Alistair Finch’s face, swollen from a night spent chasing some ephemeral thrill, looked rather like a puffed-up pigeon. With a feigned sigh of exasperation, I nudged a chilled bottle of lemonade across his desk. Habit dictated this small gesture. On mornings Alistair returned from his escapades, a cold drink was always required to diminish the tell-tale puffiness. It was, I must admit, a peculiar ritual born of his inconveniently susceptible features. “Pray, do something about that absurd visage, Finch,” I murmured, my tone light, though a sharp edge of irritation lingered beneath. “A thousand thanks, Julian.” His grin, wide and unrepentant, stretched his already puffy cheeks further. “Did your father not rage this morning?” I inquired, knowing full well the man’s temper. “Not thanks to you.” He shrugged, a boastful lift of his shoulders. I merely pursed my lips, a faint, noncommittal smirk gracing my face. Then, as I turned for my own seat, a large, folded copy of ‘The Times’ caught my eye, spread across the desk beside Alistair. My gaze settled there for a beat too long. Alistair’s usual seat-mate was not I. It belonged to Lord Peregrine Ashworth. Alistair, though robust, was a head shorter than Peregrine. Thus, Peregrine occupied the adjacent desk, a fact I often cursed. My own stature, merely adequate, relegated me to the second-to-last row, a small consolation in sitting directly behind Alistair. It was a paltry comfort, yet I clung to it. I buried my familiar envy, a swift, practiced motion. Shamelessly, I gestured toward the newspaper-shrouded figure. “When did Ashworth arrive?” “No idea, Beaumont. Found him like that.” Alistair’s voice was a low rumble. “And why does a fellow who retired early last night appear so dishevelled?” I mused aloud. Just as my words finished their delicate arc, a rustle broke the morning’s quiet. The newspaper sagged, revealing Peregrine Ashworth’s half-lidded eyes. His narrow gaze swept over me, then Alistair, before he opened his mouth in a cavernous yawn. “…Swore I’d merely finish the chapter, you see, then sleep. Ah, well.” They say yawns are contagious. Alistair, proving the adage, stretched his own mouth wide before scrunching his face into a smug, knowing grin. “This rogue. Looks like a ruffian, yet as innocent as a parson’s son.” “Oh, do desist,” Peregrine drawled, the words thick with sleep. “As you wish, you dullard.” Whether Peregrine detected the mockery or simply dismissed it, he leaned back, letting out a hearty chuckle. I watched him for a moment. Our eyes met. He turned his gaze to the window, then back to me, a fleeting flicker of something I couldn’t quite decipher. A strange tickle prickled my skin. I scratched my shoulder, then forced my attention back to Alistair. Ashworth College, in these nascent hours, often held a pleasant, almost convivial air. Such conversations often set the day’s placid tenor. Soon, companions like Charles and Edmund would gravitate towards us, eyes wide with admiration for Alistair’s whispered tales. The predictable routine: soft chatter, muted laughter, then the Master’s stern arrival, signalling the start of classes. For boys considered Ashworth’s most popular, the mornings were surprisingly wholesome. We were, despite our carefully cultivated swagger, still just eighteen. Yet, tales of last night’s illicit gatherings, especially those involving Alistair, often left a sour residue. Still, I played along, a fixed smile on my face, feigning amusement. Despite it all, these mornings had possessed a certain tolerable charm. But that changed, irrevocably, a month and a half ago. And the reason, I knew, was entirely Thomas Thorne. “Look, Thorne’s here,” Charles whispered, a sneer twisting his lips. “Ghastly sight,” Edmund added, his voice dripping disdain. “Does that fellow truly possess the gall to show his face after yesterday’s thrashing?” Charles continued, pointing with exaggerated distaste. At the tip of Charles’s finger, Thomas Thorne shuffled awkwardly into the classroom, his face obscured by lank strands of hair. He made for a desk in the front row, deposited a worn satchel, and immediately slumped over. Observing his hunched figure, a sigh, laden with irritation, escaped me. Thomas Thorne was utterly pathetic. His voice was thin, his frame slight—a pitiful excuse for a student. As the class’s murmurs swelled, Alistair glared daggers at Thorne’s back, muttering curses under his breath. I