Alistair’s bruised face healed, yet the deeper wounds festered, unseen. Clement Thorne’s open disdain settled upon him like a perpetual chill, far colder than any London fog. There was no pretense now. No lingering glance, no murmured instruction. Alistair had been excised. Elias Blackwood, the wretched cause of so much internal turmoil, now occupied the coveted space beside Clement in the lecture halls. His presence was a constant, sharp reminder, a thorn in Alistair’s side. Alistair watched Elias’s hunched shoulders, the way he seemed to flinch even when Clement was merely turning a page. Alistair was no fool. He could not pretend indifference. His chin might rise, but his composure was a brittle shield, constantly threatening to shatter. To approach Clement as if nothing had transpired would be a pathetic act. He lacked the courage for such a charade. Alistair’s days dissolved into a melancholic haze. He drifted through academic pursuits, the intricate theorems and ancient texts offering little solace. A petty desire for retribution sometimes sparked within him, a fleeting, hot flicker against the pervasive gloom. Always, it subsided. He endured. Clement, once so poised, now moved with an unsettling intensity. His envy, his resentment for Alistair, now seemed almost childish. The reason was painfully clear: Elias. Elias had somehow become a conduit for Clement’s dark whims. Regardless of the intention, Alistair harbored a potent dislike for Elias. Elias was never his to begin with, a stray dog Clement had picked up. But it was not enough that Elias had usurped his place. Elias had somehow poisoned Clement’s regard, turning it to hatred. Alistair could not shake the thought that Elias was a noxious, insidious presence. Even if Elias was but a pawn, it mattered little to Alistair’s churning emotions. Logic often failed where feeling reigned. Blaming Elias offered a fragile anchor in this miserable situation. Still, Alistair’s choices remained rational. He knew Elias was merely caught in Clement’s turbulent wake. This knowledge kept Alistair’s animosity carefully veiled. He offered Elias no hostile glance, no sharp word. Partly, he felt too mortified to reveal the raw jealousy that clawed at him. And partly, he understood that any outburst directed at Elias would only brand him as a fool. Clement would despise him further. And his peers? They would surely label him as something unspeakable, a man of unwholesome, deviant affections. “This… this is a nightmare,” Alistair murmured to himself, the words tasting like ash. He detested it. He detested it more than Clement’s hatred itself. The thought of such a stigma, a whispered accusation, made his stomach clench. Suddenly, the image of Silas Ashworth, that irritating, indifferent rake he’d found himself increasingly entangled with, flickered in his mind. Alistair couldn’t quite explain why. Perhaps it was simply Silas’s recent ubiquity. If Silas ever divined Alistair’s true thoughts, what cutting remark would he utter? *“Turns out Finch is just a filthy, tainted creature, then, eh?”* The image of Silas’s lip curling in disdain, his eyes devoid of any warmth, made Alistair’s fists clench. A wave of nausea swept over him. He would rather perish than have anyone uncover his wretched secret. Friendships in academia were often as shallow as a puddle after a summer shower. As Clement and Alistair’s estrangement became public knowledge, Alistair’s ties to Clement’s immediate circle withered. Young Davies, once a loyal satellite, now offered only curt nods. Strangely, Barnaby Croft, usually the most isolated of Silas Ashworth’s loosely formed group, had initiated conversation with Alistair just yesterday. “Finch, I believe Ashworth was seeking you earlier.” “Indeed? What for?” “He did not say. Merely mentioned your name.” Alistair simply nodded, a familiar weariness settling upon him. It was always like this – purposeless exchanges. Already, the subtle currents of the university gossips placed Alistair firmly within Silas Ashworth’s orbit, rather than Clement Thorne’s. Not that the connection to Clement’s former associates was entirely severed. Occasionally, in the fencing academy or crossing the quadrangles at dawn, polite greetings were exchanged. Mostly, this was limited to young Davies. “Good morning, Finch!” “Davies. A good morning to you.” Alistair recalled one such strained interaction. Young Davies had leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. *“Thorne has been most peculiar of late. The way he handles Blackwood… it’s rather disquieting, wouldn’t you agree?”* Alistair must have allowed a flicker of distaste to cross his face, for Davies seemed to take it as agreement. He continued, whispering of Clement’s possessive grasp on Elias’s arm, his insistence that Elias remain at his side. Alistair’s fingers curled into his palms, his jaw tightened. He managed to force out a response, cold and clipped. *“I concern myself with none of Thorne’s unsavory predilections.”