Days bled into a week, each tick of the grandfather clock in the corridor deepening the chasm. Julian kept his focus on his treatises, feigning disinterest in Barnaby Thorne's movements. He spent his afternoons with Rhys Davies and a rotating coterie of acquaintances, maintaining a façade of easy scholarly camaraderie. Most vexing, Barnaby’s inner circle remained a closed book. Directly querying them was unthinkable. Glimpses of news filtered through Rhys's less exclusive acquaintance group. A burning curiosity, so undignified, gnawed at Julian. Pride, stubborn and unyielding, held his tongue. Julian found Rhys sketching idly in the common room, a piece of charcoal smudging his fingertips. "Thorne's latest exploit, then?" Rhys asked, not bothering to look up. "Another soirée, perhaps?" "Out again, he was," Rhys replied, a casual shrug disturbing his focused hand. The words hung in the air, leaving Julian momentarily speechless. *Brute*, Julian thought, a familiar disgust curdling in his gut. Barnaby's temper, his raw, unbridled impulses, felt animalistic. "A gaming hell, no doubt," Julian ventured. "Or some disreputable establishment." "Not this time," Rhys corrected, smirking, "A chaperoned introduction. Young Miss Ashworth, I hear." He twisted a loose thread on his waistcoat. "Caius Finch arranged it," Rhys continued. "That girl who'd been rather persistent. Apparently, they quite 'hit it off.' Left the assembly together, practically within moments of meeting. Her, too, mind. No shrinking violet, Miss Ashworth." A strange lightness lifted Julian's spirits. He perched himself on the edge of Rhys's desk, a subtle nod of thanks. Rhys shifted, making room. Only Rhys, with his sharp, unvarnished observations, seemed capable of dissecting Barnaby's unseemly dalliances without a trace of admiration. For that alone, Julian found his presence tolerable. "Utterly brazen," Julian murmured, his voice laced with disdain. "Quite," Rhys agreed, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I, however, retain a modicum of decency." "Surely that's the expectation for an Ashworth scholar," Julian teased. Rhys turned from his sketch, raising an eyebrow. "Expectations are but brittle things," Rhys countered, his gaze unwavering. "One navigates them as one must." "Is that why your own romantic pursuits are so... limited?" Julian delivered, a hint of malice in his tone. Rhys finally set his charcoal down. He met Julian's gaze, an incredulous smile spreading across his face. "You wound me, Beaumont," Rhys declared, tapping Julian's hand. "A formal complaint shall be lodged." "What precisely constitutes a wound?" "If the recipient finds it disagreeable," Rhys retorted, "it suffices." "You are an absurdity, Rhys." "And you, a prude." Julian nudged Rhys's leg with his slippered foot. Rhys exaggerated a stumble, then offered a casual, inverted gesture. Rhys's cuff receded, revealing the dark beads of a rosary wrapped about his wrist. Julian pointed a toe at it. "That doesn't quite suit you." Rhys's expression shifted, a flicker of genuine seriousness. "Oh? And why not?" "It just... clashes with your general disposition." "Clashes? Peculiar. Do I not exude piety?" "Hardly. More like an affectation. A decorative flourish." "Not so, I assure you." Julian recalled Rhys's full name: Rhys John Davies. John, as in Saint John. The revelation had been unsettling. Rhys's family, old Welsh Catholics, apparently. And Rhys himself, a fervent believer, despite his casual blasphemies and inability to recite a proper Ave Maria. --- The week unfolded in a similar pattern of avoidance. Julian’s gaze flickered to Barnaby in lectures, then swiftly away. He still lacked the courage to engage. The pathetic notion of "losing" if one cared more, a childish insecurity, yet it held him captive. Caius Finch, however, continued to seek Julian out, perhaps drawn by Julian’s occasional, almost involuntary, replies. Each passing day, new purpling marks bloomed on Caius’s face, silent testament to Barnaby's territorial savagery. Julian frowned, his eyes drawn to a fresh contusion on Caius’s temple. Caius, catching his gaze, quickly turned his head, attempting to conceal the evidence. Four more days crawled by. One crisp morning, the classroom quiet save for the scratching of pens, Julian buried his face in his hands. He wished to escape the sordid drama playing out around him. The distance between Julian and Barnaby widened into an abyss. Every glance at Caius, his bruised face a grim seal, made Julian recoil. He longed to avoid them both. Then, a small mercy. Caius Finch stopped attending college. Professor Alistair announced an "absence," but the hesitation in his voice spoke of truancy. Julian almost exhaled in relief. Barnaby, meanwhile, grew increasingly restless. He fidgeted with his watch chain in class, snapped at his sycophantic companions, even once landed a cuff on a lackey who mumbled too loudly. A faint smugness stirred in Julian. He permitted himself a flicker of perverse satisfaction. Soon, he reasoned, with Caius gone, Barnaby's capricious attention would revert. Julian waited, certain of his triumph. Days stretched into a fortnight. "Thorne seems rather subdued," Rhys remarked one afternoon, seemingly without particular interest. Julian's heart hammered against his ribs. He fought the urge to turn, to assess Barnaby's countenance himself. He was a coward where emotions were concerned. All he could do was listen, and picture. The day concluded without incident. Julian told himself tomorrow would bring resolution. Matters of the heart, he