Two days later, a small note awaited Julian in his pigeonhole within the grand entrance hall of the Academy. Its parchment felt surprisingly coarse beneath his fingertips, a stark contrast to the smooth, heavy stationery favored by students of means.
“Julian Finch, antechamber by the north wing, before the afternoon’s Life Drawing session. Urgently.”
He read the script twice, a neat, almost childlike hand. His brow furrowed. An urgent summons? He wondered briefly if it concerned a patron, a hidden opportunity. Yet, the Royal Art Academy, steeped in decorum, rarely conducted such clandestine appointments. The thought of any personal overture, a confession of admiration, was quickly dismissed. Such things did not occur between men of their station, certainly not in such a public, yet private, manner. The very notion was preposterous.
Julian nearly forgot the message, lost in the intricate patterns of a newly commissioned portrait, until the faint chiming of the Academy clock reminded him of the impending Life Drawing session. A prickle of curiosity, tempered by a weary resignation, guided him towards the north wing. He expected nothing of significance, perhaps a misplaced palette knife, a borrowed brush he’d forgotten.
He pushed open the heavy oak door of the disused antechamber. Inside, a solitary figure waited, a student Julian vaguely recognized from the outer circles of his classes. Alistair, a slight, nervous boy with hair perpetually escaping its neat comb, his gaze flitting about the shadowed room like a trapped bird.
“Alistair?” Julian’s voice, a touch sharper than intended, echoed in the quiet space. Alistair’s head, previously bowed over hands that picked at a loose thread on his tunic, snapped up. His eyes, wide and apprehensive, met Julian’s for a fleeting moment before darting away. He offered a tentative, almost desperate smile.
Julian’s patience, thin as stretched gold leaf on a poor canvas, frayed further. “Why this sudden summons? I have a session to attend.”
Responding to Julian’s clipped query, Alistair twisted his fingers, plump and ink-stained, into a nervous knot. His lower lip disappeared between his teeth.
“I… I have something I wished to convey, Mr. Finch.” His voice was a bare whisper.
Julian’s desire to depart intensified. He despised being caught in such a compromising position. Idle gossip, like a stain of cheap vermilion, spread quickly through the Academy. He offered Alistair a perfunctory nod in the corridors, a polite word when necessary, just enough to appear respectable. Nothing more. Certainly nothing that would invite rumour or association.
Oblivious to Julian’s mounting discomfort, Alistair continued to gnaw at his lip, his gaze nervously sweeping the antechamber. A strange mix of resolve and fear flickered across his face. Each time he seemed on the verge of speech, his mouth clamped shut once more.
Julian’s irritation simmered. Alistair’s hesitant movements, his anxious fidgeting, grated on Julian’s nerves. To another, such timidity might appear endearing; to Julian, it was merely an impediment. He knew, with a sinking feeling, that his own temper was alarmingly short today.
“Look, I apologize, but my attendance is required. Can you simply state your purpose?”
To exacerbate matters, Julian’s thoughts were a tangled skein, still reeling from Elias Caldwell’s unnerving adoration. His stomach churned with a dull, persistent ache that had plagued him since the previous encounter. He felt on edge, an unspoken tension coiling beneath his polite facade.
Perhaps, he conceded silently, his ire was not solely aimed at Alistair. Perhaps he merely sought an outlet, a lesser target for the gnawing frustration within. His unease had settled deep, a festering wound.
Lost in these bleak reflections, Alistair finally seemed to gather his courage. In a small, stammering voice, he began to speak.
“Mr. Finch… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” Julian responded, half-heartedly, a hand rising to rub the back of his neck. The interval before the session was dwindling. He wished Alistair would simply articulate his meaning. A perverse urge to prise the words from the boy’s trembling mouth flickered within him.
Then, abruptly, the antechamber door flew open with a violent thud. Both Julian and Alistair turned sharply. Cassian Thorne stood framed in the doorway, his chest heaving, his dark eyes ablaze. His gaze, however, did not land on Julian.
It fixed, like a predator’s, upon Alistair.
Cassian’s labored breaths spoke of a frantic search, a desperate pursuit across the Academy grounds. A suffocating dread tightened Julian’s chest as he imagined the scene, Cassian tearing through the venerable halls, seeking out this timid boy.
Cassian let out a long, ragged exhale, then strode purposefully into the room. Julian’s hand, which had been idly rubbing his neck, dropped to his side. Cassian’s fierce gaze flickered between Alistair and Julian, his expression hardening into a mask of pure fury.
“What are you doing here with him?”
His voice, low and dangerous, left the recipient ambiguous. Cassian’s hands clenched into fists, then relaxed, only to clench once more.
Beneath Julian’s outward calm, his insides felt like a pounded mess. After a taut silence, Cassian’s eyes finally settled on Julian. But Julian could not bear that look, the raw accusation, the burning resentment. It was insufferable.
“What is the meaning of this, Cassian?”
