Colin leapt back from the bed, every nerve snapping to attention. “What the fuck was that?”

“Sounded like glass breaking.” Andrew looked dazed, his pupils still dilated with desire. “Perhaps I left a wine glass near the edge of the table and—”

“It was bigger than that. Stay here.” Wincing as he fastened his trousers, Colin hurried out of the bedroom and down the hallway. He approached the reception room, sliding against the wall. The door was open, swaying slightly in the breeze.

The breeze? The windows had been shut, but now he could hear the sounds of the street outside. Pulse thudding in his ears, he crept into the reception room, where the only lights shone from the aquarium and above the sink. He switched on the side-table lamp.

“What is it?” Andrew said behind him, startling Colin and thereby stealing the last vestiges of his erection.

“I told you to stay in your room,” he snapped. “You’re barefoot.”

“Then toss me my shoes. They’re under the coffee table. Oh, and my shirt while you’re at it.”

Colin moved forward, then stopped when he spied the spray of glass glinting on the floor beside the television. The shards surrounded a small, dark, solid object. “Wait there.” He grabbed a cloth napkin from the coffee table and crouched down to examine the projectile.

It was a rock, a black basalt-looking slab the size of Colin’s fist. On one side someone had scrawled a single word in bright red paint:

FASCIST

Using the napkin, he picked up the rock and turned it over.

The other side read FAGGOT.

“Fuck’s sake,” he whispered.

“What’s wrong?” Andrew was beside the sofa now, pulling his shirt over his head. “Besides the obvious.”

“Erm…this.” Colin got up and showed him the rock, turning it over to reveal both surfaces. “I’m sorry.”

At the sight of the words, Andrew turned to stone. For a moment, his only movement was the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Then he drew in a single shaky breath and raised his eyes to the shattered window.

“Would you be so kind,” he said softly, “as to fix that for me? It’s just the one pane broken, so it shouldn’t be difficult to replace.”

“You want me to—” Colin wondered if he’d misheard. “Why would I fix it? And shouldn’t we be phoning the police?”

“There’s no need. Reggie will be ringing any moment. The silent alarm’s been triggered and the service has notified him.” Andrew’s voice was wooden. Colin couldn’t blame him for being in shock after such a violation.

“Maybe he can find the bastard who—”

“No.” Andrew kept staring at the window. “Reggie cannot know about this.”

Now Colin was definitely mishearing Andrew. “He’s your bodyguard. Isn’t it his job to protect you?”

“He’ll get the police involved.”

“Good.”

“Listen to me!” Andrew jolted out of his stupor and seized Colin’s shoulders. “If the police come, they’ll question you. Few people know my address. You’re the most recent.”

Colin’s stomach flipped over. “What?!” He jerked away from Andrew and brandished the rock. “You think I did this?”

“No! But others might.”

“Why would I call you a faggot?”

“To obfuscate your calling me a fascist.”

“But I was with you when it happened,” Colin said. “You can tell them that.”

“You could’ve shared my address with your comrades in the Yes campaign.”

Colin couldn’t believe his ears. “My comrades?”

Andrew winced. “I’m sorry, that was a poor choice of words. And I don’t believe you had anything to do with this. But given the threats I’ve had online from independence supporters, I know Reggie will suspect you simply because of your politics.”

Andrew’s phone rang.

“If I don’t answer right away with the password,” Andrew said, his eyes pleading, “the police will come even quicker. Now can. You. Help. Me?”

Colin looked at the window. It was only one pane, of a standard size. He’d never replaced one before—living on the fifteenth floor meant no one but Superman could chuck a rock through his window—but surely the folk at the hardware shop could instruct him, and there were always YouTube videos.

But why would Andrew want to hide his own death threat to protect Colin? It made no sense. And by covering it up, Colin could end up in more trouble than ever.

Andrew picked up his phone.

“Aye, I’ll do it,” Colin said, knowing he’d regret the impulse.