* Davies instantly recoiled, silenced. Of late, Davies had been making overtures to Silas Ashworth’s companions. He seemed to be quietly seeking an exit from Clement’s increasingly erratic shadow. Perhaps his shared observations were a clumsy attempt to bridge a gap, to secure a new alliance. Today, as was becoming customary, it was only Silas Ashworth and Alistair left in the emptying seminar room. Silas leaned against the paneled wall, his gaze unreadable as it settled upon Alistair. Was he ignoring Alistair, or merely assessing him? Alistair, annoyed, turned his head away, electing to ignore Silas in turn. “Finch.” “Ashworth?” “A confection from the sweet shop after our lessons. That peppermint stick we sampled last week was rather choice.” Silas disregarded Alistair’s attempt at aloofness. As he spoke, he idly tossed a small leather ball, meant for a parlour game, across the room. The ball bounced erratically, threatening the heads of lingering students, yet no one dared utter a complaint. Silas cared little for propriety. He was indifferent, brazenly selfish. Alistair frowned, watching the ball carom off a stack of books. He finally broke his silence, his irritation sharpening his tone. “You refer to the one you devoured entirely yourself, I presume? You purchased it for your own indulgence.” “Well, not precisely. I merely favor the verdant hue.” “So, my preference was entirely disregarded?” “How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.” The ball had by then rolled beneath a heavy oak table. Silas extended a hand, gesturing for it. A student nearby hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the ball, placing it in Silas’s open palm. Silas casually weighed the sphere in his hand, addressing the retreating student. “My thanks, simpleton.” What an utterly vexing personality. *‘Simpleton this, dullard that.’* Every utterance was insufferable. Honestly, it made no logical sense that someone as boorish as Silas Ashworth now sought Alistair’s company over Clement Thorne’s. Silas now took his meals with Alistair, sat beside him in lectures, accompanied him to the library. Clement might be absent, but Silas could easily send a note or dispatch a messenger if he wished to rendezvous. The thought pricked Alistair’s mind. He voiced it without much reflection. “Why do you no longer keep company with Clement Thorne these days, Ashworth?” Silas, mid-act of tossing and catching the leather ball against the wall, froze. He then turned, a puzzled expression creasing his brow. “You quarreled with him,” Silas stated. “I did?” “Yes. You and Thorne.” “I am well aware. It was *I* who quarreled with him. Why does this pertain to your affiliations?” “Your pronouncements are most curious, Finch. It is because you are my companion.” Silas’s gaze swept over Alistair, strangely blatant. Feeling uneasy, Alistair averted his eyes and retorted. “You were also companions with Clement Thorne, however.” “Astonishing. You jest, surely. Are you asserting that you are *not* my friend?” Silas’s tone was incredulous now, a pointed finger aimed at Alistair. “No, I am your friend. But you were also Thorne’s friend. Why then do you take my part?” “Well, I have known you longer.” “What nonsense do you utter? We became companions because of Clement Thorne, did we not?” “Finch. What are you even saying? We were quite close in our first year!” “When was this?” “Truly, you are an insolent fellow. Remarkable. In the refectory, we often exchanged glances!” “Ah… those occasions.” “So, what, was I the sole individual who perceived a burgeoning camaraderie? You deceiver. That is precisely why, as soon as we shared a class, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge such a truth? Unbelievable. I am utterly disheartened by your memory.” “Oh.” “Remarkable. Simply… remarkable. How could you be so utterly oblivious?” “Very well, I apologize. I am sorry, indeed.” Alistair mumbled his apology hastily. He recalled those awkward, yet undeniably frequent, encounters from their first year. The intense, almost unnerving stares. He had interpreted them as hostility, plain and simple. Was that within Silas’s “friendship category”? Wait, did that mean the first overture, the suggestion to take luncheon together, had not been Clement Thorne’s, but… Silas’s? The realization struck Alistair with the force of a carriage impact, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was disquieting, even shocking. Still, he wished no further entanglement, so he merely feigned comprehension and nodded. “Alright, alright. I grasp it. My apologies.” “I was profoundly vexed just now.” Silas fixed Alistair with a brief, intense glare. Sometimes, Alistair could not fathom the workings of Silas’s mind. “And furthermore, Clement Thorne is behaving in a most unhinged fashion.” Alistair