The week following the luncheon in the Great Hall stretched into an interminable fog. Alistair Finch moved through the ancient corridors of Aethelgard Academy with practiced indifference, a mask meticulously sculpted over the churning anxiety within. His gaze, habitually sweeping the polished oak and the solemn portraits of ancient benefactors, avoided Lord Blackwood’s imposing figure. Blackwood, for his part, seemed content to hold court with his usual entourage, a dark star around which lesser planets orbited.
Pretending Blackwood’s presence held no weight, no unsettling gravity, demanded every ounce of Alistair’s discipline. He joined Lord Thorne and a scattering of other casual acquaintances for their afternoon tea in the Refectory, exchanging polite banalities, his ears, however, remained acutely attuned to the subtle shifts in the academy’s undercurrents.
Distancing himself from Blackwood’s immediate circle presented a formidable barrier. The direct channels of information, however unsavoury, had dried. Alistair found himself relying on Thorne’s wry observations, the snippets of gossip he occasionally offered. A simmering curiosity, an ignoble yearning for knowledge about his antagonist, clawed at him, but his pride, a brittle thing, refused to yield.
Seeking Thorne out in the hushed warmth of the library’s alcoves, Alistair feigned a casual interest in a tome on classical rhetoric. Thorne, sprawled across a worn leather armchair, idly spun a heavy, plain signet ring on his finger, its silver gleaming faintly against his elegant, albeit slightly rumpled, cravat. The ring, unadorned and practical, was a curious counterpoint to Thorne’s otherwise flamboyant demeanour.
“Blackwood, then?” Thorne murmured, not looking up from the pages of a scandalously thin novel. His voice carried a faint, sardonic amusement. “Still vexing your peace, Finch?”
“Merely observing the peculiar habits of our more… robust specimens,” Alistair replied, his tone smooth, unruffled. He adjusted the spectacles on his nose, a familiar comfort. “He seems to have thrown himself into his studies with an unusual vigour.”
Thorne let out a soft snort. “Studies, you say? Or perhaps, rather, the pursuit of another kind of knowledge. He was seen at the Marchioness of Fenwick’s reception last eve, cutting quite a swathe. Her niece, Miss Eleanor, was quite overwhelmed. Engaged within the hour, rumour has it. A whirlwind courtship, or a particularly aggressive display of intent, depending on your perspective.”
Alistair’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “So swift?”
“Indeed. Some would call it decisive. Others, an almost brutish appropriation,” Thorne said, his eyes finally lifting from his book, a glint of cynical amusement in their depths. “Apparently, they departed the venue together before the desserts were even served. Such unseemly haste. Truly, both are devoid of any proper decorum. He, for his lack of patience; she, for her brazen acquiescence.”
Thorne’s words, steeped in a familiar disdain for Blackwood’s boorishness, provided a strange, fleeting lightness in Alistair’s chest. He found himself perching on the edge of Thorne’s polished mahogany desk, a subtle nod of gratitude exchanged. Thorne shifted, making room, a rare gesture of silent camaraderie.
Thorne alone seemed to vocalise the crude nature of Blackwood’s social machinations. For that, Alistair found him tolerable, even, dare he admit, a peculiar comfort.
“Disgustingly efficient,” Alistair remarked, a hint of his own suppressed derision leaking into his voice.
“Right?” Thorne grinned, a flash of white teeth. “I, of course, am far too cultivated for such vulgar displays.”
His self-deprecation, spoken with a touch of theatrical pride, elicited a small, genuine laugh from Alistair. “Is one not meant to be somewhat uncultivated at this stage? You are, after all, still a student, Thorne.”
“One acquires these refinements as one goes along, Finch. Rationality, alas, rarely dictates such matters,” Thorne countered, a smirk playing on his lips as his gaze returned to his novel.
“Is that why you remain unattached?” Alistair probed, a rare moment of boldness.
Thorne’s book snapped shut. He looked at Alistair, an incredulous smile spreading across his face. He tapped Alistair’s hand, still resting on the desk.