*Please, do not look at me so. Blame Alistair, who summoned me here. Why do you gaze upon me, your acquaintance, with such venom? I was merely drawn into this folly by his insistence.*
Even as these thoughts raced, Cassian’s scorching stare remained locked on Julian. Julian recognized the gaze not as one of passion, but of a man consumed by a darker fire—rage, jealousy, a terrifying madness. It was the face of one deranged by a possessive affection, a visage Julian found equally pitiable and repellent.
“Why are you here with him!”
*You appear pathetic, Cassian. So utterly pathetic.* Julian glared back, a defiant spark in his own eyes. Yet, in that moment, he felt a chilling certainty: the truly pathetic one was not Cassian, but Julian himself.
Before Julian could fully process the thought, Cassian’s long strides carried him directly to Julian. As their eyes met, the world seemed to tilt violently.
“—!”
Julian’s mind struggled to comprehend. A sudden, jarring impact against his jaw. His body stumbled, then crashed to the polished floor. Only then did the event replay in his reeling consciousness.
“No… impossible…”
Cassian had struck him.
Cassian Thorne had struck *him*.
Lying on the ground, Julian’s trembling hand rose to his cheek. A blossoming pain, a hot throb. He couldn’t believe it. *How could you… how could you do this to me?*
“Mr. Finch!” Alistair cried, his face aghast.
“You impudent wretch! You swore you would not! Damn you!” Cassian roared, a primal sound that seemed to shake the very rafters. Alistair, horrified, started towards Julian, but Cassian’s furious visage, distorted by rage, made Alistair recoil, his face paling to an ashen grey.
“I… I am sorry, I am so sorry.”
“You promised! You bloody promised! Curse you!”
Alistair took a hesitant step back, tears welling in his eyes. But no, Julian thought, *he* was not the one who should be weeping. Julian was.
He felt tears prickling behind his own eyes, threatening to spill. Mercifully, before his carefully constructed composure could shatter entirely, Cassian cursed violently once more. He seized Alistair by the arm, his grip unforgiving, and dragged the smaller boy from the antechamber. The heavy door slammed shut, leaving Julian alone in the sudden, echoing silence.
He remained on the cold stone floor, staring at the half-open door. A thin shaft of gaslight from the corridor pierced the gloom. Something inside him finally gave way. The dam holding back his carefully repressed emotions burst, and tears flowed freely, hot and humiliating.
Julian hated everything. Alistair, who had drawn him into this sordid scene. Cassian, who had delivered the brutal blow. He wished they would both simply vanish. He felt wretched, reduced to a mere bystander in their twisted, volatile drama.
Gasping, Julian hauled himself up. He skipped the Life Drawing session, making his way directly to the registrar’s office to request an early dismissal. His face, already swelling and blotchy from the crying, made his excuse of a sudden ailment tragically believable. The registrar, a kind, elderly woman, seemed to understand, offering a sympathetic nod without prying.
*****
Arriving at his humble lodgings, Julian collapsed onto his narrow cot, falling into a fitful, dreamless sleep. When he awoke, hours later, his face was puffy, bruised, and throbbing. Out of habit, he reached for the small stack of incoming notes by his bedside. Among them, a crisply folded card from Rhys Maxwell. They rarely exchanged such correspondence, but a record of their contact existed due to Cassian Thorne. *Damn it all.*
For anyone else, Julian might have ignored it. But Rhys Maxwell was not just anyone. He stood second only to Cassian in their social stratum, wielding considerable influence amongst the Academy’s cliques. Julian could not afford to dismiss him.
“Finch, one heard you made an abrupt exit.”
Julian clicked his tongue, belatedly replying to the hours-old message via the messenger boy he’d sent to fetch a new pigment earlier.
“Ah, yes, a sudden malaise.”
He kept his tone deliberately light. The thought of anyone discovering Cassian’s violent outburst, and worse, the humiliating reason for it, was unbearable. All because of Alistair, the wretched boy.
“Are you quite well?”
Rhys Maxwell, showing concern? Julian found it unsettling, bizarre even. He set the card aside, his hand trembling slightly.
Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Rhys Maxwell’s unexpected inquiry felt suffocating, another layer of unwanted scrutiny. Other acquaintances had sent polite inquiries, but none were what Julian craved.
No one who truly mattered sought him out. Cassian Thorne had not. Julian knew he was quite mad to even entertain the thought. Yet, he consoled himself, believing this to be the wretched fate of one consumed by such a maddening, impossible affection.
Even knowing the bitter truth, Julian lay there like an idiot, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, willfully turning a blind eye to the stark, ugly reality.
“It is not only I.”
Perhaps Alistair and Julian found themselves ensnared in similar, twisted webs. The grotesque, selfish thought lingered, a wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While staring at the peeling ceiling, another note arrived. This one, addressed simply to “Mr. Finch,” bore no sender’s mark, its script familiar but unsettling. It was from Alistair, delivered by a small, breathless messenger boy.
