’s head thoroughly fucked.
They’re furious with Bastian, furious with themself - because if Bastian is a cold, immoral shell of a person, the vacuum left behind once you’ve removed all semblance of empathy and capacity for mercy, what sort of person is Briar, that they’d kissed him?
Or, let him kiss them. Or grappled together, briefly and bloodily, with the accidental inclusion of lips and tongue.
It’s disgusting. Unless . . . unless Hadley is right, and Briar can find a way to use it for good. Last night could be the first step in a grand plan that unravels Mons, instead of a gross mistake of bodily physics.
Yes. Yes. Maybe it’s the wine, but with that reframing of the narrative, Briar feels better already.
Not weak-willed. Not harbouring affection for someone who no longer exists. Calculating. Smart. Heroic.
Upon their return, Tate is openly yawning into the palm of his hand, and Westby is trying to remember some old school chant, sung to the tune of a First World War marching song. Hadley is texting somebody furiously, her flying fingers at odds with the fact that she’s hiccupping-drunk.
‘Bed time,’ she says, when she’s done. Nobody argues. Westby neglects his stick in favour of walking arm-in-arm with Tate, and they spill out onto the lane without much regard to any potential oncoming traffic.
It’s not far back to Temple. The scant clouds have melted away revealing a sky feverishly bright with stars; the air is just warm enough to give everything a slight sense of the unreal, like somebody’s built a pitch-black lane and miles of fields inside a temperature-controlled sound stage for them to wander.
It’s really and truly silent once they’re away from the pub, just the occasional chirp of an insect or call of a bird, so Westby’s drunken mumbling and Tate’s low, soothing replies seem extra loud.
Briar is walking alone behind them, hands in their pockets, full of some unnameable, effervescent summer vim, when they turn around and realise Hadley is no longer bringing up the rear.
‘Hold on,’ they say, and Tate glances back, but neither of the other two actually stop. Briar’s eyes have adjusted to the starlight now, and they spot a stile nestled in the bushes. On the other side, endless wheat.
‘Hadley?’ Briar calls.
The tall stalks rustle in the wind, and Briar notices a tell tale phone glow from a little farther in. They hop the stile and discover a narrow corridor through the crops, wide enough to accomodate one Hadley. Briar finds her standing with her hands outstretched, unsteady on her feet.
‘It’s like washing your hands in grass,’ she says. ‘Kind of like scratchy water. But it tickles. It’s nice.’
‘Nice,’ Briar repeats.
She smiles, then wrinkles her nose. She looks like a bunny with a fringe. ‘I’m high. Fuck. This is embarrassing.’
‘It’s not embarrassing.’