Reginald’s fist hovered, a pale, ineffectual threat. Before it could truly commit, however, Augustus slapped his thigh with a surprising force, a sharp crack that preempted any actual altercation.
Reginald’s brief display of bravado dissolved into an undignified squawk, like a rook caught in a snare. Tobias and Augustus erupted into guffaws, prompting Reginald to pivot, his face contorted.
“Oh, you find this amusing? Do you?” he snarled, a playful, yet resentful, shove aimed at Tobias’s arm.
Soon after, the trio sauntered out, their boisterous laughter echoing in the corridor.
Tobias, lagging slightly, turned and offered a languid wave towards Alistair. Alistair, out of habit more than inclination, returned the gesture with a barely perceptible dip of his head.
Settling deeper into his carrel, he retrieved his worn copy of Livy, the familiar weight a small comfort.
---
Fingers had just closed around the cool brass of his mechanical pencil when, before inscribing the first numeral, Alistair’s gaze lifted. He surveyed the austere stone walls of the classroom, then drifted to the window.
Beyond the leaded panes, the ancient oaks of the academy grounds had begun their slow descent into autumnal gold. A distinct, earthy tang, sharp and subtly melancholic, carried on the crisp air. Above, the sky stretched an impossibly vivid blue, a stark contrast to the encroaching chill.
“A seminary for young ladies would prove far less taxing,” the old Classics master, Mr. Abernathy, often lamented. “It’s a veritable menagerie, this place. A breeding ground for squabbling apes. Boys, bless their feral souls, must first establish their wretched pecking order. By Michaelmas, things generally quiet. Until then? A ceaseless carnival of posturing, petty challenges. My head aches contemplating it. What particular beast were they born under, this year?”
Then, Mr. Abernathy would spread a gnarled hand, counting each knuckle, muttering arcane astrological designations.
“Ram, Bull, Twins, Crab, Lion, Maiden, Scales, Scorpion… ah, yes, that means…”
Alistair found himself mimicking the motion, tracing the delicate ridges of his knuckles. He always abandoned the attempt, counting the raised bones on the back of his hand instead.
One, thirty-one, two, twenty-eight, three, thirty-one… the predictable, ordered sequence of days. Never would he have surmised, back in the languid haze of early summer, that late October would feel so unnervingly like the first, raw weeks of September.
“Young men are naught but brutish instincts. Irrational, impulsively destructive.”
Alistair stared at the faint prominence of bone near his middle finger, a pale, almost elegant structure, and absently tapped the desktop, a faint, rhythmic counterpoint to the distant clamour of the schoolyard.
---
The raspy voice of the Latin lecturer, likely hoarse from the pervasive autumnal damp, droned on, punctuated by the faint scratch of chalk against the slate.
Gaze flickered to an empty desk near the front. For a fleeting instant, a phantom impression seemed to cling to the polished wood – the faint indentation of a head, pressed heavily on one side, subtly raised on the other.
Fingers ceased their tapping.
Alistair turned his head, a barely perceptible shift.
Young Edmund, a fourth-year known more for his brawling prowess than his academic distinction, slumped in his seat, face half-buried in a tattered workbook. His eyes, usually sharp and restless, were half-closed, heavy-lidded.
He would fix his gaze on a complex algebraic equation, as if about to devour it whole, only to deflate suddenly, pressing his forehead against the page with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred unlearned theorems.
Alistair watched, detached, as Edmund’s nose became momentarily squashed between the paper and his brow.
Then, he turned away.
“Did a momentary lapse claim me?” Alistair murmured, the question purely rhetorical. A vague, disoriented sensation lingered.
He placed a neat asterisk next to problem three and advanced to the fourth.
---
Midday repast comprised boiled mutton and a thin, watery broth.
Edmund, having dispatched his broth with remarkable speed, suddenly addressed Alistair, his tone surprisingly direct.
“You’re second in your form, aren’t you, Finch?”
“Indeed.” Alistair replied, his voice level.
“And overall, for the academy?”
“The same position, I believe.”
Edmund whistled, a low, coarse sound. “Good God.”
“Is there a query?” Alistair asked, a hint of steel beneath his polite veneer.
“So that means the top scholar in your form is the top scholar in the whole blinking school?”
“Were you not aware? I have never surpassed Miss Eleanor Thorne.”
“She’s even more of a grindstone than you, isn’t she?”
“Her tutors keep her until well past midnight, I understand.”
“Bloody hell. That’s devotion.”
“She is diligent.”
Alistair had no desire to prolong this line of enquiry. He scooped a mouthful of lukewarm mutton and rice, consuming it with a deliberate slowness.
