Juniper just snorts in response.
What is it with her? I hate this about my sister. In everybody else’s opinion, we are identical. Though she is eleven months older than I am, we really could pass for twins. However, if you knew us, we would never get away with it, because Juniper gives herself away as soon as she opens her mouth. Like my granddad, she doesn’t know when to shut up.
“Did you know that Angelina Tinder was planning on travelling to kill her mother?” Bosco asks, leaning forward, elbows on the table, focussing on Juniper.
“Of course she didn’t know,” Mum says, her voice coming out as a whisper, and I know she’s only doing that because otherwise she would be shouting.
Juniper stares down at her untouched starter, and I silently beg her to keep quiet. This isn’t fun. A room full of people I love, and my heart is pounding as if something dangerous is happening.
“Will Angelina be branded?” I ask, still in shock that I could actually know a Flawed person, have one live right on this street.
“If found guilty on Naming Day, yes, she will be branded,” Bosco says. Then to Mum, “I’ll do everything to keep it out of the press for Bob’s sake, of course, which won’t be difficult, as the Jimmy Child case is taking over all the airwaves. Nobody cares about a Flawed piano teacher right now.”
Jimmy Child is a football hero who was caught cheating on his wife with her sister for the past ten years and faces a Flawed verdict, which would be disastrous, as it would mean he couldn’t travel overseas for matches. Among the many punishments the Flawed face, they must give up their passports.
“I’m sure Bob will appreciate your discretion,” Mum says, and it sounds so smooth and easy that I know she really feels awkward and stilted in her mind.
“I hope so,” Bosco says, nodding. “I certainly hope so.”
“Where will she be branded?” I ask, obsessed with this. I just can’t seem to wrap my head around it and can’t understand why nobody else is asking questions. Apart from Juniper, of course, but hers are more accusing than anything else.
“Celestine,” Mum says harshly, “I don’t think we need to discuss—”
“Her right hand,” Bosco says.
“Theft from society,” I say.
“Indeed. And every hand she goes to shake from now on will know just what she is.”
“If she’s found Flawed. Innocent until proved guilty,” Juniper says, like she’s reminding him.
But we all know Angelina Tinder has no chance. Everyone who goes through the Flawed court is found guilty; otherwise, they wouldn’t be taken in the first place. Unlike Juniper, I understand rules. There is a line, a moral one, and Angelina crossed it, but I just can’t believe that I could know someone who is Flawed, that I could sit in her house beside her at her piano, a piano she touched then I touched with my own fingers. I want to wash my hands immediately. I try to think back on our last conversation, all our conversations, to see if she showed any hint of a dent in her character. I wonder about her daughter, Colleen. Can I still talk to her at school? Probably best not to. But that doesn’t feel right, either. I’m conflicted.
“Where is Cutter?” Bosco suddenly says, looking at Mum angrily.
“He’s with B. I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” she says politely.
“That doesn’t look good,” he says. “He should be here.”
“I’m sure he’ll be—”
“I hope she can still play piano,” Juniper interrupts Mum, out of nowhere. “With her hand seared.”
“Do you feel sorry for her?” Bosco asks, his irritation rising.
“Of course she doesn’t,” Art pipes up, mouth full of food, knife and fork squeezed between his huge man hands and pointing up at the ceiling like he’s a caveman. He waves them around as he talks, food spraying off and flying on to the table. “We’re all just shocked, Dad, that’s all. I mean, come on, you could have given us a head’s up that our dinner guests were about to be taken away? When that siren went off, poor Celestine looked like she thought she was about to get carted away to the madhouse, which between me and you is where she belongs, but she doesn’t need to know that.”
He says it so easily, so fresh, so well judged that it seems to remind Bosco of where he is: in his neighbour’s dining room with his son, and not in his courtroom.
“Of course.” Bosco looks confused for a moment, and then he looks at Ewan, who has been remarkably quiet at the table. He reaches out a hand and pats my hand warmly. “Sorry, dear Celestine, I didn’t mean to scare you. Let’s start again, shall we?” He picks up his glass of red wine and holds it in the air with a beaming smile. “Happy Earth Day.”
When I hear that the quiet murmuring has ended in my parents’ bedroom, which lasted decidedly longer tonight than usual after the evening’s events, and the house has settled for the night, I make my way to the summit, where Art and I have been meeting most nights for the past three months.
I have spent more time with the Crevans over the past few months than with my own family, often wishing I could stay with them for good. I feel like I fit in with them more, that everything with them is logical and makes sense. I have always believed in the workings of the Guild. I am one of Bosco’s greatest supporters. I like to hear him regale people with stories of the courthouse over dinner, how he Ousted a charity board member for taking a golden payment pension package, or branded a celebrity who’d made millions from the sale of her fitness DVD but was discovered as having a secret tummy tuck. Every day, he has interesting stories coming through his courtroom, and I love sitting down and hearing about them. I understand what he is doing. He is preventing people from being deceived. I know the difference between right and wrong. I understand the rules. But today I feel that the rules have been blurred, because today they were literally on my front doorstep.
It is eleven pm. The summit overlooks the sleeping capital city. We live in a valley surrounded by mountains. Atop one of those mountains, Highland Castle dominates the city. Lit by powerful red uplighters at night, it watches over us menacingly. There since 1100 AD and once the seat of the High Kings, Highland Castle is a fortress. It stands above us all, the tallest round tower in the world, its powerful eye seeing far and wide. The scene of centuries of invasions and massacres, it now houses state conferences and dinners, guided tours of its architecture, museums of ancient artefacts, and, of course more famously now, the offices of the Guild.
We sit on the summit opposite the castle; to the left of us, the lights of more cities dot the night and stretch on for ever, the castle keeping its watchful eye on them all. To the right are farmland and industry, where my granddad lives. Humming is the largest and capital city of Highland, and it is rich in history and beauty. Tourists flock from all over the world to visit our city, our bridges, our fairytale castle and palace, our cobblestoned pathways and our ornate town square. Most of its buildings have survived the violence and destruction of the twentieth century, and it is a hub for appreciators of our Romanesque, Gothic and Renaissance-era architecture. Humming Bridge is one of the most famous bridges in the world. At thirty feet wide and over six hundred yards long and built in