“Thank you,” Andrew whispered, then answered the call with one word. “Gretchen.” After a brief pause, he said, “Yes, it’s my own blasted fault. My mate and I were playing Halo on the Xbox, and he—well, long story, but anyway I threw my controller at his head. He ducked and it hit the window.”

Colin turned away from Andrew’s smoothly lying face and peered out onto the street, though he didn’t expect the stone thrower to still be there. All he saw was his own face reflected back at him.

Was it fear for Colin’s freedom that made Andrew want to cover up this crime? Or did he want to hide the fact he was with Colin to begin with?

No. Andrew had invited him to his family’s reeling party, so he wasn’t ashamed of him. Right?

Andrew’s not the enemy, he told himself as he lowered the blinds, shrouding the two of them from the eyes of the city. But someone out there is.

“Your brother wants you dead?”

“Not physiologically.” Andrew leaned back against the arm of the sofa, facing Colin. “Just metaphorically.”

Colin touched his pen to the yellow legal pad in his lap, wondering if he should add this entry to their list of rock-throwing suspects.

Andrew had collected loads of enemies in his twenty years of life. So far the roll included ditched lovers, jealous boyfriends and girlfriends of his conquests, his former bodyguard, and even a few pro football managers who would have kittens if the media found out Andrew had slept with one of their star players.

(Not Cristiano Ronaldo, though Andrew claimed to be the one who convinced the Ballon D’or-winning forward to frost his hair.)

“Shouldn’t it be the other way round?” Colin asked him. “Shouldn’t you want to bump off your brother so you can inherit the estate?”

“George’s sons are next in line, so even if I wanted Dad’s title—which I don’t—I’ll never have it.” Andrew sipped his glass of cognac, which shook almost imperceptibly. “Don’t put George on the list. I was kidding. Though he does hate me.”

“Because you’re gay?”

“Because our parents love me best,” Andrew said without a spot of irony.

“Parents always prefer the youngest. My sister Emma can do no wrong, the wee shit.” He smirked to show he was (mostly) joking, but under the circumstances, it was hard to laugh at anything. “So back to the rock. You said Reggie might think I had a friend do it, that he’d suspect me because of the abuse you get from Yessers online. If he’s right—not about me, but that someone’s after you because of your tweets—then why not just stop? Why put your safety at risk for the sake of venting your opinions?”

Andrew sniffed. “I can’t believe you of all people would ask that. John’s told me how the Warriors’ opponents and their fans call you all names, that sometimes they even threaten you. Why don’t you quit football?”

“Football and Twitter are not the same. Football, it’s what I am.”

“And Twitter is what I am, as pathetic as that sounds. I told you, I can’t live in fear.” Andrew shot a glance at the window and hunched his shoulders. “Anyway, I need to get used to abuse if I’m to run for office one day.”

So Andrew had ambitions beyond being King of Selfies. “You were serious, then, when you told me about wanting to be the first gay Prime Minister?”

“The Prime Minister bit was a joke—the Party would never elect an aristocrat as leader. It would reinforce the Tory toff stereotype.”

“Some stereotypes are true.”

“Yes.” Andrew sighed. “But I do plan to run for Scottish Parliament one day, and perhaps even the UK Parliament after that.”

For a flash of a moment, Colin wondered whether he would vote for Andrew. God, of course not. Being clever and charming doesn’t make him not wrong about, well, everything. “And your family’s cool with that?”

“They’re ecstatic. But some of them want me to jump into this referendum mess in an official capacity. Like appear with the Better Together campaign.”

Colin couldn’t help laughing. “Och, those wanks?”

“I agree with those wanks, obviously, but their messaging is so repellant. This whole Project Fear campaign—predicting the sky will fall in the event of independence—will end up backfiring. No one likes being told they can’t succeed.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Colin said. “That’s exactly what you were doing in our debate. Playing the fear card.”

Andrew blanched. “You’re right. I should do better. I need to stop talking Scotland down and start talking the Union up.”

“Hm.” Colin had met several people from the No campaign, and they all seemed to be of one mind, as though they’d had blind spots surgically implanted in their brains. As arrogant as Andrew could be, at least he seemed to understand human nature.