loathed it. That peculiar sensitivity of his—it drove me to distraction. I watched as Alistair snatched the newspaper that had previously covered Peregrine’s face. He balled it in one hand, then, with a light flick of his wrist, hurled it at Thorne’s head. A soft thud echoed. Thorne’s head, already low, slumped further onto his desk. “Damn it all, Thorne. Don’t parade that ghastly face around first thing.” Thorne placed his arms on the desk, burying his face in them, doing precisely as Alistair had commanded. Yet, Alistair watched this with undisguised disdain, then kicked his own desk with a loud thud. “Hey! Are you quite deaf, Thorne?!” When Alistair abruptly stood, his voice rising in a shout, Thorne, still hunched, stammered a trembling reply. “Y-yes, Finch.” “Lift your head, look at me, and speak properly, man.” Did Alistair even perceive the nonsensical nature of his demands? The sheer absurdity of his cruelty elicited a bitter, internal laugh from me. Whether he noticed or not, Alistair rose and approached Thorne’s desk. With every measured step he took, the unpleasant feelings within me grew more vivid, more raw. Alistair was closing the distance. That alone made me feel as if I were losing control over the emotions I had worked so diligently to suppress. This was not the same, mild jealousy I felt when Alistair drew close to Peregrine Ashworth. Instinctively, I knew. Deep within, I harboured something just as sinister as Alistair did. That’s why watching Alistair with Peregrine eventually became bearable, but his interactions with Thorne unsettled me more and more. My hands began to tremble. I clenched them tightly, burying them in my pockets. Alistair kicked Thorne’s desk hard. The ornate wood shook violently, almost toppling. Thorne jolted upright in alarm, his voice still unsteady. “F-forgive me.” Alistair stood there, silently looking down at Thorne’s face. Thorne’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, on the verge of breaking. Yet, in that moment, I felt as if I were the one about to burst into tears. Alistair never made Thorne run pointless errands, yet he always kept his eyes on him. If Thorne left for the lavatory during break, Alistair would still be watching his retreating figure, even whilst conversing with us. I knew, because I never stopped watching Alistair. To be honest, my first impression of Thomas Thorne had been unremarkable. His complexion wasn’t flawless, but his youthful features gave him a face that was easy enough to look upon. When he smiled, it seemed genuinely happy, and even his neutral expression carried a certain gentle brightness. Before Alistair began tormenting him, no one truly disliked Thorne. He seemed like a boy who had grown up in a warm, loving household. While not overtly sociable, preferring to spend his time alone, there was no trace of worry or discomfort in his demeanour. Most thought Thorne a decent sort. Since he never flaunted the affection he’d received growing up, he garnered even more praise. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be around—that was Thomas Thorne. But I didn’t particularly like him from the start. I didn’t hate him either—I simply didn’t care. To say he wasn’t even on my radar would be more accurate. Yet, whenever I was conversing with my friends, Alistair, or Peregrine’s set, and Thorne’s name arose, I would find myself casually fabricating, saying, “Oh, Thorne? He’s quite alright. Decent enough chap.” Alistair, like me, had paid little attention to Thorne initially. Alistair was never one to concern himself with school politics. After Thorne’s transfer in May, he and Alistair hadn’t exchanged a single word until June. That was how things originally were. But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the mundane flow of events. It happened right after luncheon, and looking back, I don’t believe I’ve ever regretted an action as much as what transpired that day. Thorne, as was his custom, had taken a secluded corner seat during break to read. He was precisely the kind of person who loved to bury himself in books. I, on the other hand, possessed a regrettable habit of being overly congenial towards those with good reputations. That’s why, when I chanced upon Thorne, I struck up a conversation about the volume he was reading. I was not much of a reader myself, beyond what was necessary for my studies—pretending to be cultured was more my style. “You must truly enjoy