The summons arrived with the morning tea tray: a polite, yet firm, note from Miss Albright requesting my presence. I felt a flicker of surprise—why me?—but understanding soon dawned. Miss Albright, junior tutor and an easy target for student insolence, had recently experienced my quiet, subtle support. Moreover, I maintained a measured, if distant, civility with both Lysander Thorne and Septimus Vance. I was an ideal, malleable witness. Stepping into her office, a room heavy with the scent of aged parchment and lavender, I found Miss Albright seated behind a polished mahogany desk. Her gaze, usually diffident, held a searching quality. I maintained a composed expression, though a subtle tension tightened my jaw. “Mr. Finch, thank you for coming.” She gestured to the leather-bound chair opposite her. “Regarding the regrettable incident between Mr. Thorne and Mr. Vance…” I settled, posture erect. “Yes, Miss Albright.” “Your proximity to the events, I believe, was rather… acute.” Her fingers, fine and slender, traced the rim of a ceramic teacup. My testimony emerged, measured and precise, subtly angled to serve my nascent, fragile alliance with Thorne. “Vance initiated the altercation, Miss Albright. He challenged Thorne with a regrettable outburst regarding the misplacement of a textbook, then threw the first blow. Thorne, in my observation, merely defended himself.” A slight frown creased her brow. “Indeed? Are you certain, Mr. Finch? There is no… partiality in your account?” I met her gaze, unflinching. My expression, deliberately set to convey a grave solemnity since entering, showed no trace of unease. “Absolutely. Vance’s aggression was undeniable. Thorne, though formidable, was simply reacting to a physical assault.” Miss Albright absently ran a hand through the wisps of hair near her ear. “It is curious. Mr. Thorne sustained injuries, of course, but Mr. Vance… he required the immediate attendance of the physician. His condition, I understand, was rather more severe than anticipated. A fractured septum, torn facial tissue…” She paused. “And, regrettably, certain dental losses. The disparity is rather pronounced, wouldn’t you agree?” My internal calculations spun. The teeth Thorne had so brazenly presented to me—a grotesque trophy—flashed in my mind. “Still, Vance struck first. Thorne’s response, however forceful, stemmed from provocation.” I omitted the detail of Vance’s second lost tooth. Such specifics were irrelevant to my carefully constructed narrative. “Yet, does self-defense necessitate such… extensive damage?” Her tone was gentle, but the implication was clear. “There wasn’t, say, a collective involvement? Thorne’s associates, perhaps?” My spine stiffened imperceptibly. Rumours of Thorne’s coterie circling the brawl had indeed begun to fester. “No, Miss Albright. It was solely between Thorne and Vance. Others present made earnest attempts to intervene.” A carefully constructed lie, one designed to dispel any suggestion of a coordinated assault. Miss Albright drummed her fingers on the desktop, a soft, repetitive thrum against the quiet. Her eyes, clouded with thought, seemed to see past me, into the swirling currents of academy politics. Her lips parted, and she spoke my name, soft as a sigh. “Alistair.” “Yes, Miss Albright?” “You have always conducted yourself with exemplary rectitude. Your assistance in our recent… educational difficulties was invaluable. I place great trust in your judgment. I consider you a most reliable pupil, Alistair. I am, in essence, on your side.” My reply was measured, almost a murmur. “I merely recounted what I observed, Miss Albright.” It was an artful evasion. A retreat, a subtle concession without admitting culpability. The simplest of escape routes, yet utterly effective in its brazen honesty. Miss Albright, perhaps swayed by my recent efforts to aid her, seemed inclined to accept it. She had, after all, only interviewed a select few of Thorne’s acquaintances—a largely performative exercise, I suspected, designed to appease any formal complaints. Indeed, her subtle inclination towards Thorne’s side, though unspoken, resonated with the unspoken power dynamics of Aethelgard. Truth, in such an institution, was rarely straightforward. No disciplinary action followed for Lysander Thorne. I had anticipated this, of course, given the academy’s characteristic reluctance to disrupt its established order, especially when a student of Thorne’s lineage was involved. Yet, the starkness of his impunity still surprised me. My certainty stemmed not only from the school’s ingrained laissez-faire approach but also from my acute understanding of Septimus Vance’s character. Vance, I