A week crawled by, each tick of the great clock in Ashworth College’s main hall a ponderous, mocking sound. I buried myself in the intricacies of classical philology, feigning an absolute absorption that bordered on monastic devotion. The truth, a bitter pill, was that I meticulously charted Edward Thorne’s movements from the periphery of my vision, pretending his presence held no more weight than the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun.
He congregated with his usual retinue, a gilded cage of privilege and indifference. I, in turn, cultivated my own small orbit: Julian Blackwood, perpetually armed with a cynical wit, and a few fleeting acquaintances whose company offered a veneer of normalcy. Appearances, after all, were everything in these hallowed, judgmental halls.
My greatest torment lay in this enforced distance. Edward’s circle, once a fount of effortless intelligence, was now sealed off. I gleaned only scraps, echoes of his life, filtering through Julian’s sardonic observations. A ridiculous internal battle raged: my pride, a stubborn mule, refused to allow direct inquiry, even as a searing curiosity gnawed at my composure.
Seeking Julian, I found him hunched over a worn chessboard in the common room, contemplating a precarious knight’s move. The air smelled of old leather and pipe smoke. I posed my questions with a delicate indirectness, a feigned casualness that felt like a performance.
“Thorne? Oh, he’s out again, I gather,” Julian remarked, his gaze fixed on the ebony pieces. He offered the information without looking up, his voice a low rumble. That brief utterance left me strangely bereft.
“A damned brute,” I muttered, the words a sour taste in my mouth.
Edward’s passions were raw, untamed. He moved through life like a force of nature, an instinct-driven creature draped in bespoke tailoring. A beast, undeniably, but one whose ferocity held a peculiar allure.
“Another boxing match, perhaps,” I conjectured, my fingers tracing the cold marble of a nearby bust.
“No, not quite,” Julian drawled, finally sliding a pawn forward. “A tea reception at the Everleighs’, I believe. Lady Eleanor was quite taken, apparently. Made her excuses early, then slipped away with him in his phaeton. Quite the brazen display, even by her standards.”
“...”
“Both utterly without compunction,” Julian added, a faint smirk playing on his lips. His words, steeped in sophisticated derision, felt like a cool balm. For the first time in days, a sliver of the oppressive weight lifted from my chest.
I settled onto the armrest of his chair, a light touch on his shoulder. Julian glanced up, then shifted slightly, silently granting permission for my intrusion. A small gesture, yet it conveyed a certain understanding.
Julian Blackwood was the only one within our sphere who openly critiqued Edward Thorne’s casual libertinism. For that singular virtue, I found him profoundly tolerable.
“They exhibit a truly repulsive ease,” I murmured.
“Precisely,” he agreed, capturing a white rook. “Unlike us, with our tedious adherence to decorum.”
His mock-heroic tone almost made me laugh. “Aren’t we meant to be the respectable sort? The academics, not the rakes?”
“Respectability is a cloak one learns to wear, Alistair. Human rationality, too, is often an acquired taste,” he replied, a glint in his eye as he surveyed the board.
“Is that why you remain unwed, then?” I teased, a rare spark of impudence.
Julian finally pushed the chessboard aside. He turned to me, his smile incredulous, and tapped the hand still resting on his shoulder.
“I shall report you to the dean for harassment.”
“Harassment? How so?”
“If the recipient feels discomfort, it is, by definition, harassment.”
“Julian, you are utterly preposterous.”
“A cad.”
My boot, loosely crossed over my knee, slipped from my foot and thudded softly on the polished floor. Ignoring it, I nudged Julian’s shin with my stocking-clad foot. He feigned an exaggerated recoil, then offered a casual, elegant middle finger. His raised hand revealed a small, silver crucifix, nestled amongst the fine linen of his cuff. I kicked his leg again, a little harder.
“That crucifix seems out of place on you.”
“Oh? And why not?” he asked, a sudden seriousness in his voice. The shift caught me off guard.
“It simply does not align with your... temperament.”
“Does not align? Peculiar. Do I not exude the air of a devout man?”
“Hardly. It appears more a fashionable trinket.”
“...It is not a trinket, Alistair.”
Looking back, I should have realized then, from his full name: Julian. The name, of course, derived from the Latin ‘Iulianus’, though I had always associated him with the more flamboyant Emperor. Yet, the crucifix was real. His family, I later discovered, had a quietly staunch Catholic lineage. Julian himself claimed a devout faith, a baffling incongruity given his cynical pronouncements. He couldn’t even recite the Lord’s Prayer without fumbling.
