A Light Amongst Shadows Read online

  “Always one ruining it for the rest of us.”

  “Always.” The other boy graces me with a charming smile. “You as famished as I am? Dinner starts soon.”

  After a day of travelling on crowded trains and bumpy carriage rides and my nerves only now beginning to settle, I’m honestly not hungry in the slightest. Nor do I fancy staying in this room all by my lonesome. As such, I pick myself up off the bed and smooth a hand down my shirt. “Is the food good, at least?”

  “Ain’t bad, actually.” Oscar leads the way out and back down the hall.

  We pass a number of open doors, revealing boys moving in and out as they settle in, reacquainting themselves with their surroundings and each other. It makes me think to ask Oscar, “Have you been here long?”

  “Started here at the beginning of second year,” he says, lifting a hand in a wave to a pair of boys in the common room who call his name. “What brings you here, anyway?”

  Oh, that is a question I expect to be asked plenty in coming weeks and months. What are you in for? As though I’ve been convicted of some grievous crime. (Well…) “My parents thought I needed ‘structure,’ whatever that means.”

  “Structure is something unavoidable here.”

  “What about you?”

  A faint frown passes across Oscar’s face, though it smooths out quickly enough. “My father was enlisted in the Army. Serving King and Country and all that. Something went wrong—couldn’t tell you what; Mum refused to tell me—but she thought…”

  “It was wiser to send her son away?”

  He opens the dormitory door, pausing half a second as though considering the best way to answer that. “I was a little difficult to deal with at times, I suppose. She thought she’d be better able to care for my little sister without me in the way. Father’s brother does all right for himself and offered to pay the tuition.”

  That seems unduly harsh. I wonder if there’s more to his story than he’s telling me or if his mother really is that kind of person. Oscar doesn’t strike me as a boy prone to getting into trouble. Then again, we’ve only just met.

  Not going to pry, though. I don’t want my personal business dug up, and so I won’t needle anyone else for details on theirs, either. “Are most of the occupants here really sent for reform, then?”

  “Some, sure. Lads who were too caught up with crime or prostitutes or wouldn’t get out of the opium dens. Caught up in scandals, others just…in the way. Got a fair share of boys from illegitimate births, too. Mistresses couldn’t keep ‘em on their own, father wasn’t willing to take ‘em in.”

  “So pay to send them to public school because it appears kinder than simply turning their backs on them.”

  “About right, yeah.”

  “Charming.” And sad. True, my relationship with my mother and father has been strained as of late, but I have a difficult time imagining either of them turning me away because they did not want me. Then again, I’ve always been a well-behaved boy. Father disliked some of my interests, found a few of my behaviours too foppish for his taste, but I’d never been caught doing anything inappropriate and so I think he still held out hope for me.

  I don’t know that he still does now.

  The sun has about completely set by the time we re-enter the school, whose doors are propped wide open. Even without Oscar there to guide me, all I need do is follow the crowd heading into a set of doors directly across the foyer, between the two staircases that lead to the next floor.

  Inside the dining hall, the scent of food washes over me and makes my stomach growl despite my lingering nerves and previous notion that I wasn’t hungry. The mahogany tables are draped with cloths, adorned with candelabras spaced between the silver platters of food. I spy ham, rolls with sweet cream butter, vegetables, turkey roasted and dressed, and large bowls of soup. Not as elegant as meals at home, but better than expected. Although I won’t be surprised if our everyday spreads are significantly sparser than this, and what we’re presented with today is more of a welcome gift. Regardless, it does smell good, and as Oscar and I take up chairs at one of the far end tables near the windows, I think I shall eat after all.

  The empty chairs around us fill quickly. Oscar introduces me to the various gentlemen who join us; Preston Alexander, a tall, broad-shouldered, smiling third-year with a handshake like a vice. His roommate, Benjamin Prichard, has some of the loveliest, darkest eyes I’ve ever seen, and is a quiet and unassuming boy who gives me a polite greeting but seems otherwise content to sit and listen to the conversation with the occasional smile and laugh. A few others fill in the gaps. I’m given their names, where they’re from, and at least some information about each of them that I will likely need to be reminded of again later, but I’m largely distracted.