He noticed how pale and drawn his lover’s face had become. “Gonnae sleep now?”

“Yes.” Andrew stood slowly, using the arm of the couch to steady himself. He’d done a fair job of hiding his fear. He hadn’t screamed or yelled or cowered in one of the back rooms. He’d remained utterly calm.

But Colin saw how Andrew’s gaze kept darting to the window, how he’d downed three glasses of water standing at the refrigerator, refilling his glass again and again from the dispenser. How even the brandy hadn’t stilled the trembling of his hands.

“You go on to bed,” he told Andrew. “I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

“Keep watch for what?”

Colin gestured to the window. “Grenades. Bombs. SCUD missiles.”

Andrew smiled for the first time since the rock had smashed the window. “Hang on.” He hurried out of the reception room into the hallway.

Colin took their empty brandy glasses to the sink, where he washed and dried them carefully. He’d never felt such smooth, delicate glass, nor seen such a design. Instead of stems, these “rocking glasses” had small nubs on their bottom surface, so that they rolled about, exposing the brandy to the oxygen or whatever, along with encouraging the drinker to keep it in one’s hand to warm it.

Then Colin went to the aquarium, picking out Cristiano, the big gold-and-white fish with the inky eye-spot on its tail. “We were talking about you,” he said to the fish. “Well, not you, but your gorgeous namesake, Ronaldo.”

Andrew walked in then, carrying a pillow and a green-and-blue tartan fleece blanket. Colin stepped back from the tank, embarrassed.

“Don’t worry,” Andrew said, “I talk to the fish all the time. I hope they like it, because I’ve no plans to stop.” Now dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of dark-gray flannel sleep shorts, he handed the same to Colin. “These should fit you. We’re about the same size.”

“Thanks.” He held up the clothes. “You sure I can take off my trousers now? It’s not against the rules?”

“The games are over.” Andrew tossed the bedding onto the sofa. “At least for tonight.”

Colin went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and change his clothes. Even with the blinds down—which did make the flat seem smaller—he felt exposed out there, as if some malevolent force were hovering just beyond the window.

He returned to find Andrew on the sofa, huddled beneath the blanket.

“I hope this is okay,” Andrew said. “There’s room for us both if we lie on our sides.”

“I don’t mind.” Understatement of the century. Colin slipped beneath the blanket, facing Andrew. It was a nice flat sofa, good for sleeping. And probably for other things.

They lay on their shared pillow, examining each other in the aquarium’s soft silver light. Then Andrew touched Colin’s bare arm. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Nae bother.” He put his hand over Andrew’s. “You all right? Your skin’s pure freezing.” Just like after they’d dived into that rave crowd, but this was a different sort of fear.

“I know, I’m sorry.” He pressed both palms to Colin’s chest, then kissed him softly.

With a sigh, Colin returned the kiss without increasing its intensity. Beneath the blanket, he pressed his warm, bare feet against Andrew’s cold ones. The moment felt as fragile as those brandy glasses.

A rustle came from behind him as the breeze sucked the blinds against the window.

Andrew jerked away at the sound. “Oh,” he said. “It’s just the…” He shut his eyes and pulled away slightly. “Sorry I’m not in the mood for much at the moment.”

“It’s all right.” He touched Andrew’s cheek, running his thumb over the beauty mark in his left dimple. “I just want you to be okay.”

“I am. I will be.” He turned his head to kiss the inside of Colin’s wrist. “Once the window’s repaired tomorrow morning, we can continue where we left off. But with both of us naked.”

“Okay.”

“And then…” Andrew fidgeted with Colin’s T-shirt collar, keeping his gaze on it. “I’d like you to come over again. If you want.”

Colin’s lips curved with relief. “Okay.”

“Monday night?”

“Yeah, good.” Without thinking he asked, “Not the weekend?”

“Weekends are bad for me at the moment. It’s the summer social season, so often I’m away to London, although now it’s August, everyone’s coming to Scotland. Massive dinners and teas at various Highland estates, and of course the reeling parties—the balls,” he added. “It’s Scottish families’ chance to remind our southern friends that not only do we still exist, but we’re as mad and fabulous as ever.”

