The doubt that followed wasn't a question of his own sanity, but a cold, heavy confirmation of his isolation. Even his last ally had been swayed by the simple promise of companionship. It made the familiar ache of being alone feel sharper, deeper.
He sat on his cot, the book open but unread in his lap, listening to the distant, rhythmic boom of the sea. Time stretched. He found himself tracking the slow crawl of the afternoon light across the floorboards, every minute feeling longer than the last. The evening bell would ring soon. They should have been back by now.
The distant boom of the sea seemed to grow a little louder, a little less rhythmic. Or was he just imagining it? He stood and walked to the dormitory window, peering out into the growing dusk. There was nothing but the grey, churning line of the water.
They were just late. They were fine.
But the thought was a thin, fragile shield against the cold knot of worry that was beginning to tighten, low and deep, in his gut. A worry now tangled with the sickening possibility that he had been right all along, and had failed to protect anyone from their own foolishness.
The knot in James's stomach had tightened to a cold, hard stone. The evening bell would ring any minute, and they should have been back an hour ago. The sea's rhythmic boom seemed more aggressive now, more menacing.
He couldn't just sit here. He had to tell someone—Father Sam would understand, would act. James pushed himself off his cot, his movements stiff with dread, and headed for the door.
The courtyard was empty when he stepped outside, grey stone slick with the day's earlier rain. He was halfway across, rehearsing the words he would use to explain his fears to Father Sam, when he heard it—the sound of dripping water and chattering teeth.
They emerged from the main archway like a procession of misery: Finn with his boisterous energy completely extinguished, the others huddled behind him, faces pale and pinched. All of them soaked to the bone, shirts plastered to skin, hair matted dark with seawater. They moved with the careful, defeated gait of those who had learned a lesson too late.
Philips was among them, his eyes fixed on the flagstones, shoulders slumped in a way that had nothing to do with cold. None of them looked at James. The silence was absolute, thick with resentment and the miserable weight of vindication no one wanted to acknowledge.
Then came a small, pathetic sound: 'Mrrrow.'
Fangtail detached himself from the group, his ginger fur darkened to damp clumps. He trotted directly to James, stopped at his feet, and let out another low, mournful mewl—not hunger or demand, but pure, wretched apology.
James reached down without thinking, his fingers sinking into the cat's cold, damp fur. The knot in his stomach eased just a fraction. He had been right. In the heavy, dripping silence of the courtyard, that felt less like victory and more like a terrible, lonely burden.
The next day, the chill of the previous evening's silent confrontation still hung in the air. The other boys moved around James with a wide berth, their resentment a palpable thing. Philips offered him a brief, miserable glance at breakfast, but said nothing. The silence was worse than any argument.
It was almost a relief when James was summoned by Barnaby.
"Right then, Scholar," the cleaner announced, his voice echoing in the cavernous space beneath the old bell tower. "Time for a proper archaeological expedition." He gestured with a dusty rag toward a maze of forgotten furniture, moth-eaten tapestries, and crates that exhaled the dust of half a century with every movement.
James felt a familiar surge of frustration. "Why can't the new boys do this?" he asked, the words sharper than he intended.
"Because," Barnaby said with infuriating logic, squinting at him through the dim light filtering through a grimy window, "they don't know where anything goes, do they? And you've got a careful way about you. Won't go breaking things that shouldn't be broken." He hummed a tuneless, cheerful dirge as he set to work.
Despite his irritation, James found himself drawn into the methodical work. There was something oddly satisfying about creating order from chaos, even if his back soon ached from lifting heavy boxes and his hands were grey with decades of accumulated grime. He worked until his muscles burned and his mind was numb.
By the time they finished, the last of the afternoon light was gone, and the exhaustion that had been dogging him for days had finally settled deep into his bones. He was leaning against a stack of old pews, trying to catch his breath, when Barnaby clapped a dusty hand on his shoulder.
"Come on now, Scholar, don't be slow," the cleaner said, gesturing to the last crate. "The sooner we're done, the sooner we can forget this dusty hole exists."
The casual prod, on top of everything else, was the final straw.
"Instead of clearing out rooms no one has used in fifty years," James said, his voice flat with weariness and a frustration that had been simmering all day, "why don't you fix the dripping tap in the younger boys' dormitory? Then they wouldn't have to walk the halls at night."
