On the day Lord Valerius Sterling and Baronet Alaric Finch exchanged blows, Lady Elara’s first summons was for me. A flicker of disquiet initially stirred—why me? Yet understanding dawned swift and cold. The governess, ever observant, had harbored a particular fondness for my quiet diligence, and I moved, however reluctantly, within the orbit of both young men. My testimony, when given, was forthright in its partiality. “Baronet Finch initiated the fracas, Lady Elara. He cast the first stone, so to speak.” My voice, usually soft, held a surprising edge. Lady Elara’s brow furrowed. “Indeed? You are not simply favoring Lord Sterling due to your acquaintanceship?” A prickle of unease threaded through me, the sharp sensation of being doubted, interrogated. But my countenance had been clouded long before I entered her study. The governess, perched on her high-backed chair, would likely find no anomaly in my solemnity. “Indeed. He uttered some crude jibe concerning Master Thorne’s treatise on Veridian history, then, quite without warning, struck Lord Sterling. Lord Sterling merely defended himself.” Lady Elara hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. Her slender fingers traced the line of her ear, brushing against wisps of silvery hair. “You are aware, Lysander, Baronet Finch sustained injuries far graver than anticipated?” “Did he?” I asked, a faint tremor in my voice. “When the royal medic arrived, Lord Sterling walked from the courtyard unaided. Baronet Finch, however, was borne away. He lies now in the infirmary, a broken nose, his cheek rent. The disparity is… considerable, which prompts my inquiry.” Still, a stubborn resolve settled within me. “Baronet Finch delivered the initial blow. Lord Sterling, for his part, lost a tooth.” At the time, I did not fully grasp the extent of Baronet Finch’s misfortune, nor the specific tooth count. I recalled only the chaos, a blur of fists and shouts. Looking back, a shiver traced my spine. Valerius, amidst the pandemonium, had somehow retrieved the lost tooth, concealing the one that might have been preserved. A deliberate cruelty, a subtle twist of the knife. Valerius could, in his own way, be more insidious than Alaric. “True, Baronet Finch struck first,” Lady Elara continued, her voice silk-smooth, “but do you not find Lord Sterling’s retaliation disproportionate? To leave a peer’s face in such a state?” “That is… true.” My lips pressed into a thin line. “There was no… communal assault, no others joining the fray, was there, Lysander?” My posture stiffened, then I replied, my voice firm. “No. Only the two. All others present attempted to intercede.” Lady Elara’s fingers scratched more vigorously at her ear. The fine hairs on her temple lifted and settled. With her other hand, she repeatedly clicked a silver-tipped pen. She seemed lost in contemplation, then slowly moistened her lips with her tongue. My name, spoken softly, broke the stillness. “Lysander.” “Yes, Lady Elara.” “Lysander, your comportment has always inspired confidence. You have aided me greatly. I place much faith in you. I value your presence, Lysander. I am on your side.” “Yes, Lady Elara,” I repeated, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. “That is… what I perceived.” An excuse. A carefully laid escape route, already forming in my mind. “It was merely my understanding of events.” A rather transparent strategy, yet no finer means existed to brazen through the moment. And Lady Elara, for all her subtle maneuvering, was preposterous. Summoning a handful of students known to Lord Sterling for a discourse—how could that possibly untangle the truth? Though, upon reflection, the governess appeared to lean subtly toward Lord Sterling’s side herself. Truth, I knew, would never emerge unvarnished in these halls. No clandestine observers, no hidden eyes to record the scene. Indeed, as I had anticipated, no disciplinary action befell Lord Valerius Sterling. The certainty of it still surprised me, despite my prior conviction. My assurance stemmed not merely from the academy’s customary laxity, but also from a year’s observation of Baronet Alaric Finch. I could predict his eventual response. Baronet Finch, I knew, would never let slip words of losing teeth, of being beaten senseless by a peer, of utter defeat. His arrogant pride would never permit such an admission. Most likely, only his father gnashed teeth in frustration, pestering the academy’s rector. “But this is strange.” My expectations began to diverge from reality. For days, the same old study hall presented itself, as if nothing had transpired. Not a hint of worry creased