Alistair. My given name is Alistair, but most within the hallowed halls of St. Jude’s Collegiate simply call me Finch. It trips from the tongue more easily, a crisp, singular note amongst the cacophony of a gentleman’s education. The practice began in our first year, initiated, as many things were, by Lysander Thorne. Since then, the surname became my informal address.
Only a precious few still utter 'Alistair.' Their stories, I shall reserve for another telling.
Lysander Thorne, who first shared a form room with me, was a study in contrasts. His towering frame, his sun-kissed hair, the very cut of his jaw—all spoke of a vibrant, unbridled energy, starkly opposed to my own quieter bearing. Academically, too, we occupied opposite poles. While my name graced the top of every scholar’s list, Lysander comfortably resided amongst the bottom ranks, seemingly unperturbed.
Did I initially dismiss him, then? My inherent belief in the stratified order of society dictates that I should have. I confess, it was my instinct. Yet, a strange gravity pulled me towards Lysander Thorne. The first time his sharp, intelligent gaze fell upon me, it held a peculiar force, an unspoken challenge that demanded acknowledgment.
He carried a singular scent, an elusive aroma that defied simple categorization. It was not overtly masculine, nor was it the cloying sweetness of a lady’s perfume. A faint, colorless fragrance, it drew me in like a moth to a distant flame. Unconsciously, I found myself initiating conversation.
I often sought common ground between us. Our shared popularity within St. Jude’s, for instance, or the fact that both our families were counted amongst London’s affluent. These were superficial connections, certainly, but they sufficed.
Our institution, you see, sat poised between two Londons: the grand, gas-lit avenues of Mayfair and the sprawling, shadowed alleys of the East End.
My fortune placed me firmly within the Mayfair set. Not merely prosperous, but residing in one of the city’s most coveted squares. An only son, doted upon, I wanted for nothing. My parents, pillars of their community, bequeathed upon me a golden inheritance of social standing. It is little wonder, then, that a certain cunning bloomed early within me.
So it was that St. Jude’s became a crucible where the sons of privilege and those striving for it mingled. Lysander Thorne belonged unequivocally to the former. Discovering this, a quiet thrill stirred within me. Armed with this convenient justification, I approached him without hesitation. Our friendship, if one could call it that, solidified with a chilling swiftness.
Just as I excelled in classical rhetoric and mathematics, Lysander shone in another arena: the intricate dance of social dominance. He quickly amassed a devoted retinue, asserting himself at the apex of the Minerva Wing’s informal hierarchy. Before a month had passed, Lysander Thorne was the undisputed king of our section.
---
A muted groan escaped my lips. The oak door, heavy and imposing, had remained stubbornly shut for an eternity, or so it felt. Only when my fingers instinctively pressed against my aching stomach did it finally yield. A narrow sliver of light illuminated Lysander Thorne’s flushed cheek, his hand, red from exertion, releasing the polished brass handle. The door swung inwards, obscuring him once more.
Before it could fully close, I slipped inside. My entrance was ungraceful, born of a peculiar desperation.
Lysander was already sprawled upon his bed, clad only in form-fitting undergarments. A half-smoked cigarillo, still unlit, hung precariously from his lips, gnawed as if in absent thought.
“Damn it all, Finch. My father’s breathing down my neck again. Answer if he calls my rooms. Tell him we were poring over Livy’s histories.”
He flicked a silver lighter open and shut, its small flame sputtering momentarily. He made no move to ignite the cigarillo, yet his languid posture, the faint sheen on his skin, spoke volumes of recent exertion. My stomach, a tight, raw knot, pulsed beneath my touch. I walked closer, snatching the mangled cigarillo from his mouth.
“And why, pray tell, should I perjure myself on your behalf?” I heard my voice, sharper than I intended.
“Because we are friends.”
Friends. The word, elongated and drawn out, always struck a discordant note in my breast, tearing at something fragile within. Yet, my expression remained shamelessly calm.
“Very well. Know that I shall see this debt repaid, one way or another.”
“My thanks.”
The air in the room was heavy, thick with the cloying sweetness of night-blooming jasmine and the subtle, clean scent unique to certain women. Honestly, it was only through Lysander that I had learned to differentiate such olfactory distinctions.