“Mr. Finch, are you gravely ill?”
Julian frowned. Which of his peers would address him with such familiar concern, yet without their name? This was not Rhys Maxwell’s hand. Before he could ponder further, a follow-up message arrived, relentless and infuriating, delivered by the same boy just moments later.
“I am so profoundly sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.”
“I am sorry.”
“Please, Mr. Finch, forgive me.”
Whether three words or four, each hammered at his frayed nerves. Julian let out a guttural cry of frustration, flinging the crumpled notes across the room. How had that wretched boy procured his private address? And how was someone who, to Julian’s knowledge, possessed neither means nor a permanent residence, sending him so many missives?
Then it dawned on him. Oh. He had once, foolishly, given Alistair directions to his lodgings to return a borrowed book of anatomy. *Idiot.*
He cursed his own simplemindedness, letting out an angry sigh. To vent his fury, Julian pounded his fists against the mattress for a while until exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into a troubled sleep. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one last, imagined message lingered in his mind.
*Please, Mr. Finch, do not despise me.*
Funny. He had despised Alistair for months.
When Julian awoke the following morning, his face was swollen like a steamed bun.
*****
He skipped school. No matter how much of a model student he strived to be, Julian possessed insufficient passion for his studies to brave the Academy’ with a face like this.
Mrs. Gable, his landlady, prepared lunch for him: a bland, comforting gruel with limp, seasoned greens. As he ate, she tutted softly, gently scolding him to be more careful, her gaze lingering on his discolored cheekbone. He swallowed the unappetizing meal in one gulp, without much chewing, keen to retreat.
As he set his spoon down and reached for a glass of water, Mrs. Gable returned to clear the dishes. With a plate balanced in one hand, she announced softly,
“Julian, a gentleman calls.”
“What?”
“Shall I admit him?”
A gentleman. His heart fluttered, a sudden, unfamiliar beat. Before he could even identify the burgeoning emotion, his mind had already begun to construct a vivid image of who might be standing at his humble door.
Could it be… Cassian Thorne?
It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely beyond the realm of possibility. Few from the Academy ever visited Julian’s lodgings. Among his sparse acquaintances, only a handful knew his address. If it were Cassian, then he must have arrived to offer an apology, finally consumed by guilt over his outburst. Cassian had never, not once, laid a hand on Julian before. Yes, he must be troubled, worried.
“Yes, please, Mrs. Gable. Allow him in.”
The fantasy solidified into a hopeful certainty. Though Julian silently chastised himself for such naive optimism, a small, undeniable surge of satisfaction warmed him. Despite the violence, he still held some significance for Cassian. The thought filled him with an inexplicable, fleeting comfort. He turned quickly towards the front door, his pace quickening with a nascent excitement.
But the person awaiting him was not the one he had so desperately imagined.
“Finch, old chap. What’s all this?”
Rhys Maxwell, sharp-featured and impossibly elegant in a perfectly tailored coat, greeted him with a careless smirk, holding up a small bag, likely filled with sweetmeats. As soon as his eyes landed on Julian’s bruised face, however, his playful expression faltered, replaced by an uncharacteristically serious frown.
“Good heavens, what befell your face?”
Julian’s knees almost buckled from the sudden, profound disappointment. A bitter wave of humiliation washed over him. *How did Rhys Maxwell even discover my address?*
“I merely had a stumble,” Julian replied flatly, his voice devoid of inflection.
Rhys frowned, twisting his lips in that familiar, sardonic way before speaking. “You truly are a clumsy fool, aren’t you?”
Julian offered no argument. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, the dull ache mirroring the ache in his heart. The burning shame of his earlier anticipation, his foolish hope, surged. He was an idiot. Cassian Thorne saw him as nothing more than a passing irritation. And here Julian stood, wagging his tail like a hopeful, idiotic cur.
“Here. A small confection.”
Rhys extended a paper-wrapped treat. Julian accepted it, his fingers brushing Rhys’s gloved hand, and immediately peeled back the paper to inspect its contents.
“…It is a chilled lemon tart.”
“Is it? Scarcely noticed the flavor.”
“Figures. Why would you bother?”
“Damn, Finch, that’s rather harsh.”
“What, precisely, are you doing here, Rhys?”
“What do you imagine? I came to check on you. May I enter properly?”
“Wait, I–”
Without hesitation, Rhys Maxwell’s long legs carried him across the threshold, past the flustered Mrs. Gable, and into Julian’s small sitting room.
“Where is your studio, Finch?”
“Rhys, where are you going?”
“Where else? There’s nowhere else of interest in your humble abode.”
Julian found no retort. Rhys was, in his own callous way, correct. Homes, no matter their grandeur, served similar purposes, did they not? Feeling acutely awkward, Julian followed Rhys, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting every corner of his private, painfully modest living space.