knew, would never publicly acknowledge such a humiliating defeat. His aristocratic pride, fragile as it was, would never permit him to voice the indignity of a broken nose, torn flesh, or lost teeth at the hands of a peer. His father, I surmised, might grumble privately, but an open complaint would only magnify Vance’s shame. Yet, a curious incongruity remained. Days blurred into a seamless continuum of lectures and study, yet Thorne carried on, entirely unperturbed. He sauntered through the quadrangles, his face a canvas of fading bruises and a newly acquired, artfully placed plaster on his nose, a defiant badge of his victory. He laughed boisterously, jostled his cronies, and displayed no hint of concern. How could he remain so utterly nonchalant? My mental projection had cast Thorne in a different role. I had envisioned him and his parents making an obligatory, uncomfortable pilgrimage to Vance’s father, offering a perfunctory apology. Not a sincere expression of remorse to Vance himself, but the ritualistic appeasement demanded by an incensed, powerful patriarch. I had even imagined myself listening to Thorne’s inevitable grumbles afterwards, nodding in sympathetic understanding. That, I thought, would be my role. Yet, Thorne had neither sought out Vance’s father nor had Vance’s father appeared at the academy. This deviation from my predicted sequence of events piqued my intellect. I possessed a peculiar compulsion: confronted with an unpredictable anomaly, I felt an almost irresistible urge to dissect its intricacies, to uncover its hidden mechanics, and then to decide whether the acquired insight held any utility. Thus, I devised a simple stratagem, a seemingly innocuous overture. “Thorne—” “Blackwood!” Thorne’s voice, a boisterous bark, cleaved the air. He had just tossed a discarded apple core into a nearby waste bin and now turned, catching the eye of a distant peer. My attempt to initiate conversation was thwarted. Damnation, the timing was abysmal. “Did someone call my name?” Thorne swung back, his gaze sweeping the room. He possessed a disconcerting knack for sensing even the faintest whisper amidst chaos. I swiftly raised a hand. “I did.” Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “Finch? Why the sudden summons?” Before formulating a reply, I allowed a subtle expression of mild displeasure to cross my features. “If one calls another, it is customary to await their attention.” With a dismissive roll of his tongue, Thorne crooked a finger, an insolent gesture that grated on my nerves. I suppressed a frown. Such a display was characteristic of Thorne’s casual disregard for decorum, though I suspected he tolerated my mild chiding as a form of peculiar camaraderie. “You mentioned earlier that the afternoon bored you, did you not?” I asked, striving for an air of casual indifference. “Utterly, irrevocably bored.” “Are you engaged tomorrow? I find myself with a rare absence of academic obligations.” My internal calculations affirmed the calculated risk. I offered a faint, satisfied smile. Thorne, however, merely pointed a finger at me, his expression one of incredulous amusement. “You aren’t proposing we spend the day together, are you, Finch?” “Indeed. I am.” My composure faltered. His lukewarm, almost mocking, response stiffened my features. “You and I? And to what end?” “No particular end. Merely… as we often do.” “Often do? Have we ever, in the entirety of our acquaintance, pursued amusements beyond the academy walls, one-on-one?” A sharp spike of annoyance pierced through my practiced calm. He was right, of course. My casual phrasing had been an oversight, a foolish assumption of shared experience. Was he now mocking my presumption? A flush crept up my neck, hot and mortifying. Must he render me so utterly pathetic? “Very well. If it does not suit, then forget I spoke.” I clamped my mouth shut, stifling the cutting retort that rose to my lips. His persistent sarcasm was galling. I was about to speak again when a sudden realization struck me, halting the words. This was Thorne. This was precisely his nature. I had always known him to be capricious, capable of sudden, fleeting generosity, yet just as swift to withdraw his favour. Why had I assumed he would readily embrace my proposition? Had I, in a moment of weakness, mistaken our shared antipathy for Vance as a genuine bond? The thought brought a wave of self-disgust. Ashamed of my own sentimentality, I feigned complete indifference. “Never mind. Consider the suggestion unmade.” The words, however, sounded childish, a petulant bluff. My face burned anew with embarrassment. How utterly mortifying. Pathetic, Alistair. I bit my lip, clenching and