---
I spent the ensuing days maintaining my careful avoidance of Edward. When our paths inevitably crossed in the grand lecture halls or the narrow passages of the library, my eyes would flick to him, a brief, illicit contact, before I would deliberately turn away. My courage, it seemed, was a fragile thing. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing, of revealing the extent of my desperate yearning. That pathetic notion, that whoever desires more is the loser, was a constant, humiliating whisper in my mind. Yet, even knowing its absurdity, I could not bring myself to break the silence.
In stark contrast, Henry Thorne, Edward’s younger brother, still sought me out. He was drawn to my quiet demeanor, perhaps, or merely to the fact that I bothered to offer him a measured response. Each day, however, I noticed fresh contusions, new discolorations blossoming across his fragile skin. Edward, it was clear, continued his vicious campaign, marking his territory like a wild creature. When my gaze lingered on the latest bruise, a purple bloom beneath Henry’s eye, he flinched, turning his head swiftly to conceal the injury.
Four more days dragged into being. One hushed morning, I found myself alone in the familiar quiet of the anatomy theatre, burying my face in my hands. I longed to escape the sickening drama that unfolded daily, a silent play of power and cruelty.
My distance from Edward Thorne stretched, an expanding chasm of despair. What began as a slight discomfiture had become a vast, unbridgeable gulf. Opening my eyes felt like tempting that abyss to swallow me whole. Henry’s swollen eyes, his bruised cheekbones, bore witness to the violence, indelible as a seal on an official document. Such stark evidence only intensified my desire to retreat, to avoid them both, to avoid everything.
Then, as if a capricious deity had finally favored me, Henry Thorne ceased attending Ashworth. Professor Abernathy, during roll call, declared it an “absence,” but the hesitation in his voice, the downward cast of his eyes, betrayed the truth: truancy. A dark, illicit cheer nearly escaped my lips.
Edward, meanwhile, grew increasingly agitated in lectures. He fidgeted with the gold watch fob on his waistcoat, snapped irritable rejoinders at any who dared address him, and once, in a fit of pique, flung a quill pen at one of his lackeys for a mumbled insolence. A small, dangerous part of me felt a flicker of smug satisfaction. Another part, more dangerously still, reveled in a strange sense of superiority. I convinced myself that with Henry gone, with the lesser Thorne removed from the scene, Edward’s destructive fixation would inevitably wane, and his attention would, at last, turn back to me. Confident in this perilous fantasy, I waited.
A few more such days passed.
“Thorne seems rather subdued,” Julian remarked offhandedly, his voice cutting through my carefully constructed composure. My heart gave a heavy thump against my ribs. I yearned to swivel my head, to confirm the truth of his observation with my own eyes, but a deeper, more primal cowardice held me captive. When it came to matters of the heart, I was a craven. All I could do was cling to Julian’s words, conjuring images of Edward’s altered countenance in my mind’s eye.
Yet, nothing overtly changed throughout the remaining hours of the day. The final lecture concluded, the last students departed. I convinced myself there would be another chance, that such profound shifts rarely occurred so abruptly. I continued my internal vigil. Just as I slung my satchel over my shoulder, preparing to leave, Julian spoke again, his tone unusually pointed.
“You had a spat with Thorne, didn’t you?”
I spun around instinctively. “Yes.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve still not reconciled since that common room unpleasantness?”
“...”
“Good heavens, this is lasting longer than I’d anticipated,” Julian said, shrugging, his hands tucked into his pockets. I evaded his gaze, offering a hurried, hollow excuse.
“To be frank, Edward went too far. I despise witnessing such cruelty. It’s simply... unbecoming, you understand?”
“Unbecoming, how?”
“...Well, Henry is his brother, after all. Such… brutality between siblings. It’s distasteful. I merely wish he would cease.”
“Remarkable.”
“...”
“Sainthood awaits, Alistair. Mark my words.”
His response to my carefully chosen words was a silken barb, dripping with cynicism. Annoyed by Julian’s malicious undertone, I glared at him. He merely offered a languid smirk. Seeing that knowing expression, I felt a sudden, sickening exposure. My face burned. Quickly, I turned my back on his mocking grin and hurried out of the classroom.
I strode down the grand hallway, intent on reaching the sanctuary of my lodgings, when a hand suddenly clamped onto my shoulder. Assuming it was Julian, playful and persistent, I spun around, a flash of irritation flaring within me, and yanked my arm free. It wasn’t him. It was Professor Abernathy. Startled, I quickly composed my expression, smoothing away my annoyance.
“My apologies, Finch. Did I startle you?”
“Oh, no, Professor, not at all. Merely surprised.”
“Indeed. I am truly sorry, but... might I impose upon you for a moment?”
“Sir?”
“Only a moment. Please.”
