A labyrinth of polished oak and hushed whispers, this grand expanse housed fifty or so budding gentlemen. Their lives, like taut violin strings, quivered under an invisible conductor. Each day at Thorne Hall was a delicate, demanding dance, a constant negotiation of social standing. Every student, since his enrollment at twelve, had learned the intricate art of forming alliances, of carving out his niche. This intricate balancing act had become Alistair’s grim routine, as it was for all who walked these hallowed, ruthless halls. “Ah…” Alistair’s arm, still aching from the previous night’s indignities, throbbed with pins and needles. He flexed his fingers, the movement a small, private defiance. He tapped a clenched fist lightly against his stomach, a hollow drum, before exhaling a weak breath. Rows of slumped backs presented themselves before him: the verdant chalkboards, the soft peach of young men’s necks. At the front, Professor Abernathy, our esteemed lecturer of Moral Philosophy, sat immersed in a folded copy of *The Times*, its pages crackling with feigned disinterest. Meanwhile, students either wrestled with the assigned ethical dilemmas or, succumbing to exhaustion, lolled against their desks. “Rouse yourselves, gentlemen, those of you visiting the land of Nod,” the Professor boomed, turning a page with an audible snap. His tone, however, lacked conviction. Already, the afternoon stretched long into its fifth hour. Alistair had been poring over the fifteenth problem, a convoluted Kantian conundrum, and paused to rub his temple with an index finger before laying his fountain pen beside a half-finished diagram. His gaze drifted to the vacant chairs. Two, in particular, stood out, glaring gaps in the meticulously arranged rows. As anticipated, neither Clement Thorne nor young Barnaby Croft had graced the lecture with their presence. It was unlikely they would appear tomorrow either, unless Clement's volatile moods shifted dramatically, or some new, yet-unreported skirmish had erupted between them. Whatever that 'something' might be, Alistair had no desire to speculate. He merely noted the absence. He lowered his eyes back to the dense philosophical text before him, the intricate calligraphy blurring into a meaningless pattern. Once, Alistair had harbored the foolish notion that he understood Clement Thorne better than anyone. A quiet pride had bloomed within him, even when he observed Elias Blackwood, Clement’s closest confidant, always at his side. That subtle sense of superiority had, in truth, helped Alistair endure the uncomfortable spectacle of Elias and Clement’s easy camaraderie. He had secretly relished the idea that he possessed a deeper, more nuanced insight into Clement’s mercurial nature. He propped his chin on his hand. The very capacity for such thought now sickened him. What would society, what would Thorne Hall, think if they knew these calculating, envious thoughts festered in his mind? The answer was chillingly obvious. He would be relegated to the lowest rung of the social ladder, crushed beneath the weight of their disdain. This kind of insidious desire, a hidden rot specific to an ambitious, desperate young man, had to remain concealed at all costs. He had to bury it deep, so deep that not even its object would sense its presence. Ultimately, he needed to hide it so thoroughly that even he might forget it existed. Yet Clement Thorne had made no such effort. The very air around him pulsed with his brazen, undeniable desires. Alistair lifted his head slightly, a furtive glance across the room. Still, everyone remained hunched, absorbed in their studies or feigned sleep. He pressed his lips tightly together, then looked ahead. Lying forlornly between the polished oak rows, a dusty textbook lay, its cover marred by a distinct boot print. Suddenly, as if sensing an unseen observer, Alistair buried his head in his arms, mimicking the others, his breath catching in his throat. After a moment, he shifted, turning his neck slightly. His gaze drifted to the back row, settling on a figure partially obscured by a raised arm, as if its owner had collapsed mid-slumber. The face looked delicate, almost fragile, like a sepulchral carving. He found himself staring at Elias Blackwood’s profile before his attention drifted to his arm. Had the already tall Elias grown even more? The meticulously tailored uniform, which had fit perfectly at the start of the term, now left his wrists conspicuously exposed. Around one of those wrists, a heavy, unpolished silver signet ring, etched with an obscure, ancient crest, stood out vividly. It was a singular, unmistakable symbol, an integral part of Elias’s peculiar identity. Before knowing more of him, Alistair