“I shall be filing a complaint with the Headmaster for harassment.”
“Harassment? How so?”
“If the recipient of the remark feels uncomfortable, Finch, it constitutes harassment.”
“Thorne, you are utterly preposterous.”
“Libertine.”
Alistair’s slipper, which had been dangling precariously, dropped to the floor with a soft thud. Ignoring it, he nudged Thorne’s leg with his sock-clad foot. Thorne feigned a dramatic collapse, then casually raised a hand in a dismissive gesture. The worn signet ring glinted.
“That ring, Thorne, it doesn’t quite suit you,” Alistair said, a sudden thought.
Thorne’s expression sobered. “Whyever not?”
“It just… seems at odds with your general presentation.”
“At odds? Strange. Do I not strike you as a man of plain, honest sentiment?”
“No,” Alistair stated plainly. “It appears purely a utilitarian affectation.”
“...It is not,” Thorne insisted, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Alistair recalled then, a distant rumour: Lord Thorne’s family, despite their outward hedonism, were quiet, staunch adherents of a rather austere, forgotten sect, their piety a private, almost secretive affair. The ring, Alistair now surmised, was likely a familial emblem, worn more out of tradition than display. Thorne quickly brushed the moment aside, returning to his mocking persona.
---
Alistair continued his silent avoidance of Blackwood. Their paths crossed in the lecture halls, in the dining room, but Alistair’s gaze would flick, briefly, to Blackwood’s stern profile before settling on a distant point, a window, a dust motes dancing in a shaft of sunlight. He still lacked the courage to directly engage, to risk a fresh confrontation. A foolish notion, perhaps, that to speak first was to concede, to lose a silent, undeclared contest of wills.
Lord Blackwood’s brother, young Mr. Ashworth, however, did not share Alistair’s circumspection. Ashworth often sought Alistair out, his quiet gratitude for the prior intervention a palpable, if unsettling, thing. But the fresh, almost imperceptible bruising beneath Ashworth’s collar, the way he flinched when a loud sound echoed, spoke volumes. Blackwood, Alistair realised with a chill, was still asserting his brutal dominion, even when not directly visible.
When Alistair’s brow furrowed, noticing a particularly dark smudge on Ashworth’s wrist, the boy quickly pulled his sleeve down, his eyes darting away in shame.
Another four days crawled by. A quiet morning found Alistair alone in the vast, echoing classroom, his face buried in his hands. The thought of this grim play, this tightening coil around Ashworth, sickened him. He wanted to turn away, to shut his eyes to it all.
Between Alistair and Blackwood, the chasm widened. What had been a mere crack had become a gaping abyss of unspoken tension. Opening his eyes felt like risking entanglement, the rift threatening to swallow him. Ashworth’s subdued presence, the way he seemed to shrink into himself, was a silent testament to Blackwood’s continued pressure. Alistair yearned to escape the entire morbid tableau.
Then, a peculiar mercy. Young Mr. Ashworth stopped attending lectures. Master Edmund, the academy’s senior tutor, announced it as an ‘absence,’ but the tremor in his voice, the slight hesitation, betrayed a deeper truth: truancy. Alistair felt a jolt of relief, quickly suppressed by a wave of guilt.
Blackwood, conversely, grew more agitated in class. He would tap his quill with an unnerving rhythm, snap irritably at his companions, or send a dark, chilling glare across the room. A part of Alistair felt a flicker of smug satisfaction, a strange sense of vindication. He reasoned that once Ashworth had officially withdrawn, Blackwood’s dark fixation would wane, perhaps even turn back towards Alistair himself. He waited, confident in this cold, calculated hope.
A few more days bled into the next.
“Blackwood seems rather out of sorts,” Thorne remarked idly. Alistair’s heart gave a heavy thud, a treacherous beat against his ribs. He longed to turn, to assess Blackwood’s expression himself, but his carefully cultivated indifference held fast. When it came to matters of social standing and hidden emotions, he was a coward. He could only listen to Thorne’s casual observations, conjuring Blackwood’s agitated visage in his mind’s eye.