The young professor’s face held an unusual gravity. I nodded, my curiosity piqued.
“Today, Edward Thorne inquired about Henry’s address,” the professor began, his voice cautious, almost a whisper.
“Edward Thorne?” My pulse quickened.
It was evident that Professor Abernathy, as Henry’s tutor, could not be entirely oblivious to the insidious undercurrents of bullying within our cohort. Yet, he lacked the fortitude to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, he was not so cold-hearted as to ignore it entirely. The fact he sought me out, to discuss Henry, proved that much.
“I am not accusing or blaming young Thorne, but...”
“No, I understand, Professor. It does not strike me as particularly odd,” I replied quickly, cutting him off.
“Well, given your frequent solicitousness towards Henry, I wondered if you might consider accompanying Edward to his residence. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
I couldn’t offer an immediate answer. My teeth clenched, a desperate vice. The complex, unsettling emotions Edward harbored for Henry seemed to creep towards me, flooding my feet, anchoring me in place. My fists tightened into white-knuckled knots. I could not simply stand idle.
“Might I... acquire Henry’s private telephone number, then?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Allow me to retrieve it for you. Do try reaching him first.”
“Certainly, Professor. I shall speak with him. Do not trouble yourself unduly.”
“Excellent. I am counting on you, Finch.”
“Indeed, sir.”
On the surface, I maintained a practiced calm, but internally, a frantic panic seized me. Professor Abernathy, looking acutely awkward, handed me Henry Thorne’s telephone number from the official registry before retreating down the hallway. I had to prevent Edward Thorne from reaching Henry. I absolutely had to forestall Edward’s strange, destructive obsession from escalating further.
The moment the professor’s footsteps faded, I withdrew my own pocket watch, noted the time, then located a secluded alcove in the college garden. My hand trembled as I dialed Henry’s number. My leg jittered nervously, and I clenched and unclenched my hand repeatedly, waiting for the connection. Surprisingly, the line clicked almost at once.
“Hello?” a faint voice whispered.
“It’s Alistair Finch. This is Henry Thorne, yes?”
As soon as his voice registered, I rushed to speak. A sudden clattering sounded on the other end—something falling, hitting an unseen surface, followed by a rustling. After a strained pause, Henry’s voice returned, higher-pitched, laced with disbelief.
“A-Alistair? Finch! W-why... How did you obtain my number? Did you... already possess it?”
“No. Professor Abernathy informed me Edward Thorne requested your home address today. So I asked for your number.”
“...”
“I merely wished to caution you. Be careful.”
“W-what about you, Finch? Are you quite well? Even though you always try to intervene...”
“Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own welfare. If you require further time away from Ashworth, communicate with me. I possess a certain standing with the faculty, believe it or not.”
“...Thank you.” His voice was barely audible.
“Should Edward attempt to accost you, to physically harm you at college, inform me immediately. If you cannot speak directly, simply touch my shoulder or offer a discreet signal. It is far more difficult to rectify such matters after they have transpired.”
“Alright...”
“Honestly, considering a transfer to another institution might be your most prudent course.” I slipped the suggestion in, hoping it would resonate with him.
“...”
“At any rate, reflect upon it. For the immediate future, either pretend you are not at home or absent yourself entirely.”
“O-okay...”
“Very well. I shall conclude the call.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Alistair.” After a protracted hesitation, Henry’s voice emerged, soft and tremulous. The hell? It made me distinctly uncomfortable.
“T-thank you for always assisting me...”
“It is nothing.” My words were clipped.
“I simply... wished to express it. Thank you. I-I shall see you later.”
“Indeed.”
“...Farewell.”
Farewell? I offered no reply to his unnecessary valediction and ended the call abruptly. Merely hearing Henry’s voice, imbued with that unsettling gratitude, was enough to send a shiver down my spine, leaving me thoroughly ill at ease.
What precisely transpired with Henry Thorne that night, I never truly ascertained. All I know is that from the very next day, Henry returned to Ashworth. Within a week, the faint, downy peach fuzz characteristic of his youthful skin began to reappear, no longer marred by dark contusions. Henry also ceased his tentative approaches, his demeanor shifting dramatically. The abrupt change in his behavior planted seeds of deep suspicion in my mind. Yet, when all the bruises on Henry’s face finally faded completely, I couldn’t help but feel a faint, insidious sense of hope—however unlikely, however perverse.
Then, two weeks later, Edward Thorne approached me, entirely unbidden.
“Finch.”
“...”
“Alistair Finch.”
“...”
I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, feigning absolute concentration on the tome before me. But my lips felt as if they might part, any moment, with a gasping breath. Could it be? Was Edward Thorne finally, truly, weary of Henry?