Lord Sterling’s boisterous face. He bounced a small rubber ball, acquired from who-knew-where, and laughed as loudly as ever. His battle scars, gloriously livid, were proudly displayed. How could he simply sit there, so untroubled? In my calculations, Lord Sterling ought to be bowing his head to Baronet Finch’s father, his own parents in tow. The statement, “Lord Sterling struck Baronet Finch,” was undeniably true. Having produced an outcome so displeasing to Finch père, Sterling should have to offer some form of apology. Not necessarily a sincere one to the actual victim, but the kind of placating gesture an enraged father demanded. I had assumed, once Sterling returned from that uncomfortable pilgrimage of apologies, he would grumble, and I would offer a sympathetic nod, soothing his temper. I had thought that was my part. Yet Sterling never journeyed to see Baronet Finch’s father, nor did Finch père arrive at the academy. This piqued my curiosity, sharp as a needle. I possess a peculiar inclination: when faced with a dubious situation I cannot readily unravel, I feel an undeniable compulsion to unearth its secrets, then to weigh and decide whether the gleaned information holds utility. A simple plan formed, a rather childish, trivial scheme. “Lord Valeri—” “Seraphina Ashworth!” Just as I prepared to speak, my trivial scheme poised on my tongue, Valerius had already tossed his rubber ball aside, addressing another peer across the room, munching on some sweetmeat he’d procured from the ether. I frowned instinctively. Ill timing. Confound it. “Did someone just call my name?” He paused mid-sentence, turning his gaze toward me. Could he truly have heard my quiet utterance amidst his own clamor? Still, I raised a hand quickly. “I did.” “What in the blazes? Why summon me?” Before answering, I narrowed my eyes slightly, an expression of my displeasure. “If you address me, you ought to speak with clarity.” With a faint roll of his tongue, Valerius crooked a finger, beckoning me. That casual gesture, so dismissive, chafed at my nerves, causing my frown to deepen. Of course, my retort was half-jest, and Valerius possessed a temperament that could endure such playful jibes. It was hardly a matter of consequence. “You mentioned being unoccupied after your lessons, did you not?” “Quite. Utterly without engagement.” “Are you free tomorrow? My master’s painting class has been cancelled.” Ever calculating, always seeking to gain an advantage or avoid a loss, I forged an opening. A satisfied smile, fleeting as gossamer, touched my lips. After hearing my proposition, Valerius pointed at me, his pronouncement quite outlandish. “You’re not proposing we… amuse ourselves together, are you?” “What? Ah, yes.” “You and I? For what purpose?” Such a reaction. The lukewarm dismissal solidified my features, made my jaw clench. “Well… simply, you know, to pass the time.” “To what end?” “What do you mean, to what end? As we often do.” “Often? Have we ever ‘amused ourselves’ one-on-one beyond the academy gates?” My frown returned, his mocking tone grating against my pride. He was right, of course. We had never actually met outside the confines of the academy. My phrasing, “as we often do,” was a misstep. Was he now deriding me for it? Confound him. A hot flush crept up my neck, stinging my ears. Must he render me so utterly pathetic? “Very well, if you find the notion disagreeable, forget I spoke.” “I never stated it was disagreeable.” He had not, but his sarcasm hung in the air, thick and cloying. Holding back the retort that burned on my tongue, I clamped my mouth shut. What was the meaning of his insolence? I prepared to speak again, then a sudden realization brought me up short. Right. This was his nature. Always. I had known all along that Lord Valerius could be charming when it suited him, and just as easily withdraw when it did not. Why had I assumed he would embrace my suggestion so readily? Was I mistaking a shared dislike for Baronet Finch as camaraderie? Ashamed and disgusted by such a naive thought, I feigned nonchalance, speaking with brazen indifference. “Never mind. Disregard my words entirely.” But the instant the words left my lips, I plunged into a pit of regret. My tone, a childish bluff, made my face burn with mortification. Ugh. How utterly pathetic. Pathetic, Lysander Thorne. Biting my lip, I clenched the fist resting on my thigh, opening and closing it several times. My right eye twitched in the process. Lord Valerius finally offered his response: “Very well.” What an infernal nuisance… I whipped my head around, facing away from him. Annoying, infuriating rogue. --- There