“So when we went to Edinburgh that weekend…”

“I got an earful from my family, yes. So I need to placate them.” He sighed. “If I can be Lord Andrew Friday through Sunday, then Monday I’m free to be just Andrew. With you.”

“I understand.” Colin did understand, perfectly, where his place was.

Andrew watched him closely. “The thing is, it’s my first social season since coming out. I need to appear normal, which means appearing often. I am sorry.”

Colin felt a tug of sympathy for Andrew’s constraints, though on the surface, the need to attend posh parties didn’t seem much of a burden. “My weekend’s already sorted, anyway. Saturday we’ve a friendly match against Shettleston. Then I’m popping over to see my mum in hospital.” He almost added that Saturday was his birthday, but decided it would only make things more awkward. Instead he kissed Andrew quickly and said, “Try and sleep the now.” Then he rolled over to face the window and hide his disappointment.

After their night in Edinburgh, Colin would’ve leapt at the chance to see Andrew every once in a while. But now, it was no longer enough to be a social side dish, a diversion to fill dull weeknight evenings. Colin needed bigger and bigger hits of this man. Which meant he had to quit him while he still could.

Behind him, Andrew shifted his head, settling into the pillow. Then he slipped his fingertips between Colin’s shoulder and the surface of the sofa. “This doesn’t count as cuddling,” he said. Then his voice softened. “I just like knowing, when I close my eyes, that you’re still here.”

Colin shut his own eyes in surrender. He was hooked, and he didn’t fucking care.

Plus ça change…Andrew thought as he whirled around the rustic ballroom, trying to recall the steps to The Bees of Maggieknockater (a reel he and his cousins used to call “The Balls of Maggie Thatcher”).

At London parties, Andrew was free to flirt and dance and hook up with other men of his station. People paired up as they chose—men with women, women with women, men with men. But here in the Highlands, among the tartan aristocracy, any combination but one man and one woman seemed utterly unthinkable.

Still, he rather loved the ancient traditions, how they connected him to the past. Knowing his ancestors had danced these same reels centuries ago made him feel simultaneously small and large, like he was part of something grand without being diminished.

The reel ended with a flourish of fiddles. Andrew joined in the applause and bowed to his partner and favorite cousin, Lady Karen. At the first strains of the Gay Gordons march, Andrew and Karen rolled their eyes at each other and headed for the bar.

“I always sit this one,” she said as she took his arm. “Too much touching.”

“I know! They should provide antibacterial gel stations. Like in hospitals?” At the edge of the bar, drams of whisky were arrayed for the taking. Andrew picked up two and handed one to his cousin. “Or better yet, we all go back to wearing gloves.”

“Gloves, are you mad? It’s a thousand degrees tonight.” Lady Karen fanned herself with the end of her tartan sash as they hurried to grab an empty table. “It’s rubbish we’re required to wear full-length ball dresses. I didn’t spend all that time in Majorca just to cover up this tan.”

“At least you can have your arms and neck bare.” Andrew tugged at his white bow tie, grimacing at the constriction. “And though it may seem like kilts provide good air circulation, my balls are absolutely baking.”

“Mmm, baked balls. Delish.”

“Aren’t they just?” He clinked his glass against Karen’s before collapsing into the red velvet chair beside her. They sipped in silence for a few breathless moments, nodding their heads to the bouncy tune and watching the couples parade by.

Karen examined her lipstick in the blade of a silver butter knife. “So how are you finding reeling parties now that you’re out?”

“It’s like stepping back in time.” He unfurled his fingers toward the ancient swords and shields mounted on the ballroom’s stone walls amongst portraits of long-dead aristocrats posing with horses and hounds. “I still dance only with girls, I still write my name on your dance cards with the wee phallic symbol provided for the occasion.” He picked up a green one that had been left behind on the table. “Look, this year they’ve given us golf pencils. Is that so a guy’s name can’t be erased when someone better comes along?”

“Little do they know, every woman’s eyeliner pencil holds a tiny eraser.”