merely listened. “That man is entirely unhinged at present. He has always possessed a certain eccentricity, but this? This is simply… yes.” Silas gripped the small leather ball with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index finger. The sight brought to mind young Davies and the other classmates who had awkwardly attempted to confide in Alistair about Clement’s odd conduct. From Silas’s observations, one fact became abundantly clear: Clement Thorne’s reputation was in precipitous decline. “Unnatural.” The word — the most feared and damning stigma in the rarefied world of young gentlemen at the university — sent a shiver through Alistair. His body trembled slightly at the thought. At the same instant, a wave of profound relief washed over him that no one knew his own secret. Did this relief signify that he valued his own preservation above Clement’s fate? Uneasy, Alistair regarded Silas Ashworth’s face, feeling like a blasphemous cleric concealing a heresy before the Almighty. “Truly, myself,” he muttered. Then he allowed a laugh to escape him — a strange confluence of fear and bitter derision. It was almost a jest, that to others, he was now Silas Ashworth’s closest confidante. In truth, Alistair was no different — a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Only months prior, he had been Clement Thorne’s closest companion. And yet, here he was, hiding in a filthy snare he had barely eluded. He had only managed to avoid exposure. That was all. --- Dawn broke over the soot-stained roofs of London. A message, scribbled on a small, folded note, arrived unexpectedly, delivered by a breathless messenger boy. A knock at his door at four in the morning. Half-asleep, Alistair thought for a moment that his current reality was but a dreadful dream. Even though he had assiduously avoided Clement Thorne to protect himself from further hurt, his heart lurched at the fleeting thought that the note might be from him. Alistair hastily rubbed his eyes, attempting to decipher the scrawled handwriting. His feelings were conflicted. A part of him hoped it was merely an administrative notice, perhaps an overdue library fine. But as soon as he scanned the content, he knew it was not from Clement Thorne. *“Finch, I beg your pardon for disturbing you at this ungodly hour. Might you step outside for a moment? I am truly, profoundly sorry.”* *“Just this once. Only this one time.”* There was no conceivable way Clement Thorne would ever offer such an apology to Alistair. Among his peers, there was only one soul so utterly abject. How had Elias Blackwood even discovered his residence? The instant he comprehended the message, Alistair’s face twisted into a grimace. He wished to avoid him — wished never to behold him. Elias was always an unpleasant sight. Yet, despite his churning thoughts, Alistair rose from his bed. He buttoned his dressing gown over his nightshirt, his movements stiff. He walked to his door but stopped short, resting his forehead against the cool wood of the frame with a deep, shuddering sigh. “Damnation,” he whispered. It was all so overwhelmingly complicated, a knot in his vitals. That was the only adequate description. He clutched at his chest. He had always prided himself on his academic prowess, on his extensive vocabulary gleaned from countless volumes, yet none of the words he knew could fully express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… complicated. The hatred he felt for Elias Blackwood, the stark memory of Elias’s face bruised purple on that dreadful day, and the desperate weeks he had spent trying to forge distance between them all swirled together. Biting his lip, Alistair fiddled with the brass doorknob. He closed his eyes, then turned it with a decisive, bitter twist. In the small garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of a crisp autumn. To avoid the wet grass, Alistair stepped carefully onto the cool marble flagstones between the lawn. The chilly dawn made him pull his dressing gown tighter around him. His toes, peeking from the front of his slippers, carried him all the way to the wrought-iron gate. He paused there for a moment, clicking his tongue lightly against the roof of his mouth. He grasped the handle. The hinges groaned in protest, a sound that made him flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, peering into the gloom beyond. Beyond the gate, illuminated by the gaslight on the asphalt lane, stood Elias Blackwood. He was clad in his academic robes, his head hung low as he idly traced invisible shapes on the ground with the scuffed toe of his shoe. “Elias Blackwood,” Alistair said, his voice flat. At Alistair’s voice, Elias’s head snapped up like a startled bird. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixed upon Alistair. “Finch! Oh, Finch!” Elias cried out, a pathetic sob catching in his throat.

A Confection of Dust and Ash