“I believe with all of my heart that this is the right system for this country. I have studied countless other types of government and run through all of the possibilities, but given our size, the surrounding powers, and, yes, our traditions, I do not think a complete change is what is best. I will step down without hesitation if the people think otherwise, I want them to make their own informed decision and not be swayed by false propaganda.”

“Like a fake engagement?” Nya asked quietly.

Linus looked confused. “How fake is it if Johan likes—”

The door to the parlor opened, cutting off whatever embarrassing thing his stepfather was about to reveal. Johan turned, and what he saw so shocked him that he sprayed his mouthful of tea over his carefully pressed pants. “Lukas?”

His brother, who generally wore preppy khakis and polo shirts, had on a tight-fitting, fuchsia, long-sleeved T-shirt with a white skull on the front, white skinny jeans, and black calf-high combat boots. His thumbs poked out of holes in the sleeves of the shirt . . . and his hair!

The curly blond locks Johan had taught him to maintain had been shaved along both sides; the remainder had been died a violent shade of pink to match his shirt—and his nail polish, because the tips of his fingers now sported blunt pink nails.

The look was the norm for some teenagers, but not for his brother, who Johan constantly guided in all things, including fashion.

Anger and a desperate panic clamped around Johan. This was what bullies looked for, when seeking out their victims. This was what would make the paparazzi descend on Lukas without mercy. Johan couldn’t protect Lukas from this.

He emitted a garbled sound, that was some approximation of “What the—”

“Hi. I’m Nya.” She stood, releasing Johan’s hand. “You must be Lukas. I’m so happy to meet you.”

“Hi. Yes. It is my pleasure,” Lukas said. He walked over to Nya, took her hand, and bowed over it, the epitome of politeness, then slouched into the seat next to Linus without even looking at Johan. He tapped his index finger along the wooden armrest, as if drawing attention to the polish.

Johan had been worried over his brother’s well-being for the last few days, but now he was ready to strangle him. He’d spent years showering the boy with love and attention, hiding him from the prying eyes of the paparazzi, protecting him the pitfalls of boarding school bullies, and now he was being repaid for his troubles with this neon nightmare.

The stocky boy held up Johan’s bear which should have been safely in his backpack. “You want me to return it? Why don’t you go cry to your mamm?”

“Your hair—” Johan started, frustration choking him.

“—looks amazing!” Nya finished. “Did you dye it yourself?”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, giving Lukas all her attention.

“Jah,” Lukas said, his shoulders rising toward his ears, then dropping into a defiant slouch. “I cut it, too.”

“Good job! The style is very striking. The asymmetrical look is very popular right now.”

Johan knew he should follow Nya’s lead, and her advice not to treat Lukas like a child, but this was all too much.

“Have you gone mad?” he asked, his hand tightening over one of his knees. “Do you know what will happen when the first picture of this gets out? Do you know what people will say?”

Lukas cut him a hard look, the expression unfamiliar and terrifying. “Worried you won’t be the center of attention anymore?”

“No. I’m worried about you making a fool of yourself,” Johan replied, his voice ice-cold, a freezing barrier to counter the scalding shock of his brother’s sudden change in temperament. Lukas had always looked up to Johan, admired him—the real him—but now glared at him like he was a stranger. A stranger he didn’t like at all.

“If being myself means people think I’m a fool, then people can go fuck themselves.”

He said the last two words with such a pointed vehemence and narrowing of his eyes that there was no mistaking who they were meant for. Johan. Those words were meant for Johan. It was Johan who could go fuck himself.

An actual physical pain boomeranged through him at the anger in Lukas’s voice. What had happened to his sweet little boy? Yes, Lukas had mentioned maybe dyeing his hair, but Johan had thought it was simply a passing fancy and Lukas hadn’t seemed upset when Johan had vetoed the idea. He’d looked at nail polishes months back, but Johan had remembered how he was teased for painting his pinky nail a cheerful yellow once and had talked his brother out of it. Lukas talked about the usual things teenagers these days talked about, and Johan always subtly reminded him that he wasn’t just any teenager, that he always, always had to think of what people would say. Then they’d watch a film or play video games or go for a walk, and everything would be fine.

This sudden, brash upending of everything Johan thought he knew about Lukas—and had tried to protect—was like a punch to the kidney.

“You can’t be serious,” Johan said. He didn’t want it to come out sounding nasty and derisive, but this was the first time Lukas had ever hurt him, and his go-to defense was nasty derisiveness, it seemed. “The referendum is days away, people are looking for any reason to strip you of your title, and you think now is the time to make trouble?”

Lukas’s shoulders slumped and he turned his head away with a jerking motion, as if he’d been slapped.