existed no true “rest” on a young nobleman’s day off. It merely served as an extension of tutelage, master’s lessons, independent study, and additional preparations for the social season. But my parents were absent, frequently immersed in court affairs in the capital. No one truly watched over me. One benefit of such parental neglect was the quiet liberty it afforded. Thus, I, Lysander Thorne, cultivated a measure of freedom on my weekends, a cherished solitude often dedicated to my sketches and calligraphy. Then, a sudden, jarring missive shattered my so-called repose. The culprit: Lord Valerius Sterling. “Confound it, the kingdom’s amenities improve, don’t you agree? Royal Infirmaries now boast rather fine tea rooms.” That abrupt message left me dumbfounded, especially coming from the one who had so recently dismissed my overture. Why summon me now? Yet, considering his notoriously selfish nature, my feelings remained in a constant seesaw. Annoyance battled a curious pull. “Why did you call upon me?” My fingers flew across the parchment, dipping the quill in ink for emphasis. “Your name simply drifted into my thoughts… I fancied a repast with company.” The rogue. I gritted my teeth, biting my lip hard enough to taste copper. “We shall see.” I licked the inside of my cheek. I could not simply accept his capriciousness, even if I lacked the standing to openly demand better treatment. I sought not to genuinely vex him, merely to return a measure of his own indifferent medicine. I was about to dismiss the thought when his initial words replayed in my mind. “Wait, did you say you are at the infirmary?” That detail, unexpected and unsettling, was the true reason my rest was cancelled, and I found myself journeying to meet him. Had the infirmary Valerius occupied been some obscure clinic far from my townhouse, I would have pursued my original, solitary plans without hesitation. But it proved to be a wing of the Royal Infirmary, quite near my abode. I accepted his peculiar invitation, my curiosity overriding my pique. Upon my arrival, he awaited me in the grand lobby, sprawled casually across a polished wooden bench, legs spread wide with a total disregard for decorum. As soon as he spied me, he merely flicked a hand in a lazy, half-hearted greeting. I offered no return gesture, instead standing before him, my gaze narrowed as I observed his face. “Why have you not removed that bandage from your nose?” “My reasons are my own.” “Are you still bleeding? Has the wound not closed?” “It has mended. Fear not.” Even as I spoke, he rose, crossed to me, and threw a heavy arm around my shoulders. The casual familiarity was startling. “Come, let us eat. My treat.” “The common hall in the basement, I presume?” I retorted, my voice dry. “Scarcely a grand repast.” “What, you ass… Do you imagine the common hall offers sustenance without coin?” “Boasting of a mere pittance?” I glared at him. He simply sneered, an arrogant, self-satisfied twist of his lips. Together, we descended to the infirmary’s lower level, placing our orders, intending to fill our stomachs with a mediocre midday meal. As we awaited our plates, I posed the question that truly gnawed at me. “So, why are you suddenly at the infirmary, Valerius?” “Hm?” “Are you here because of your face? The wounds?” “Ah.” He pointed a finger at his own face, circling it gently around his jaw. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he responded in a casual tone that sent a chill through me. “No. Baronet Finch is convalescing here.” “What?” The air seemed to thicken, pressing in around us. I ceased the light, rhythmic tapping of my fingers on the worn table. My body stiffened, a silent alarm. Why would he come all this way if Finch was admitted? I was the only one seized by unease. Valerius, meanwhile, answered as if discussing the weather. “I mean to show you something quite diverting.” “What in the Seven Hells are you speaking of?” “Baronet Finch’s father is in the sickroom. Astounding, isn’t it? I summoned him.” My mouth opened and closed, a silent gasp. The question, “How…?” circled in my mind, yet no sound escaped. Bouncing a fork in mid-air, Valerius continued, offering only his twisted rationale. “You know I am a man of faith, Lysander? Forgiveness! A beautiful, glorious word. My creed dictates I seek forgiveness and offer it. How could I possibly neglect such a sacred duty?” “You expect me to believe you would undertake such a charade for piety? You are truly seeking forgiveness?” “Precisely.” He wrinkled his nose as he smiled, a gleam in his eyes that spoke not of holiness, but of malice.

Chapter 5.1