had assumed Elias hailed from the affluent districts of Belgravia, same as Clement. Yet, despite his intimidating aura and clear wealth, Elias didn't exude the typical flash of the newly rich. His deep-set eyes, perpetually shadowed, and faded irises lent him a haunted, weary appearance. The way his thin sclera showed beneath his pupils added to his sharp, almost gaunt severity. Elias Blackwood’s overall presence was one of grim, almost predatory intimidation, though it lacked the customary refinement associated with established wealth. Instead, his face seemed etched with a profound sense of world-weariness, emanating a kind of melancholic gravity. Combined with his imposing stature—he was undoubtedly the tallest student at Thorne Hall—it made him doubly formidable. Fortunately, unlike Clement’s raw, unpredictable aggression, Elias’s sharp features possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without that, Alistair suspected, people might actively avoid him. Even so, Elias’s face remained unsettling, brimming with a suppressed, nervous energy. Yet, Elias’s deportment couldn’t have been more dispassionate. It wasn’t merely that he appeared indifferent to everything; it was as if he deliberately erased events from his memory, whether by design or an innate faculty. He carried an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that paradoxically enhanced his mystique. Notably, Elias displayed a peculiar disregard for currency. He never seemed to track how much others spent or requested. If the whim struck him, he would casually offer a banknote to someone nearby without a second thought, as if the concept of exchange held no meaning. At times, he would lend money and subsequently forget the transaction entirely. Whispers circulated of students attempting to repay him, only for Elias to inquire, puzzled, as to why they were presenting him with money. Still, he did not lend indiscriminately. He would indulge capricious requests when in a favorable humor but coldly refuse those truly desperate. Alistair recalled a tale of Percival Thorne, Clement’s younger brother, eagerly attempting to mount Elias’s prized horse — a magnificent bay Elias rarely permitted others near — without permission. Elias had, without a word, delivered a swift, sharp kick to Percival’s shin, sending him sprawling into the stable mud like a startled frog. At the apex of the social hierarchy, figures like Elias Blackwood and Clement Thorne shared one crucial trait: a complete indifference to the opinions of others. This very detachment, in its own way, was what permitted them to reside at the pyramid’s summit. Why did we, with our own willing hands, surrender the keys to our carefully constructed world to these untamed predators? No matter how Alistair pondered it, the rationale remained elusive. And yet, Elias Blackwood proclaimed himself a man of unwavering, albeit unconventional, principle. He was the sort of enigma who spoke of virtue but acted with stark pragmatism, yet still claimed to follow a higher order. He did not overtly engage in the typical vices of Thorne Hall — no gambling, no public carousing, no vulgar brawls. Yet, the doctrine he seemed to follow was flawed; anyone could discern its inconsistencies. They said his personal code viewed manipulation as a necessary tool. Was that why Clement’s wanton cruelty disgusted Elias so profoundly? Alistair licked his dry lips. A strange sense of relief washed over him that he hadn’t been utterly ruined. If he had been, he would have ended up like that trampled textbook, lying discarded on the floor. And yet, even in that moment, Alistair wondered – had Clement and he remained close, as they were only a few months prior, would Clement have offered him protection? The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories he desperately wanted to bury. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the thin gruel he’d eaten earlier were threatening to return. No. Of course not. How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to believe such a thing. To Clement, Alistair was nothing. Merely a convenient distraction, a momentary academic companion. He knew this now because of the way Clement had looked at him when he had been beaten to the ground. Those eyes had conveyed everything. He hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face. Clement sinned openly. Alistair, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Clement was scorned by society, while Alistair was spared. A faint, almost imperceptible laugh escaped his lips, a sound audible only to himself. “…So, as long as I don’t get caught, that is all that matters.” Perhaps fate, or God, had a personality much like Elias Blackwood’s. His gaze shifted to the desk near Professor Abernathy’s podium. Uncharacteristically, today, Alistair felt a pang of pity for Barnaby Croft. Poor, unfortunate soul, caught in the insidious clutches of Clement’s devilry. He lacked the inner strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Barnaby, despite his surprisingly robust physique. He should have fled the moment Alistair had subtly warned him, fool. Alistair knew he was not a good person. He was selfish, self-serving, and perhaps that was why he had been punished. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: If one must involve oneself with such predatory individuals, why not choose someone cunning and deceitful like himself? At least then, life might be simpler, more predictable. Why fall for someone so guileless and earnest, only to end up suffering for it? These days, Alistair’s thoughts had changed. Indeed. Of course, no one could ever truly cherish someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise. There had been a time when he believed he could grasp all he desired. Arrogant, conceited Alistair Finch. Alistair, who at eighteen, thought he understood the intricate workings of the world. Wicked, vile Alistair. Pitiful Alistair, who had no one to comfort him, and so endured everything alone. That day, Alistair couldn’t get past the fifteenth question. He feigned a sudden malaise, leaning heavily on his desk, thinking to himself: *Well, at least I am not as thoroughly ruined as Clement or Barnaby.* Rumors concerning Clement and Barnaby spread like wildfire through the hallowed halls. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no direct way to ascertain the facts. Clement’s usual coterie had seemingly vanished from Thorne Hall, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with securing new alliances to concern themselves with past loyalties, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further. “Professor, pardon me, but who amongst the students is closest to Clement Thorne?” Alistair overheard this hushed query as he passed by on his way back to the lecture room before dismissal. Mr. Atherton, the homeroom master, had posed the question, and one of Alistair’s classmates had offered a hesitant reply: “Blackwood… Elias Blackwood, sir.” Pretending he hadn’t heard, Alistair re-entered the room. Mr. Atherton glanced nervously between Alistair and the empty seats, drumming his fingers against the podium. Then, as if abandoning some unspoken resolve, he announced: “That will be all, gentlemen. You are dismissed.” The moment dismissal was granted, Alistair reached for his satchel. As he slung it over his shoulder, a light tap fell upon his back. Elias Blackwood. “Finch. Care to join me for an outing after school?” Alistair met Elias’s unwavering gaze. He knew. He had always observed Clement and Elias’s every interaction, so he knew that the person Elias most frequently invited to such engagements was always Clement. After a brief pause, Alistair demurred. “I regret, Blackwood. I have a prior engagement. A private tutor awaits.” “And after that?” “Further studies. You should seek out one of your usual companions.” “Unacceptable.” “And why is that, pray tell?” “Aligning oneself too closely with a losing wager merely drags one down.” “Ha.” Alistair let out a short, hollow laugh at the stark absurdity of it. Precisely. This was why Alistair found himself, unexpectedly, able to tolerate Elias Blackwood. Their twisted, pragmatic values seemed to align in peculiar, unsettling ways. “So, Percival, young Fitzwilliam—they are merely ‘losing wagers’? Even Clement himself?” “If you wish to phrase it so, then yes, largely. But you, Finch, you are different.” The backhanded compliment left Alistair feeling a strange prickle of unease. “And what, precisely, does that imply? You are quite dreadful, Blackwood.” “No, I am not.” “You are utterly dreadful.” “Hmm. There’s an old adage. ‘Honesty is the best policy.’ I merely speak truths, Finch.” Honestly, Elias Blackwood was worse than Alistair. At least Alistair did not openly brand his acquaintances as mere liabilities. “That is why I am considered a man of principle.” “...Indeed.” “Since I am such a man of principle, may I call upon your residence this evening?” Elias Blackwood blinked twice, his dark eyes unwavering. Alistair considered his face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Certainly, Blackwood. Why not.” As long as Elias did not interfere with Alistair’s carefully constructed existence, there was no logical reason to refuse such an offer. To secure one’s place, to ascend the precarious pyramid of Thorne Hall, one sometimes had to embrace the very predators who resided at its summit.

A Pyramid of Parlor Tricks