  My eyes have traversed the length of our table and come to land on a boy at the very far end of it. Which sounds ridiculous because the table is full of boys, but this one in particular…

  There is little about him that would stand out in a crowd, at least from this distance. He’s dressed in the same uniform I’ve seen several of the others wearing, even though it isn’t required until the start of classes. His hair—darker than my own—is swept to the side and back, and a few strands threaten to slip down into his face. Perhaps what catches my eye is the way he’s sitting, isolated, tucked into his chair as though trying to put distance between himself and everyone around him.

  I dig an elbow into Oscar’s side to get his attention, gaze unwavering. “Who is that? Why’s he by himself?”

  Oscar leans forwards to peer around me. “Oh, that’s William Esher. He’s always off on his own. Not much of a social sort, that one. Bit of a snob.” He cuts into his dressing-covered turkey and pops a bite into his mouth even as one of the boys across from us—Edwin Davies, I think his name was—leans over to add, “They say he’s here because he murdered his parents.”

  “Murdered his parents? Really.” The idea is so preposterous I almost laugh. Seems unnecessary to point out that anyone convicted of murder would be in a jail cell or an asylum, not sent off to public school. Instead, I turn to Oscar. “What makes him a snob?”

  He shrugs. “He doesn’t talk to anyone if he can help it. Complete prick if you try to strike up a conversation, like he’s too good to grace anyone with polite conversation.”

  “I see.”

  “Also, heard someone caught him buggerin’ about with another student last term, but not sure how true that is.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Fancying men is somehow related to being a snob?”

  Another shrug as he looks back down to his food. I think he might be avoiding meeting my eyes, but perhaps I’m imagining that. “Just an observation, is all. And a warning. If he gets caught doing anything of that sort, it’ll mean a pretty big punishment—if not expulsion—for anyone involved.”

  Well, yes. Expulsion is honestly the better alternative than being tossed in jail, and I came to Whisperwood aware that my own…interests…were not something to be discussed openly. Still, I keep glancing askance at William Esher as I eat, studying this boy who probably did not murder his parents but maybe did get caught with his hands down someone’s trousers. I make a mental note that he is a person I shall most definitely pester later. Even snobs need friends, and I do enjoy a challenge.

  I’m not a man who has ever really been struck by homesickness. That isn’t to say, of course, that I don’t miss my family, but I adjust well enough. So long as I have a comfortable bed to retire in at the end of the day, anything else can be dealt with.

  The first night at school, however, I don’t find sleep easy. Oh, the bed is fine, and even having Oscar asleep in the bed across from me is all right, it’s just… I don’t know. Some part of me waits for the hour to grow late enough. For the rest of the house to be asleep and for my door to creak open.

  I toss and turn. Pull the pillow over my head, toss it to the foot of the bed. Under the covers, over them, on my side, on my stomach. I cannot for the
life of me find a position that suits me. Eventually, I end on my back, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Unlike the halls, the dorm rooms are not papered, so I’m simply looking at blank, flat surfaces.

  I suppose I’ll have to settle for listening to the noises around me, then. The groans of an old building, the soft snoring from my roommate, the creaking of floorboards. All sounds with legitimate explanations behind them, of course, but to entertain myself I create stories about them. Boys sneaking around, teachers trying to catch them.

  Then begins the crying.

  So soft that at first, I almost miss it as I try to force myself to drift off, but—there it is, someone out in the halls of the dormitory, wailing, long and low, and it could almost come across as the wind shoving through narrow corridors. Hell, I cannot sleep anyway, and now that I can pick out the sound I’m not certain I’ll be able to sleep until I know what’s causing it. A homesick student? Someone lost?