Rumours from his prep school classmates painted vivid, scandalous pictures: liaisons since his thirteenth year. Whispers spoke of a ruined maid, a tryst in the school’s very antechamber. It was all a testament to his premature maturity.
Even then, they said, he appeared to be in his twenties. Lysander’s bold, defined features lent him a brooding, sophisticated air that belied his true age. Most strangers mistook him for a seasoned man of the world.
Upon matriculating at St. Jude’s, he openly indulged his ennui in the private clubs of Pall Mall. His ample allowance, coupled with cleverly procured falsified documents, allowed him unfettered access. He’d flash the papers with brazen confidence, entangling himself with women of dubious reputation, fleeting conquests a regular pastime. His striking good looks served as a potent diversion from his hedonistic pursuits.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not particularly remarkable. But combined, they formed a face of inexplicable allure. His presence was so refined that no one could credit him as a mere collegian; most assumed him to be at least five-and-twenty.
My gaze drifted, feigning a search for something, though I knew it was futile. The lingering atmosphere of his recent escapade settled upon me, a suffocating weight that turned my stomach.
“Where is Blackwood?” I asked, hoping to divert my thoughts.
“He departed.”
“...”
“That infernal pest is an utter enigma, if ever there was one. A preposterous joke.” Lysander rested his chin on a balled fist, a faint smirk playing on his lips. I found myself frowning.
Dominic Blackwood. The second person who invariably raised my hackles.
Their peculiar closeness had only blossomed in our second year. Much as I loathed to admit it, they now spent so much time in each other’s company that their friendship seemed undeniable. When Lysander reigned supreme in Minerva Wing, Dominic Blackwood held his own notorious reputation within the Apollo Wing.
Yet, our paths rarely crossed. I only ever encountered him in the Common Hall, a neutral territory shared by both Minerva and Apollo scholars.
Once, during luncheon, a classmate nudged my elbow, whispering, “That’s Dominic Blackwood.”
Curiosity, an unwelcome visitor, prompted me to rise on my tiptoes. Above the sea of dark-suited figures, a tall, sharply dressed young man stood out. His identity was instantly clear.
“He bears the countenance of an ill-tempered soul,” I murmured.
One of Lysander’s adherents, overhearing, chimed in, “Indeed, a touch. They say he’s frightfully self-absorbed.”
I allowed myself a small, sardonic smirk, a half-hearted nod my only reply.
Much as I despised the notion, I could understand why he was considered Lysander’s rival. That understanding only fuelled my animosity, yet for some inexplicable reason, I could not tear my gaze away.
A shadowed brilliance—that was my first impression of Dominic Blackwood.
By chance, our eyes met. It was peculiar that he noticed my scrutiny amidst the clamour of the crowded hall. His long, dark eyes and thin pupils held a striking intensity. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by a hurled stone.
‘What are you staring at?’
He must have read my lips, for he narrowed one eye at me. Honestly, a ripple of intimidation ran through me. I feigned indifference, turning away. Then, loud enough for the fellow beside me to hear, I pronounced:
“He possesses the air of a viper.”
After that, Dominic Blackwood and I often exchanged glances, though we always pretended not to. Whenever our gazes locked, he would lower his head, only to raise it again moments later, seeking my eyes. Nine times out of ten, he was the first to break contact, though I, too, found myself succumbing to the urge once or twice. I ceased counting after the eighteenth such occasion.
---
As if by some cruel twist of fate, Lysander and I found ourselves in the same form room again for our second year. While a secret thrill warmed my chest at this continued connection, my gaze fell upon an all-too-familiar face. The surprise was genuine—and utterly infuriating. For the first time, I gained a proper, unobstructed view of the infamous Dominic Blackwood.
It was Blackwood who spoke to me first.
“Finch. Care to share a table at luncheon?”
Damn him.
As everyone had anticipated, the two became inseparable. Lysander Thorne, a man who relished his own resplendence, found an equal in Dominic Blackwood. Blackwood was undeniably masculine, successful among his peers, and held in high esteem. Their camaraderie was, regrettably, inevitable.
