Septimus Vance, or rather, the illusion of his consequence, had perished.
His station, once unassailable, now lay in fragments beneath the ancient stones of Aethelgard. Not in corporeal death, but in a far more chilling dissolution of his very standing.
Academy grounds seethed. Only hours past, before the scurry of hundreds of polished boots had obscured the truth, there had been stark, irregular gouges on the manicured quad. A furious, undignified blemish upon the hallowed turf.
A piercing, insistent chime from the bell tower clawed at every nerve, a shrill indictment of decorum. Each student, a pale, expectant face pressed to leaded panes, turned toward the tumult. Like pallid spectres, their gazes converged. A clamour of hushed exclamations and sharp whispers carried across the courtyard, through the open casements of the common rooms.
“What ignominy is this?”
“Ignorant fool, it’s a fracas. In the West Wing’s preparatory hall.”
“A brawl? Who dares?”
“Vance and Thorne. Lysander Thorne.”
“Impossible! That scoundrel Vance is finally met with his match.”
We were young men, poised precariously at the precipice of adulthood. A precarious age, shedding the skin of self-absorption, yet indulging in the raw, unrefined pleasure of vicarious violence. Such a reaction, a hungry turning of heads, felt almost innate.
“Did anyone witness the ignoble affair? Were those two not inseparable for a season?”
“Heard you not the whispers regarding Vance?”
Our own common room contained a peculiar alloy of humanity. Some, puffed with self-importance, relished their proximity to the rumour’s genesis. Others, with a quiet, almost pious satisfaction, observed the downfall. Yet more still, a silent, predatory cohort, savoured the triumph of the ascendent. Below, near the carriage house, a white, closed conveyance, emblazoned with the Aethelgard crest, awaited. For the next half-hour, the identity of those deemed worthy of its sombre attendance consumed all conversation. Rumours, Alistair knew, travelled with unnatural swiftness through the five-storied, insulated world of our venerable academy.
Who, then, had won?
Those privy to the true account evinced no particular concern for the injured. Instead, they embraced a curious, almost cherished gratification. A small, fervent desire, nurtured since the commencement of the term, had been fulfilled.
Lysander Thorne.
Fights, especially amongst our kind, rarely yielded such unequivocal outcomes. A solitary duel, in particular, often blurred the lines of victory. Yet, this encounter had conspired entirely in Thorne’s favour. The insidious currents of rumour, already circulating like venom, had merely sealed Septimus Vance’s ignominious fate.
Through the stone-flagged corridors of this bastion of privilege, the words slithered:
“It is said Septimus Vance exhibits… preferences of an unnatural bent.”
“Preposterous! Did not the debutantes flock to his side?”
“A base deception! Falsehoods, all of them. They claim he pursued… ignoble congress. That any boy he subjected to his cruelties… well, they say he sought more than mere subjugation. Monstrous. And his family’s coffers are vast, are they not? Wealth, it seems, can purchase anything. Even a dalliance in the most sordid of establishments.”
“By the Saints! I never conceived Vance capable of such depravity. A veritable libertine.”
“A golden spoon, indeed. Even one of such… inclinations can frequent the common houses. But are not the taverns of the docks less exorbitant? The summer recess approaches. Might one slip away for an evening? An adventure, perhaps?”
Such discourse veered, not toward Septimus Vance’s ultimate fate, but toward the tawdry allure of the city’s underbelly. Yet, in that brief, venal exchange, Vance’s honour had been lacerated a dozen times. Murdered, in essence. An act that multiplied with every listening ear within the academy’s walls.
After his defeat at Lysander Thorne’s hands, Septimus Vance became a crumpled discard. As if the entire student body had been silently awaiting his plummet.
Within the preparatory hall, a peculiar tension held sway: a delicate balance between frantic chatter and a looming, enforced calm. Eyes darted, quick as a metronome’s swing, between the faces of the room. A dark stain on the flagstones at the back of the room still asserted itself, though it must have long since dried. Still, Alistair imagined he could press a finger to it and find blood seeping through.
Unexpectedly, Miss Eleanor Albright, our junior tutor, who appeared on the verge of tears merely witnessing the day’s unfolding, now entered. She, usually a timid wren, burst into the room. Upon entry, she flung a stack of scrolls onto the floor, scattering parchment, and emitted a high-pitched cry that threatened to split one’s eardrums.
