Daniel stretched out in one of the armchairs and Justin lay on the sofa, and Rafe and Abby and I ended up sprawled on the floor because chairs felt too complicated. Abby had been right, the punch was lethal: lovely, tricky stuff that went down easy as fresh orange juice and then turned into a sweet wild lightness spreading like helium through every limb. I knew it would be a whole different story if I tried to do anything stupid, like stand up. I could hear Frank somewhere in the back of my head nagging about control, like one of the nuns from school droning on about the demon drink, but I was so bloody sick of Frank and his smart-arsed little sound bites and of being in control all the time. “More,” I demanded, nudging Justin with my foot and waving my glass at him.
I don’t remember big patches of that evening, not in detail. The second glass or maybe the third turned the whole night soft-edged and enchanted, something out of a dream. Somewhere in there I made some excuse to go up to my room and lock away my undercover paraphernalia-gun, phone, girdle-under the bed; someone turned off most of the lights, all that was left was one lamp and candles scattered around like stars. I remember an in-depth argument over who was the best James Bond, leading into an equally intense one over which of the three guys would make the best James Bond; a deeply crap attempt at some drinking game called “Fuzzy Duck” that Rafe had learned in boarding school and that ended when Justin snorted punch down his nose and had to rush out and sneeze booze into the sink; laughing so hard that my stomach hurt and I had to stick my fingers in my ears till I could get my breath back; Rafe’s arm flung out under Abby’s neck, my feet propped on Justin’s ankles, Abby reaching up a hand to take Daniel’s. It was as if none of the jagged edges had ever existed; it was close and warm and shining as that first week again, only better, a hundred times better, because this time I wasn’t on the alert and fighting to get my bearings and stay in place. This time I knew them all by heart, their rhythms, their quirks, their inflections, I knew how to fit in with every one; this time I belonged.
What I remember most is a conversation-just a tangent, off something else, I don’t know what-about Henry V. It didn’t seem important at the time, but afterwards, after everything was over, it came back to me.
“The man was a raving psycho,” Rafe said. He and I and Abby were lying on our backs on the floor again; he had his arm linked through mine. “All that heroic Shakespeare stuff was pure propaganda. Today Henry would be running a banana republic with serious border issues and a dodgy nuclear-weapons program.”
“I like Henry,” Daniel said through a cigarette. “A king like that is exactly what we need.”
“Monarchist warmonger,” said Abby, to the ceiling. “Come the revolution, you’re up against the wall.”
“Neither monarchy nor war has ever been the real problem,” said Daniel. “Every society has always had war, it’s intrinsic to humanity, and we’ve always had rulers-do you really see so much difference between a medieval king and a modern-day president or prime minister, except that the king was marginally more accessible to his subjects? The real problem comes when the two things, monarchy and war, become dislocated from each other. With Henry, there was no disconnect.”
“You’re babbling,” Justin said. He was trying, with difficulty, to drink his punch without sitting up and without spilling it down his front.
“You know what you need?” Abby told him. “A straw. A bendy one.”
“Yes!” said Justin, delighted. “I do need a bendy straw. Do we have any?”
“No,” said Abby, surprised, which for some reason sent me and Rafe into helpless, undignified giggles.