unclenching my fist several times on my thigh. My right eye twitched almost imperceptibly. Thorne’s response was a single, noncommittal word. “Alright.” A profound irritation settled over me. I turned sharply, presenting my back to him. An insufferable brute. *** For a student at Aethelgard, a ‘day off’ was merely an illusion. It was an extension of relentless study, private tutoring, and solitary preparation. Yet, my parents, perpetually engrossed in their own affairs, were rarely present. The quiet neglect afforded me a peculiar freedom. I, unlike many of my peers, knew how to carve out moments of genuine liberty on a weekend. Until, that is, a sudden, intrusive missive shattered my tranquility. The culprit: Lysander Thorne. ‘The infirmary here possesses rather civilised refreshment rooms these days, would you not agree?’ The abruptness of the missive, particularly after his earlier dismissal, left me momentarily bewildered. Why now? Why me? Yet, the inconsistency was, in itself, a reflection of his peculiar, self-serving nature. My emotions seesawed between annoyance and a reluctant, intellectual intrigue. “Why the sudden summons?” I tapped out my reply on the desk, the quill scratching softly. ‘A passing thought, Finch. Thought you might appreciate a luncheon. My treat.’ The impudence. I gritted my teeth, biting the inside of my lip. “Perhaps.” I licked the inside of my cheek. I would not allow him to dictate terms entirely, even if my position was inherently weaker. My intent was not to annoy, merely to return a measure of his own off-handedness. I was contemplating a more decisive refusal when the opening line of his message replayed in my mind. ‘Wait, the infirmary?’ That single phrase, more than any other, precipitated the cancellation of my planned repose, propelling me towards him. Had the infirmary Thorne alluded to been a remote, provincial clinic, I would have maintained my intended solitude. But it transpired to be the substantial county infirmary, located a mere carriage ride from my lodgings. With a calculated acceptance, I capitulated to his summons. Upon my arrival, I found him sprawled upon a waiting room bench, legs spread with a casual disregard for propriety. He acknowledged me with a single, indolent flick of his hand. I offered no reciprocal gesture, instead regarding his face with a scrutinising gaze. “That bandage on your nose. Why has it not been removed?” “My reasons are my own.” His voice was a low growl. “Is it still bleeding? The wound unhealed?” “It has closed. Rest assured.” He pushed himself upright, sauntering towards me, then slung an arm across my shoulders, the weight surprisingly heavy. “Let us procure some sustenance. My treat.” “The refreshment rooms are in the lower level, I presume?” “Indeed. Though ‘treat’ does not imply gratis fare, Finch.” He sneered, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “To boast of a mere few shillings…?” I returned his glare. Thorne merely offered an arrogant, knowing grin. We descended to the infirmary’s lower level, procuring a rather indifferent luncheon. As we awaited our plates, I posed the question that had begun to prickle at my curiosity. “So, your presence at the infirmary. A sudden affliction?” “My presence?” “Your face. Your wounds. Are they more serious than you let on?” “Ah.” He pointed a finger at his own face, tracing a gentle circle along his jawline. Then, with a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed the notion. “No, not for myself. Vance is presently an occupant of these very halls.” The air thickened, grew ponderous. My light, rhythmic tapping against the table ceased. My body stiffened. Why would Thorne seek out Vance’s place of recovery? I alone felt the sudden unease, while Thorne, oblivious, answered with a chilling nonchalance. “I intend to provide you with a diversion, Finch. Something rather… entertaining.” “What precisely do you mean?” “Vance’s father is presently within his son’s room. Quite unexpected, is it not? I extended the invitation myself.” My mouth opened, then closed. The unspoken question—*how?*—revolved in my mind, yet no sound emerged. Thorne, idly bouncing a fork in the air, continued, offering a cynical, twisted rationale for his actions. “You are aware, I trust, of my… profound adherence to certain ethical principles? Forgiveness, Finch! A magnificent, glorious concept. My personal code dictates the seeking and offering of absolution. How could I possibly neglect such a sacred duty?” “You expect me to believe such a pretext? That you came here to genuinely seek absolution?” “Precisely.” He wrinkled his nose slightly, a smirk playing on his lips.

A Witness's Deceit, A Brute's Whim