  I fetch my robe, not bothering with a candle because I would sooner not have light to give me away to the prefects or staff while I’m out and about on my first night here. Yet as I step out and ease the door shut behind me, I think that may have been a mistake. With no windows, I’m plunged into near total darkness, and suddenly all the sounds I’ve been listening to feel a lot more ominous. Shuffling towards where I think the crying is coming from, I swing my gaze from one door to the next. All closed. All silent.

  At the end of the corridor, the crying comes to an abrupt stop, and so do I. It ceased so suddenly. No tapering off, just there one second and then silent the next. I allow myself to linger a few moments to see if it picks up again, and when it doesn’t, I sigh, turn on my heel, and begin back to my own room.

  When my hand comes to rest upon the doorknob, someone steps up behind me. It’s subtle. Brief. A hand on my shoulder, the breath of an incoherent whisper against my ear that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand to attention.

  I whip around, expecting…something, anything, and finding myself disoriented that the hallway is still pitch black and very empty.

  “Hello?” My voice emerges softer than I intended due to my heart having become lodged in my throat. For the life of me, I cannot shake the feeling that I’m being watched. Is this some kind of joke? Someone having a laugh at the new boy? “If you’re trying to be funny, you’re very dull.”

  No response. Only the sound of my own breathing and darkness all around and I still have the sense of someone close by, just out of my line of sight, and I can feel the remnants of that breath against my skin. I should go back to bed. Staring at the ceiling is far less foolish than standing in an empty hall waiting for God knows what and—

  A loud clang speeds up that decision for me. It comes from somewhere at the end of the hall, followed by the heavy sound of rushing footsteps—right in my direction. My hand twists, the door gives, and I topple backwards into my room and heave the door closed behind me.

  From out in the hall—silence.

  I’ve broken out into a cold sweat and I cannot seem to get my breathing to steady. From his bed, my abrupt door-closing has caused Oscar to stir; he pushes himself up onto an elbow to peer groggily and messy-haired in my direction. “Spencer? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I manage, carefully twisting the deadbolt into place as I straighten up. “Nothing at all. Go back to sleep.” I will not have my new roommate think me utterly insane on my first night here. Especially when I’m still uncertain as to what just happened. No, I much prefer getting back into bed—robe and all—drawing the blankets to my chin and staring at the ceiling for however long it takes me to find sleep.

  If Oscar recalls my racket waking him in the middle of the night, he doesn’t say a word about it the next day. Come morning, we’re up with the sound of bells from school, shuffling around in an early-morning stupor while we take our turns getting in a proper wash and shave.

  I’m accustomed to the servants bringing hot water for such an endeavour, and for someone to be standing by to collect the slop bucket when I’m done, but apparently, we’re to make do with a jug of water so cold it’s become a bit slushy. I guess delivering hot water to every student would be rather difficult, and at least the cold is quick to wake me up. I make sense of my hair, and get into uniform, of which there were a few hanging up in my wardrobe upon arriving. I brought my own underwear, of course, but everything else has been tailored according to the measurements we sent ahead of time and everything appears to fit snugly.

  My tired fingers are attempting to make sense of my necktie when I decide to broach the subject. “Did you hear anything odd last night?”

  Oscar, hunched over before the mirror with a comb in hand, trying to tame a few bits of hair that refuse to be forced into place, hmms in response. “Don’t think so. Why?”

  I believe I’ve tied it all wrong. Damn it. With a frown, I undo it all to start again. This is something I should know how to do in my sleep, but apparently not when I’ve been without sleep most of the night. “Oh, nothing, just sounded like there was someone out in the halls.”

  Oscar purses his lips at his reflection. “It’s an old building. Makes all kinds of queer noises. Or it could’ve been the prefects or housemaster taking a stroll to make sure no one was out past curfew. Simmons does so love to catch people nightwandering. He was our prefect last year in Lancelot Hall. Complete prick.”