“What is the meaning of this! You, you, you incorrigible wretches! Do you take me for a fool? Why do you conduct yourselves with such wanton disregard? Cease this instant! Silence, I command you! This is time for private study! Is this an occasion for idle gossip? Next year, you shall be senior scholars! Scholars! I implore you, heed my words and desist from this juvenile strife! Do you comprehend that I bear responsibility for your every transgression? I ought never to have accepted a position in an all-boys academy! I never desired such an appointment! I feel my very sanity slipping! If you persist in this fashion, your lives will amount to naught but squalor! Do you possess no filial piety? And how many times must I instruct you to observe silence during self-study!”
Most sensible individuals, faced with such an unexpected explosion from a normally demure figure, would have instantly hushed. But this was an academy for young gentlemen, a gathering of every conceivable shade of underdeveloped character. Some defiantly flouted common sense. Others clung to the pathetic immaturities of their middle-school years. Still more, despite sharing the same classrooms, displayed such intellectual sluggishness as to commit the most idiotic provocations. Our own common room, Alistair reflected, was a perfect microcosm.
“Hark, the tutor is displeased. Displeased! Pray, do not be displeased!”
“Her pique is quite amusing.”
A snide voice emanated from the farthest corner, near the main thoroughfare. Two seats ahead of Alistair, a student whispered a soft agreement.
“You impudent rogue! What? Do you deem me a jest? You, step forward. Present yourself at the lectern!”
“Pray, tutor, why such vexation?”
“I said, step forward, you insolent cub!”
Miss Albright hurled the attendance ledger. It spun between the rows of desks, striking the polished oak of a desk in the third row with a resounding crack, before thudding to the floor. The heavy tome, losing its velocity, created a disquieting clamour.
“I offer my sincerest apologies. I shall not repeat the transgression. Forgive me, if you please?”
He continued to smirk, a shallow, unrepentant gesture. Always such a type, Alistair noted. Neither a luminary nor an outcast, but a mediocre, blustering sort, seeking cheap notoriety. The sloppy ones, he mused, always overplayed their hand. They peacocked, feigning formidable resolve. But only they failed to perceive the utter clumsiness, the pitiable transparency, of their charade.
“Step forward. Or must I physically compel you?”
“Ah, tutor! Is that not excessively severe? Truly!”
“Silence!”
“Hold your tongue. The tutor commanded you to present yourself.”
Alistair could no longer tolerate the spectacle. A surge of cool irritation compelled him to speak. Every eye in the room pivoted toward him, but he paid them no mind. He simply observed the pathetic scene before him. Honestly, it was so utterly risible that a faint scoff nearly escaped his lips. He rather relished such precise moments.
He possessed no great aptitude for fisticuffs, nor did he affect the swaggering mien of a ruffian. Yet, his position, relatively elevated within this academy’s brutal hierarchy, stemmed from his adeptness at dismantling boys such as these. Such was his particular, subtle predation.
“Bartholomew. Why this sudden solemnity?”
“You are the one who misreads the room, Crouch.”
This ascendance, of course, had not occurred overnight. During the initial, brutal culling of first year, there had been some resistance. Now, however, it was as satisfying as a perfectly calibrated spiral of silence.
“Indeed. Cease your bluster and remove yourself. Truly, are you so bereft of discernment? Do you not perceive the gravity of this moment?”
“If you are truly contrite, then move. Your petulance threatens to incriminate us all. You insufferable dolt.”
“Ah, what possesses him? Truly. What is his wretched game?”
He could hear Bartholomew Crouch’s petulant muttering even as it died in his throat. The confidence that had animated him when baiting the tutor now receded, like a guttering candle flame. Under the unspoken, yet palpable, pressure of the entire common room, he finally rose. He shuffled to the front. Observe him now, Alistair thought, like a drowned rat.
Alistair permitted himself a secret, twisted smile. Septimus Vance had fallen. Nothing, he realised, could have brought him greater satisfaction. Perhaps it stemmed from that day, months ago, when Vance’s carelessly flung fist had grazed his own jaw.
No, he was certain of it. A profound sense of vindication settled upon him. Honestly, he was a little surprised at his own intensity. And with it, that electrifying thrill, a subtle tremor of power returning to his grasp.
“To the corridor, immediately!”
“...”
Having dispatched the unruly boy, Miss Albright placed a trembling hand upon the lectern. She silently struggled to master her anger. Perhaps she found some measure of composure, for her tone, when she next spoke, was mercifully calmer. She announced her intention to summon each student individually. She would solicit their unvarnished account of the incident.
“I vow, I shall maintain absolute discretion. So please, speak only the truth. Do not disappoint me. I beg you.”