“Really?”

Karen laughed and shook her head, bouncing her sleek, razor-cut blond bob. “I wish. So if you’re back in the eighteenth century, does that mean your night might not end with a sordid lavatory shag?”

“That only happened once.”

“At least twice. Remember that gallery opening in Marylebone back in April? The afterparty at Chiltern Firehouse?”

“I do not remember it. Which means you’re probably right.” A waiter stopped at their table with a tray of water glasses, which Andrew gratefully exchanged for his empty whisky tumbler. “But you know, I’m rather enjoying this respite from being on the prowl. Just having good times with family and friends, not constantly scanning the room for my next sexual conquest.”

He met his cousin’s eyes, and they both burst into laughter.

“God,” she said, “for a second I thought you were serious.”

“Maybe a little bit.”

Karen gasped. “Have you met someone?”

“I meet loads of someones. It’s what I do.”

“Come on, spill.” She reached over and shook his arm. “There is a someone!”

“Everyone is a someone, Karen.” He held his water glass to his rapidly warming face.

“Drew!” When he kept his mouth shut, she sank back in her chair. “Fine, be coy. But don’t forget, you can’t be in the Little Black Book unless you’re single.”

“I’ve not forgotten.” Thinking of the LBB’s publisher, Tatler magazine, reminded him of his Wednesday night date with Colin, which in turn reminded him again of the rock through his window—not that it was ever far from his thoughts. Colin’s repair had required a trip to the hardware shop, the purchase of several new tools and materials in addition to the pane of glass, then five hours of trial and error, despite the YouTube videos demonstrating how to do it. The result wasn’t perfect, but it would pass a cursory inspection.

Andrew admired Colin’s dogged determination and cool head as he went about the frustrating task, but now he was having second thoughts about lying to Reggie. Looking back, the cover-up was a childish move, but in the moment, Andrew had panicked.

It wasn’t only Colin’s freedom he’d feared for, but also his own. If Reggie had known about the rock, he would have placed Andrew on lockdown—and probably told Lord and Lady Kirkross. There would have been no more rendezvous with Colin, and probably not even tonight’s ball.

If Andrew was to be a real adult, he couldn’t live in a bubble. But the secrecy meant he needed to solve this mystery himself.

“Karen,” he said, “you’ve not, by some strange chance, shared my home address with anyone?”

“Of course not. I know how paranoid you are. Why, have you got a stalker? A real one, not the people online who’d give their left nut and/or tit to sleep with you?”

“I don’t know.” Andrew had kept the reception-room blinds open in defiance, even at night. But every time he walked in there, he felt jittery, waiting for another crash. “You’ll be at the Perth Ball on the thirtieth?” he asked, changing the subject before it ruined his mood.

“Fuck yeah!” Karen said. “I hear some royals are coming.”

“Ah.” Andrew wondered why the thought of hobnobbing with princes didn’t fill him with as much delight as usual. Perhaps because he imagined Colin’s sneer, something he hoped would be curbed—though not eradicated—at the Sunderlands’ reeling party next month.

The Gay Gordons ended, then the band swooped into the Hamilton House line dance with only a moment’s pause.

“That’s my cue.” Karen checked her dance card. “Oh my God, this guy! He’s so fit.” She leapt up from her chair and beamed at a young blond man heading their way. Karen was right—he was gorgeous.

Andrew gave a wistful sigh, then realized it wasn’t the lack of men to dance with that filled him with longing. It was the fact that the only man he wanted to dance with was a hundred miles away.

He slipped out of the ballroom, then took the stairs up to the gallery, where it was quieter but he could still watch the dancing. He phoned Colin, who didn’t answer, so he sent a text instead:

Just rang you but didn’t leave a voice mail, seeing as it’s the 21st century. Hope you’re having a good evening. -x

Moving past the tables being laid for the two a.m. breakfast, Andrew went to the banister overlooking the dance floor. By the time he reached it, his phone rang with a call from Colin.

Andrew answered. “Hello there. Did I wake you before?”