Fortunately, Edmund did not press. He merely nodded, a thoughtful expression on his usually boisterous face.
“Ah—” An awkward pause stretched between them.
The abrupt halt in conversation felt jarring. Alistair, ever mindful of uncomfortable silences, spoke without truly considering, a calculated improvisation.
“And your own standing, Edmund? Within the form?”
Edmund’s spoon paused, mid-air, hovering precariously over his plate. Alistair found his gaze drawn to the boy’s hand.
For all his rough edges, Edmund held his cutlery with surprising, almost precise, decorum. If there was one thing the boy did with a peculiar correctness, it was that – handling his spoon and fork as if instructed by a meticulous governess.
“Within the form…”
“Yes?”
“Ninth.”
Alistair’s brow barely twitched. “Indeed?”
“Why the odd expression, Finch?”
He quickly averted his eyes from Edmund’s surprisingly refined grip. Could it be true? Not a fabrication?
So taken aback was Alistair that he almost voiced his incredulity. He bit back the indiscretion. A slip nearly occurred; offending Edmund would invite the boy’s volatile temper.
Alistair’s mind raced through the social calculus. Would Edmund prefer effusive praise? Or a feigned indifference, as if such a rank were entirely expected? His brain, attuned to survival, weighed the optimal response. Edmund was not overly fond of his boisterous companions. The latter option, subtly framed, might prove safer.
“Hmm. That is… more commendable than I might have anticipated.”
“What? Anticipated? How dim-witted did you take me for, Finch?”
“Not at all dim-witted. It was merely… I believed you found Latin a considerable struggle?”
“Latin is my only bane. Only Latin.”
“Yet you eschew extra tutoring.”
“Avoiding a tutor doesn’t preclude one from studying. Good heavens, did you truly believe me an imbecile?”
“No, no, not in the slightest.” Alistair swiftly made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It is, however, quite impressive, achieving such a position without supplemental instruction.”
Edmund’s expression softened, a flicker of something akin to pride. “Truly?”
“Quite. It is a credit to your perseverance.”
For some inexplicable reason, Edmund began mashing his spoon into the remnants of his mutton. And – was that a faint flush creeping up his neck? Alistair caught a glimpse of his ears, distinctly reddened.
---
Now that the thought surfaced, young Reginald, one of Edmund’s usual companions, had barely managed thirty-second place. And that was only because there were a handful of others whose academic performance was even more lamentable.
Reflecting on it, Alistair realised he rarely paid Edmund’s associates much mind, save for their tangential relation to his own observations. With that sudden insight, a chilling clarity descended. He had been so immersed in his own precarious balancing act, the subtle machinations of his fragile pride, that he had overlooked the raw dynamics playing out beneath his very nose.
Meanwhile, Edmund, utterly oblivious to Alistair’s brief existential crisis, had clearly received a potent dose of self-affirmation. His tone, now, was entirely altered, brimming with a newly minted self-satisfaction.
“Oh, right! You probably didn’t know – I’m rather adept at Rhetoric.”
“Indeed? How adept?”
“First in class. Never dropped a single point in the weekly debates.”
Alistair choked. A sharp, involuntary cough seized him. He spluttered, spilling a small amount of water from his goblet onto the polished table.
Edmund scowled, yanking his tray further away. “What in blazes, Finch? What kind of reaction is that?”
“I merely… had not anticipated such a proficiency,” Alistair managed, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.
“Is it truly so astonishing?” Edmund’s frown deepened, a slight pout to his lips. “My Latin score is abysmal, but what of it?” An odd hint of self-deprecation, almost fishing for reassurance, entered his voice.
Alistair offered a dry jest in return. “Perhaps consider a volume of prose, now and then.”
“What nonsense are you spouting? I am entirely a man of letters, Finch.”
“A man of letters? I have yet to observe you perusing any tome.”
“That’s because I indulge my literary appetites in the privacy of my chambers.”
“Why on earth would that require secrecy?”
Edmund’s eyes, curved in amusement, drooped as he scooped a spoonful of food. He pressed his lips casually over the spoon’s edge. Something about the image unsettled Alistair. He bit the inside of his cheek.
Edmund met his gaze, withdrew the spoon, then lowered his eyes, pressing a languid, deliberate kiss to its tip. “Broadsheets of salacious scandal are still literature, Finch.”
It was undoubtedly a crude jest. Heat washed over Alistair’s face. To conceal it, he snatched a crumpled napkin and, with a swift flick, tossed it at Edmund. It struck just beneath the boy’s long, narrow eyes, falling harmlessly. One of Edmund’s eyes twitched. Alistair, feigning contrition.