Barnaby stopped, a tarnished silver chalice in his hand. He looked over at James, a genuinely surprised, almost amused glint in his eye. He knew the younger boys' tap had been broken for months; he also knew their dorm was on the first floor, while the only working tap at night was on the second, in the east wing with the older boys.
"Ah," he said, setting the chalice down carefully. "Another big boy frustrated with the younglings coming upstairs and stealing their water, is it?" He gave a weary chuckle. "Sorry, Scholar. Pipes and plumbing are not my area of expertise. I'm a man of dust and decay, not leaks and washers." He patted the grimy crate beside him. "Best to stick to what you know, I always say."
James didn't respond. The answer, for all its folksy charm, was no answer at all. It was just another problem in a place full of them, another loose thread in a tapestry that was slowly, surely, coming undone. The exhaustion in his bones felt heavier now, immovable as the ancient stones of the tower itself.
Later that night, the pull of the library proved too strong to resist. He pushed the heavy door open and felt it instantly—the low, subliminal thrumming that seemed to vibrate through the ancient stones. It was a sound as much felt as heard, weaving through forgotten melodies that lost themselves in shadow. Father Daniel was lucid again, his presence a palpable force from within his inner sanctum.
James's eyes, almost by habit, drifted toward the high shelf designated for the most sacred texts. Tonight, however, there was no familiar stirring of curiosity, no reckless urge to reach toward forbidden knowledge.
The events of recent days—the encounter with Marcus, the unsettling vulnerability of Father Daniel, the new arrivals—all weighed heavily on him. He felt a bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond lack of sleep.
Tonight, there would be no patrols. The shadows could keep their secrets for another night. He was too tired, too utterly weary, to seek them out. The exhaustion had settled into his bones like the perpetual chill of the ancient stones, and even the familiar comfort of the library felt distant, overwhelmed by the simple, desperate need for rest.
He didn't just sleep; he plummeted into a darkness so deep and dreamless it was like a temporary death. When he finally surfaced, it was to a silence that felt wrong. The usual sounds of boys getting ready for the day were absent. A pale, watery light filtered through the dormitory window, high in the sky.
He had overslept.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He threw his blanket aside. It was Sunday. The entire orphanage, every last boy and Father, would be in the chapel for the morning service. He was late. Terribly late.
He dressed with clumsy, sleep-fuddled haste and slipped out of the empty dormitory. He hurried through the silent halls, his thin-soled shoes making no sound on the worn stone. He expected to find the refectory deserted, the tables cleared and waiting for the boys to return from prayers.
He pushed the door open, still groggy, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light within.
And froze.
The room was not empty. In the section at the far right, the one allotted only for the Fathers, a small, formal gathering was seated. Four strangers, men in dark, severe travelling coats, sat with an air of stiff authority, their faces unfamiliar and assessing.
With them sat the three Fathers.
Father Alaric was there, a triumphant, gloating smirk playing on his lips as he spoke to the man beside him in a low voice. Near him, Father Sam looked pale and deeply distressed, his gaze fixed on the table as if willing it to swallow him whole. And at the head of their small table sat Father Daniel, his face an unreadable mask of cold granite, his posture as still and silent as a stone effigy.
James's sudden appearance in the doorway broke the quiet murmur of their conversation. The room fell silent.
Seven pairs of eyes turned to fix him. The strangers' gazes were curious and sharp. Father Alaric's was filled with scorn. Father Sam's held a flicker of what looked like panic.
It was Father Daniel who spoke, his voice breaking the heavy silence. It was thin, dry as autumn leaves, but it held an unexpected and piercing edge that cut through James's sleep-fogged mind.
"Thorne," he said, his eyes locking with James's. "Always the right person at the right time."
A beat of silence stretched, thick with unspoken meaning.
"Show these gentlemen to the guest rooms."
James could only stare back, his mind reeling. The guest rooms? The words didn't make sense. The guest wing was a place of dust and decay, of sealed-off silence where no one had slept in years. The thought of leading these severe, unknown men into that forgotten part of the orphanage sent a fresh, cold spike of dread through him.
He looked from Father Daniel's unnervingly lucid gaze to the expectant faces of the strangers. He didn't understand. He didn't understand any of it. But it was not a request. It was a command. And in the heavy, watchful silence of the room, he knew he had no choice but to obey.