She seemed resolute in her pursuit of an unbiased narrative. Yet, as a lone female tutor amidst this male-dominated institution, she still seemed utterly oblivious to the subtle, predatory dynamics of our academy’s rigid pyramid.
Once the self-study period concluded, and Miss Albright – her face still flushed with suppressed emotion – finished composing herself and departed, Julian Blackwood closed the casements and the common room door. He then delivered a chilling admonition.
“Attend closely. Weigh your words with precision. Make a judicious assessment of who shall retain influence here – Lysander Thorne, or that… that unnatural creature.”
“Septimus Vance instigated the initial assault. You comprehend, do you not?”
Bartholomew Crouch chimed in, a craven echo. Such admirable loyalty, Alistair mused, delivered with the speed of a whipped cur.
---
Less than a week thereafter, Lysander Thorne returned to the academy.
Thorne walked with an exaggerated swagger, his jaw still swollen, a livid bruise mottling his cheek. His nose, clearly having sustained a tear, bore a crude, square bandage, haphazardly secured with strips of plaster. In stark contrast to his disfigured countenance, however, the very air he exuded was more imposing, more arrogant than ever. He bared his teeth in a wide grin, then tapped his index finger against what appeared to be a perfectly reattached canine. Alistair returned a faint, knowing chuckle.
Immediately after the altercation, Lysander Thorne had casually risen. He had walked, unassisted, to the waiting conveyance. It was a bizarre, yet undeniably flamboyant gesture, one that had dominated every conversation for days. Alistair had hurried after him. Just before Thorne ascended into the carriage, Alistair extended a small, waxed carton of milk.
“This belongs to you. State that it fell upon the ground, and that you fear the onset of lockjaw, should the wound not be disinfected.”
In that moment, Lysander Thorne wiped at his face with a blood-caked left hand. His gaze, however, fastened upon Alistair. The blood, already stiff and dry, clung stubbornly. Honestly, seeing half his face encrusted in crimson, dried to a rust-like hue, was hardly a pleasant sight. Alistair’s focus narrowed on the unusually small pupils, now riveted to his outstretched hand. In that grotesque state, Thorne spoke. Alistair, caught off guard, strained to discern the words.
“...I shall send for you.”
Thorne’s hand, still crusted with dried gore, brushed lightly against Alistair’s cheek. It was an abrupt, entirely unexpected gesture.
“...Pardon?”
Alistair could only stand, utterly dumbfounded.
Soon after, a cryptic note, delivered via an errand boy, arrived. It stated that most of the nerves remained viable, and that the surgeons had successfully reattached what had been severed. Upon his return, Lysander Thorne simply commandeered the seat beside Alistair’s own. When Alistair’s original seatmate appeared, Thorne, without even glancing at him, merely gestured with a dismissive thumb toward another vacant chair. The boy, a quiet, unremarkable sort, merely found another place.
Before Alistair quite comprehended the shift, the brute was seated beside him. Thorne tapped Alistair’s shoulder twice, a rapid succession of index and middle fingers. Then, abruptly, he declared,
“A token for you.”
“What? What manner of jest is this, from nowhere?”
“Silence and open your hand.”
Alistair lowered his mechanical pencil. He opened his palm. Simultaneously, Thorne carefully placed something within it. A peculiar, crinkling sensation in the centre of his hand left him somewhat unsettled. As Thorne lifted his large hand from Alistair’s, he saw it: one broken tooth, rootless, and another, its root entirely intact.
What in the name of Hades was this? Confused by the tooth’s strange, yellowish end and the dark, rust-red stains still clinging to it, Alistair glanced at Lysander Thorne. Thorne leaned back in his chair, a faint, predatory smirk playing upon his lips.
“I have ensured Septimus Vance shall masticate his meals with a false tooth, for the remainder of his days.”
A low, guttural chortle escaped him. He twisted his shoulders, laughing as if genuinely amused – like some unburdened child at play.
“Did you observe it?”
“...”
“I was victorious.”
This damnable rogue.
Utterly devoid of remorse, Thorne sat before him. For a fleeting instant, Alistair very nearly flung those teeth against the polished stone of the wall.
Lysander Thorne’s return ignited yet another conflagration of gossip throughout the academy. After all, he was the first of the protagonists to reappear. His face, while bruised, was not as utterly shattered as rumour had projected. And he certainly exhibited none of the gloomy pallor of a defeated man.
Whispers regarding the victor spread like wildfire among the junior scholars. Most of those who truly understood the incident were of our own year. For the first-formers, such dramas were still distant, fascinating echoes of an older world, yet to fully grasp their own place within it.