“Pray desist from such vulgarity, Edmund. Especially within these hallowed halls. It is quite… uncouth.”
“Oh? You mean this? This… Lord Gareth’s particular affectation?”
“I care not whose affectation it may be. Simply cease.”
“But isn’t this rather… fashionable amongst us now?”
Alistair merely stared, attempting to discern genuine enquiry from a jest.
---
Alistair’s sleep had become increasingly fragmented. That, he supposed, was a sure sign that his mind, if not his body, found itself in a state of discomfort, not ease. Mornings, once a dry, languid stretch of forced composure, now arrived with a strange, almost unsettling crispness. A welcome change, perhaps, as in his estimation, the gravest sins at eighteen were indolence and a placid acceptance of the mundane.
“Ah, confound it—” A painful click resonated from his jaw as he brushed his teeth. Ever since young Lord Penhaligon’s clumsy fist had found its mark, his mandible issued an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide.
Beyond that persistent irritation, the day had presented itself as reasonably tolerable. Yet, even amidst this fragile peace, sudden eddies of vexation would arise. The genesis was invariably Lord Gareth. Or, more precisely, the unpleasant incidents that continued to ripple from his spectacular downfall. Most of these, of course, transpired within the academy’s confines.
---
“Oh, that reminds me. I spotted Gareth last night.”
Reginald spoke, biting into an unappetizing pasty. Augustus, playfully jabbing Reginald’s ankle with a mimed fencing lunge, suddenly straightened. “Holy saints—that’s right! You’ve jogged my memory! I heard something through the grapevine—you all recall Barnaby Higgins, do you? That peculiar fellow, always lurking about the town’s less reputable establishments? I heard Gareth is crashing at his lodgings.”
“Barnaby Higgins? That dissolute cad, Higgins?” Edmund, rummaging through a small canvas satchel, inquired casually.
He withdrew his hand, clutching two small, foil-wrapped sweets. For some reason, he offered one to Alistair.
Alistair stared at it, a faint line forming between his brows. “—What is this?”
He looked at Edmund questioningly, but the boy merely offered a slight nod, as if the gesture required no further elaboration.
The most vehement reaction came from Augustus, whose satchel of snacks had apparently been raided. “Dash it all! I bought those! Why in blazes are you chaps devouring all my provisions?”
“Oh, as if you haven’t pilfered from mine, you glutton.” Reginald retaliated with another feigned lunge at Augustus’s throat.
Augustus instantly spun, grabbed Reginald’s collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. It was, of course, merely a show, a ritualised play-fight. That was simply their peculiar dynamic.
Alistair ignored their juvenile squabble, his gaze fixed on the sweet. The wrapper depicted a crudely drawn lemon, split in half. He peeled the foil, a faint reluctance settling, and placed the candy in his mouth.
Then, he lifted his head.
“What do you think, Finch? A taste of first love?” Edmund grinned, a vulgar flash of white teeth.
“I find lemon unappealing,” Alistair replied, his voice flat. It was a quiet dismissal of Edmund’s coarse witticism. He found the notion of “first love,” presented in such a sentimental, crude package, utterly without amusement. That cloying, saccharine sweetness, tinged with artificial bitterness, clung unpleasantly to his throat. It stifled any appetite. He could not finish the candy. He discretely tossed it into the nearby waste bin.
“Oh, such a tragic waste,” Edmund mocked, a theatrical display. Ignoring him, Alistair reached into Augustus’s pilfered satchel, searching for a different sweet. All were lemon or lime. Lime was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one, the acidic scent stinging, and placed it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Barnaby Higgins, eh? Sounds precisely like Gareth’s new milieu.”
“What, because they’re both dissolute wastrels?” Edmund’s words were sharp, laced with a casual cruelty.
Alistair turned, uncomfortable, to observe him. Edmund was sucking on his sweet, an almost vacant expression on his face, twirling the white stick idly between his lips. Alistair pulled his own candy from his mouth. Something about the scene felt profoundly wrong.
Edmund, however, seemed utterly unburdened. He tilted the stick in the air like a tiny rapier, making random, jabbing motions, a crude pantomime.
“Higgins, he deals in… diversions. Doesn’t matter if it’s men or women, coin or favours. And when he finds someone particularly vulnerable or useful, he sends them straight to Gareth. It’s a reciprocal arrangement. Frequenting the same low haunts, sharing the same… indulgences.”
“So Barnaby Higgins partakes in… such dalliances?” Reginald interjected suddenly. Whether he had concluded his playful skirmish with Augustus or simply paused mid-bout to eavesdrop, Alistair could not be certain. Reginald rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if genuinely processing this sordid information.