knew, rarely resolved themselves with haste. Slinging his satchel over his shoulder as the last bells chimed, Julian heard Rhys's voice, surprisingly direct. "You quarreled with Thorne, didn't you?" Julian spun around, startled. "Yes." "Still not reconciled since that rather public debacle in the refectory?" Rhys raised an eyebrow. "Good heavens, I thought such grievances were fleeting." Julian avoided Rhys's gaze. "To be candid, Thorne overstepped. That crude bullying... it's simply uncivilised." "Uncivilised? In what particular fashion?" "Well, Caius is a fellow student," Julian hedged, feeling a flush creep up his neck. "The way Thorne handles him... it's rather... unsavoury. He ought to cease." "Remarkable." Rhys's tone dripped with mockery. "Surely a place in the celestial choir awaits you, Beaumont." Annoyed, Julian glared. Rhys, unfazed, merely smirked. That knowing look made Julian's face burn. He turned abruptly, walking quickly from the room, Rhys's mocking grin a brand on his back. --- Striding down the echoing corridor, intent on reaching the sanctuary of his rooms, Julian felt a hand alight on his shoulder. Assuming it was Rhys, he twisted, irritation bubbling, pulling his arm free. Professor Alistair, his literature tutor, stood there, a look of mild surprise on his face. Julian quickly composed his features. "My apologies, Beaumont. Did I startle you?" "Not at all, Professor. A momentary distraction." "I see. I am truly sorry, but... might I impose upon a moment of your time?" "Professor?" Professor Alistair's young face held an uncharacteristic gravity. Julian nodded. "This morning, Thorne inquired after Finch's home address," Professor Alistair began, his voice lowered. Julian knew Professor Alistair, despite his easygoing nature, could not be entirely blind to Barnaby's brutalities. Yet, the man lacked the spine to confront such aristocratic privilege directly. He wasn't heartless, however, hence this private consultation. "Barnaby Thorne? I... I understand, Professor. It's not so surprising," Julian replied quickly. "Well, given your... sympathetic inclination towards Finch, I wondered if you might consider accompanying Thorne to his residence. Do you comprehend my meaning, Beaumont?" Julian's jaw tightened. He could not answer. Barnaby's dark, possessive fixations on Caius, like a miasma, seeped into the ground beneath Julian's feet, rooting him to the spot. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. "Might I, perhaps... procure Mr. Finch's contact number first?" "Ah, yes, of course. A sensible approach. Here, allow me." Professor Alistair rummaged in his satchel. "I shall speak with him, Professor. Do not trouble yourself unduly." "Indeed. I rely on your discretion, Beaumont." "Naturally." Outwardly composed, Julian's mind raced, a frantic whirl of alarm. Professor Alistair, looking relieved, passed him a scrap of paper with Caius Finch's family telephone number, then departed. Barnaby Thorne must not reach Caius. This twisted obsession, this predatory pursuit, had to be thwarted. Julian extracted his own pocket watch, a small, discreet device, and found a private corner. He quickly dialed the number. His foot tapped a restless rhythm. His free hand clenched and unclenched. The call connected with surprising speed. "Hello?" "Mr. Finch? It's Julian Beaumont." A sudden clatter, as if something heavy had struck the floor, echoed down the line. A rustling sound, then Caius's voice, hushed and trembling. "M-Mr. Beaumont? Why... how did you obtain my number? Did you... already possess it?" "No. Professor Alistair mentioned Thorne inquired after your address. I requested your number." "I merely wished to caution you." "A-and you, sir? Are you quite well? Even if you attempt to intervene..." "Concern yourself with your own safety. Should you require further absence, ring this number. I can intercede with the Professor. I am, you see, rather well-regarded." "...Thank you." "If Thorne attempts to accost you, or worse, notify me at once. A simple tap on the shoulder will suffice. Remedying damage is always more difficult than preventing it." "Understood." "Honestly, considering a transfer to another institution would be your wisest course." Julian let the suggestion hang, hoping its weight would register. "For now, either feign absence from your residence, or absent yourself entirely. Be elsewhere." "Very well..." "Good. I shall terminate this call." "W-wait." "...?" "Thank you, Mr. Beaumont." Caius's voice, after a lengthy pause, came softly, a faint tremor. It made Julian profoundly uncomfortable. "For... for always assisting me." "It is nothing." "I simply... felt it necessary to convey. Thank you. G-good day." "Indeed." "...Farewell." Julian hung up, not bothering to return the "farewell." Caius's voice, clinging to his ears, sent a shiver down his spine, leaving a residue of unease. --- What transpired that night, Julian never learned. Yet, the following morning, Caius Finch reappeared at Ashworth. Within the week, the faint, bruised peaches of his youthful complexion began to reassert themselves. Caius also ceased his habitual approaches, his demeanour subtly altered. The abrupt shift birthed a seed of suspicion in Julian's mind. But as the last vestiges of injury faded from Caius’s face, a fragile, unlikely hope began to unfurl within Julian. Two weeks later, Barnaby Thorne materialised before him, unbidden. "Beaumont." Julian's gaze remained fixed ahead, a tremor threatening to part his lips. "Julian." Was Barnaby Thorne finally weary of Caius Finch?

Chapter 1.5: A Fathom of Unease