“Naw, I’m at Polo Lounge,” Colin shouted over the din of club music. “John and Fergus and Liam took me out for my—for my scoring the equalizer.”

“Well done! I wish I could’ve been there.”

“Aye, right.” The background bass thump softened a bit as Colin seemed to move to a quieter location. “A preseason amateur football match is no one’s dream Saturday afternoon.”

“Still, I would love to see you play.” Andrew had sat in the world’s most legendary stadiums—Madrid’s Bernebéu, Old Trafford in Manchester, Juventus Stadium in Turin—often watching players with whom he’d either had or would imminently have illicit trysts. As thrilling as that had been, nothing made Andrew’s thighs tingle like the thought of watching Colin dash down a muddy Glasgow amateur football pitch.

“How’s your reeling party?” Colin asked. “Is your dance card full of randy lads in kilts?”

“Only women get dance cards. If I were to reel with another man, the ballroom would probably burn itself to the ground. But that’s Old Scotland for you. Plus ça change, you know?”

“Hm.”

“That means ‘the more—’”

“—‘things change, the more they stay the same.’ I know what plus ça change means.” Colin’s protest lacked its usual bite.

“Sorry. But no, I’ve not danced with a single man all night. Or a married one.” He tittered nervously at his own feeble joke. “I’m envious, you being at Polo Lounge.” Colin made a distracted noise, and Andrew’s envy morphed into jealousy. “I’m sorry, are you with someone tonight?”

“Just my mates.” Colin’s voice sounded strangely hollow.

“Are you drunk?”

“Uh-uh. Just…tired, I guess.”

Andrew’s hand tightened on the polished banister. This was going poorly. He shouldn’t have phoned. They weren’t boyfriends, for God’s sake.

On the dance floor below, the Hamilton House ended, giving way to an eightsome reel—which, thankfully, Andrew was not promised for. He tried to salvage the conversation by showing he remembered the other reason this day was important to Colin. “Did you see your mum like you planned?”

“No.” Colin paused. “I mean, I went to see her, but…no. I didn’t. See her.”

“Was she not well?”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, she’s well all right. Well enough to be discharged, in fact.”

“Splendid.”

“Yesterday, in fact. Without telling her family, in fact.”

Andrew’s gut did a slow roll. “You mean she just—”

“Did a runner, aye.”

“My God. So you’ve no idea where she’s gone?”

“I know where she’s gone. Look, it’s really loud here. Can we talk Monday when I come to yours?”

Colin’s flat tone worried Andrew. “Are you all right? Do you want me to come back to Glasgow? It’s a few hours’ drive, but I’m sober—I have to be, or I’ll forget the steps—so I could be on the road—”

“No, you’re the last person I—” Colin stopped himself. “Sorry. I don’t mean that. I don’t mean anything, just…I’ll see you.” He hung up.

Andrew kept the phone pressed to his ear, as if doing so would maintain the connection between them. He shouldn’t have offered to come home, he should have just done it. Now he’d spend the rest of the night feeling helpless.

He did not like feeling helpless, unless it was in Colin’s arms.

Andrew sent a quick text to John. Just talked to Colin about his mum. Look after him for me, would you?

While waiting for a reply, he leaned on the gallery railing and watched his parents on the ballroom floor below as they led the eightsome through “Speed the Plough,” which his mum called the Inverness Country Dance, out of loyalty to her home city. Their faces glowed with exertion and laughter. His mother never looked so radiant as when she danced.

His phone buzzed with a text from John:

Don’t worry, mate, we’ve got him sorted. I’m pure raging at her. I get she’s ill, but of all days.

Andrew frowned as he replied, What do you mean, of all days?

Then he ripped his eyes off the phone screen and looked out over the ballroom again. He remembered peering through this banister when he was too small to participate, brought here with the other children to watch for a short time before being bustled off to their hotel beds. How entranced he’d been with the entire spectacle, how overcome with love and admiration for not only his parents, but his teenaged brother and sister.

Finally John’s reply came through:

He didn’t tell you? It’s his fucking BIRTHDAY. Colin’s mum left him on his birthday.