  I could tell him that I went into the hall and I know damned well no one was out there. Had I run into our prefect or housemaster, surely, they would have marched right up and slapped me with due punishment. But I was exhausted. First night in a very new place, it’s perfectly possible my mind was playing tricks on me and I have no desire to make things awkward between us. “I suppose.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” he assures, straightening up and giving himself a last once-over in the mirror. “First month I was here, I didn’t sleep more than a few hours a night on account of the noises and it being so bloody cold.” He flashes me a smile, opens the door, and beckons me along. Sleeping poorly is not a grand way to start off my first day of classes, so a proper breakfast is most certainly in order.

  We tuck in at the same spot we did the night before, surrounded by the same group of gentlemen. Remembering their names is easier this time. Preston Alexander, Benjamin Prichard, Edwin Davies. All pleasant enough in their own right. People who seem to accept me right into the fold.

  A glance to one side tells me that William Esher is, yet again, seated on his own at the far end of the table, this time donning a pair of spectacles and with a book in hand as he eats. He’s trying to be discreet; I can imagine reading is not permitted while at the breakfast table. At one point, he lifts his head, scanning the room. I think he meets my gaze, if only for a moment, before his eyes dart quickly back to his page.

  I really do need to make it a point to talk to him.

  During breakfast, and after the headmaster has stood at the front of the room and given his morning announcements and led us in a quick prayer, Oscar, the other boys, and myself compare schedules. Preston and Benjamin share my first lesson, which is Latin. Oscar and I also share a class—maths with Mr. McLachlan.

  “He seems intense,” I say.

  Virgil Appleton, one of the two prefects of my dormitory and who is seated a few chairs down, leans forwards to say, “He is, yes. And strict. But not unfair.”

  I suppose there’s that. Strict can be dealt with, but I have little patience for unfairness. “What about the rest of these?” I pass my schedule down to him and he scans over it.

  “Not bad. Mr. Keys is a bit of a brute,” he says, referencing my Latin instructor. “Mr. Harrison is dull, but he’s also old as dirt and forgets to collect essays half the time.” He passes back the paper.

  “Mr. Hart’s great,” Oscar says of my English instructor, taking the paper and placing it back in my hands. “Brilliant, in fact. He teaches second-years, too. I was thrilled to see I had him again this term.”

  �
�Good to know.” I tuck the schedule back amongst my books on the floor at my feet. With my fourth period with Oscar and the others with some combination of Preston and Benjamin and a few other boys sitting near us, I can take comfort in the fact I won’t be stuck all on my own.

  Preston and Benjamin accompany me to Latin. My tutor back home was not well-versed in the language, and what I was taught in my younger years has largely abandoned me. When I explain this predicament to Benjamin, he gives me a kind smile and says, “I’m sure Mr. Keys will understand and offer some extra tutoring.”

  When we arrive at the classroom, I immediately notice another semi-familiar face towards the back of the room. William still has his nose in a book, elbow resting upon his desk, chin in his hand. I think I might sit in the empty desk beside him except Benjamin and Preston take a seat towards the front and it might be rude to abandon them for a stranger when they’ve been so kind as to try to reassure me I won’t be alone here. Instead I take up the desk beside Benjamin, stealing a glance over my left shoulder at William, who certainly doesn’t notice me. The way he continues in this manner makes me even more certain that I will very soon be invading his space in order to make myself be noticed.

  As Virgil said at breakfast, Mr. Keys is the epitome of a stubborn, traditional old man. Highly religious and highly stuck in his ways. Latin, he says, is a crucial part of any proper man’s education. He spends the better part of class passing out our textbooks and lecturing us on this rather than giving any actual lessons, and I find my eyes beginning to glaze over towards the end.

  English is a far more enjoyable experience. Benjamin has left for his next lesson and Preston and I sit next to each other. From the moment Mr. Hart rises from his desk to greet the class, I instantly think I’m going to like him.

  He’s middle-aged, brown hair swept neatly aside and back, and lightly sprinkled with grey at the temples. Even gently lined with age, he has the sort of face I think women would adore. He might be the first instructor I’ve seen at Whisperwood who knows how to smile, too, and he does so as he speaks fondly to the class.