books, then, Thorne?” “Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose so.” At the time, Thorne and I were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made approaching him simpler. “Have you quite finished that one?” “Well, I’m almost at the very end.” “Then merely close it now. The ending will disappoint you. It’s one of those where the final chapters quite ruin the experience.” “You’ve read it before?” His eyes widened slightly. “Indeed, a while ago.” To satisfy my intellectual vanity, I always sought out reviews and critiques of the books I intended to feign familiarity with, ensuring I had something sufficiently informed to offer in future conversations. Drawing on those memories, I offered a critique—not a genuine one, merely enough to sound knowledgeable—and Thorne smiled brightly, looking genuinely pleased. It caught me off guard. “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s read this book besides myself.” “Oh… truly?” My voice wavered a fraction. “Yes, but I shall still finish it. Contemplating why the ending unfolded as it did is part of the enjoyment, wouldn’t you agree?” “Well, of course. Everyone’s opinions differ, naturally.” “Hearing you say that only makes me anticipate it even more.” That smile still lingers, an uncomfortable memory. Was it some instinctive unease I felt even then, a premonition? After that day, Thomas Thorne began seeking out my company frequently. Though I found it somewhat vexing, often wondering, *Why me?*, I never outright rejected him. Thorne, with his commendable reputation, was not the worst person to keep within one’s orbit. After all, books—outside of textbooks and academic tomes—were practically forbidden territory for gentlemen our age. Even if someone possessed the leisure, novels were little more than glorified pillows to them. For Thorne, I was likely the sole individual around who could discuss such arcane matters. That day was one of those routine encounters, yet it also proved to be one of the most ill-fated days among them. Lord Peregrine Ashworth was to blame. To this day, I cannot fathom why I acted as I did. Why I, someone who never meddled in others’ affairs, chose to stick my nose where it did not belong. Why Peregrine, of all things, had left his mock Classical Languages examination paper wide open for every passing student to observe. I, who abhorred having my own grades revealed, naturally assumed Peregrine would desire his protected as well. So, I flipped the paper over to conceal it. That’s when I saw it: his score. Eighty-one percent. I blinked in disbelief, then checked again. It was undeniably eighty-one. Considering the notoriously rigorous grade thresholds for this particular examination, it would barely scrape into the fourth tier. Yet still, it was on the higher end of that tier. It was the first time one of my preconceptions was shattered. A small shock, realizing Peregrine wasn’t quite the lost cause I’d always presumed. Naturally, that made me think of Alistair’s grades. Now, he was the genuine article, a complete failure. A fellow who’d mark every question with a ‘B’ and sleep through the remainder of the exam, Alistair had never once managed a respectable score. Perhaps that’s why I felt such a strange mix of emotions—like I’d found a usable fragment amidst the refuse. A gentleman I’d once loathed turned out to be more salvageable than the one I held dear. That bizarre realization must have thrown me off balance, because I did something I normally never would have. It was nothing grand. I simply grabbed a nearby quill and scribbled a short note at the top of Peregrine’s paper. *“Focus on the grammatical constructions. You’ll achieve the third tier soon enough. Well done. —J.B. P.S. My apologies for observing your score without permission. I merely inverted the paper to cover it and chanced to see.”* The arrogance of evaluating someone’s grade and offering unsolicited advice made me feel a touch embarrassed, so I rambled, attempting to justify myself. I cannot articulate why I even wrote it in the first place. At the time, I must have been quite out of my senses. Looking back, it was clear this was the first mistake in what would become a complex web of entanglements. Every mess, after all, begins with a poorly fastened first button. If I hadn’t written that note, I wouldn’t have run into Thomas Thorne, carrying a bound volume, down the h

Chapter 1.2: The Unraveling Thread