Yet, nothing shifted. The day wore on, classes concluded. Alistair convinced himself that tomorrow would bring change. Grand tides rarely turned in a single day. He continued to wait, gathering his satchel at the day’s end, when Thorne spoke again, a strange note in his voice.
“You had a falling out with Blackwood, didn’t you, Finch?”
Alistair turned, his movement almost involuntary.
“Indeed.”
“And you haven’t yet reconciled since the cafeteria incident?”
“…”
“My word, this is lasting longer than I anticipated,” Thorne said, shrugging, his hands thrust into his pockets. Alistair avoided his gaze, muttering a carefully crafted excuse.
“Honestly, Blackwood quite overstepped. Such blatant disregard for one’s peers, such bullying… it is simply untoward. There is something… peculiar about it.”
“Peculiar?”
“Well, Mr. Ashworth is a fellow student, a young gentleman of modest means, yet Blackwood’s actions are… an ugly display. It’s an ungentlemanly fixation, and I wish he would cease.”
“Oh, Finch.”
“…”
“Surely, a saint walks among us.” Thorne’s response, drenched in sarcasm, pricked Alistair like a needle.
Annoyed by the malicious undertone, Alistair glared. Thorne, however, merely smirked, his eyes alight with knowing amusement. Alistair felt a blush creep up his neck, a sense of his carefully constructed façade being laid bare. He turned sharply, ignoring Thorne’s mocking grin, and strode out of the classroom.
---
Hurrying down the echoing hallway, intent on making his escape from the day’s anxieties, a hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder. Assuming it was Thorne, intent on further torment, Alistair spun around, irritation flaring, and jerked his arm free. It was not Thorne, however, but Master Edmund, the senior tutor. Startled, Alistair quickly smoothed his expression.
“My apologies, Finch. Did I startle you?” Master Edmund’s voice was gentle, albeit tinged with an unusual gravity.
“Oh, no, Master Edmund, not at all. Merely preoccupied.”
“I see. Forgive the imposition, but… might I have a moment of your time?”
“Sir?”
“Only a moment. Please.”
Master Edmund’s face was drawn, his brow furrowed with concern. Alistair, sensing the urgency, nodded.
“This afternoon, Lord Blackwood inquired about Mr. Ashworth’s lodgings,” Master Edmund began, his words weighed with caution.
“Lord Blackwood did?”
As the senior tutor, Master Edmund could not have been entirely oblivious to the unspoken tensions, the subtle forms of harassment that permeated the academy. Yet, he lacked the boldness to directly confront the more powerful students. He was not, however, cold-hearted enough to simply ignore it. His approach to Alistair regarding Ashworth was proof of that inner conflict.
“I am not levying accusations against Lord Blackwood, but…”
“No, Master Edmund, I quite understand. I do not find his inquiry particularly unusual,” Alistair interrupted quickly, a lie. He found it deeply, terrifyingly unusual.
“Well, given your… previous interventions on Mr. Ashworth’s behalf, I had rather hoped you might accompany Lord Blackwood. Do you apprehend my meaning?” Master Edmund’s gaze was earnest, hopeful.
Alistair could not reply immediately. His teeth clenched, a dull ache beginning behind his eyes. Blackwood’s ominous ‘interest’ in Ashworth felt like a creeping tendril, now reaching for Alistair himself, threatening to bind him. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not stand idly by.
“Might I… instead have Mr. Ashworth’s private address, then?” Alistair managed, his voice steady despite the internal tremor.
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, allow me to retrieve it from the registry. Perhaps you might dispatch a note, discreetly?” Master Edmund offered, relief washing over his face.
“Indeed. I shall send word at once. Do not fret unduly, Master Edmund.”
“Right. I am counting on your discretion, Finch.”
“You may, sir.”