In our class, the perennial question often arose: if Lysander and Blackwood were to truly clash, who would emerge victorious? From my vantage point, such a conflict was unthinkable. While Lysander and I were superficially dissimilar, Lysander and Dominic Blackwood shared a striking commonality of spirit.
Yet, a singular distinction existed between them.
Dominic Blackwood possessed a peculiar, almost austere quality. Despite his artfully dishevelled hair and the keen, almost wild glint in his eyes, he sometimes comported himself with the strictness of a moralist.
For instance, when Lysander was gripped by a fleeting desire, he would simply select a suitable companion and spend the night in her company. When pressed for details by his cronies, he would proudly recount his steamy, pre-dawn adventures. In stark contrast, Dominic Blackwood would merely laugh off coarse remarks about coveting a woman’s décolletage. Occasionally, he’d mock them outright, delivering a scathing, witty rebuke that left the speaker blushing and feeling foolish.
“This talk is tiresome. Have you no intellectual pursuits beyond the base and vulgar? Your desires are as transparent as a pauper’s purse. Truly, seek some decorum.” Even his most crude pronouncements were laced with a cutting sarcasm.
Yet, when the opportunity arose, Blackwood would utter something baffling, such as, “My integrity remains unblemished, reserved for the worthy. My affections shall only be given once.” That, truly, was the difference.
Lysander once offered to procure false identification for him—a courtesy he never extended to me—but Blackwood dismissed it as a useless contrivance and refused outright.
Lysander’s friends found Dominic Blackwood’s eccentricities entertaining, but I did not. The reason was simple: his proximity to Lysander. They moved as one, like two halves of a singular, irritating whole. That alone was sufficient cause for my simmering resentment. It was a jealousy that gnawed at my insides.
Still, I managed to maintain a civil façade with Dominic Blackwood. One of my enduring strengths was the ability to conceal my true sentiments, no matter the circumstance. Besides, he was Lysander’s close companion. Indeed, every aspect of my tenuous social standing revolved around Lysander Thorne.
To be utterly frank, there were more days when I felt a profound frustration with myself for this enduring attachment than there were days I solely pondered Lysander. Often, I felt like a complete imbecile. Yet, despite it all, I remained unchanged.
As Lysander tossed a few casual words my way before retreating to his dressing room for a bath, I sat lost in thought. A few minutes later, a distant ringing sounded. Fresh from his ablutions, Lysander picked his telephone from the bedside table and tossed it to me. I caught it, and on the other end, I heard the clipped, commanding tones of Lord Thorne.
Clearing my throat, I answered. Why did I even bother to feign composure?
“Finch speaking, my lord.”
“Finch? Are you with Lysander at present?”
“Indeed, I am.”
“Ah, I see. My worries, it seems, were quite unfounded. I feared Lysander might be out pursuing his usual mischief. You possess such a pleasant voice, Finch.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“No, truly. And how fare you?”
“I fare well, thank you. And yourself?”
“The same, the same. Your elocution is exemplary. If only Lysander possessed your decorum. The boy has no manners. So, you were engaged in your studies together?”
“Yes, my lord. Lysander must have quite forgotten to inform you. He has been rather consumed with preparing for his upcoming examinations.”
“So, you have been studying together this entire duration?”
“Yes, my lord. He has been in my company without interruption.”
“Well, that is a considerable relief. If he is with you, I may rest assured.”
“It is nothing, my lord, truly.”
“No, it is something. If he is with you, he cannot fall into disrepute.”
“Truly, it is of no consequence. I shall ensure he arrives at St. Jude’s safely tomorrow.”
“Good. Do look after him, Finch. Remain friends, and do not quarrel.”
“Yes, my lord, of course. Good day.”
Lies, elegantly spun, flowed from my lips with effortless ease.
After concluding the call, I tossed the receiver back to Lysander. He caught it, muttering a brief, “My thanks,” as he continued to dress. Without another word, I turned to leave. Lysander made no effort to detain me.
“Later, Finch.” That was all he offered.
It was to be expected. This was the measure of our association. The vast chasm between us yawned wide, a painful, undeniable truth. Perhaps that is why I quickened my pace, the ache in my throat blossoming into a profound soreness as I hurried from the room, escaping the confines of his private world.