On the surface, Alistair presented a calm, assured front. Internally, a frantic alarm blared. His homeroom teacher, looking awkward but visibly eased, handed him a slip of paper bearing Ashworth’s address, then retreated down the hall. Alistair stared at the elegant script, the letters blurring slightly.
He had to stop Blackwood. He absolutely had to prevent Blackwood’s strange, brutal obsession from escalating, from consuming Ashworth further, and by extension, threatening Alistair’s own precarious position. The moment Master Edmund was gone, Alistair hurried to the academy’s private postal office, composing a terse, urgent message to Ashworth. His leg jittered nervously, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hand as he entrusted the letter to a discreet messenger boy, impressing upon him the utmost urgency.
“It’s Alistair Finch. This is Mr. Ashworth, correct?”
He had included a return address for a reply, which arrived late that evening, carried by a panting messenger. The paper was slightly crumpled, and Alistair imagined Ashworth’s trembling hand writing it. The boy’s voice, when the messenger conveyed his spoken gratitude, was high-pitched, almost breathless.
“N-no. Master Finch. How… how did you obtain my address? Did you… have it all along?” The messenger, relaying Ashworth’s words, stumbled over them.
“No. I learned from Master Edmund that Lord Blackwood inquired after your lodgings today. So I asked for it.”
“…”
“I merely wished to caution you to be exceedingly careful.”
“What of you, Master Finch? Are you quite well? Even though you attempt to intervene…”
“Do not concern yourself with my welfare. Focus on your own. Should you require further absence from your studies, communicate through this channel. I can make arrangements with Master Edmund. I possess a certain… influence, believe it or not.”
“...Thank you.”
“If Lord Blackwood attempts any further harassment at the Academy, any… physical imposition, inform me immediately. A discreet signal will suffice. It is always more challenging to remedy matters once they have fully transpired.”
“Very well.”
“Honestly, a change of academies might be your most prudent course.” Alistair slipped this in, a calculated suggestion, hoping it would plant a seed.
“…”
“At any rate, reflect upon it. For now, either pretend not to be at home, or seek refuge elsewhere. Be elusive.”
“Y-yes, Master Finch.”
“Right, then. I shall conclude this exchange.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Master Finch.”
After a prolonged, tremulous hesitation, Ashworth’s relayed voice came again, soft and fragile. Alistair felt a prickle of discomfort at the profound, almost desperate gratitude.
“T-thank you for your constant aid, Master Finch…”
“It is nothing.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. I-I shall endeavour to be more present.”
“See that you do.”
“...Farewell.”
‘Farewell?’ Alistair felt a shiver. He merely nodded to the messenger, dismissing him. The raw, desperate sincerity in Ashworth’s voice, even relayed, crawled under Alistair’s skin, leaving him profoundly unsettled.
What transpired at Ashworth’s lodgings that night, Alistair never truly learned. All he knew was that from the very next day, Mr. Ashworth returned to the Academy. Within a week, the faint, youthful pallor of his skin began to regain a healthier hue. Ashworth also ceased his tentative approaches to Alistair, his demeanour shifting dramatically, becoming more guarded, almost deferential.
The abrupt alteration in Ashworth’s behaviour planted seeds of suspicion in Alistair’s mind, a quiet disquiet. Yet, as the last vestiges of bruising on Ashworth’s face finally faded, Alistair could not help but feel a faint, if improbable, surge of hope. Perhaps Blackwood’s attention had truly been diverted. Perhaps the viper had, for now, coiled elsewhere.
Then, two weeks later, Lord Blackwood approached Alistair without preamble.
“Finch.”
“…”
“Alistair Finch.”
“…”
Alistair did not turn, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the intricate patterns of the chapel’s stained glass. But his lips felt as though they might part with an involuntary gasp at any moment. The air around him crackled with a sudden, potent energy. Could it be? Was Lord Blackwood finally tired of Mr. Ashworth? And if so, what then? The serpent’s coils felt dangerously close. Was he the next prey, or had he, somehow, averted a greater disaster?