Sleep, when it finally came to the dormitory, was a fractured thing. James lay on his thin mattress, thinking of the evening's dinner in the refectory—how the younger boys had chattered excitedly about the Bishop's promises, their voices bright with hope for warmer blankets and better food. Among his own peers, the middle boys, he'd noticed a mix of cautious hope and uncertainty, hushed conversations that died when others drew near. The older boys had been strangely quiet, their usual commanding presence muted, barely touching their food as they exchanged meaningful glances across their section of the tables.
Now, in his own dormitory, James could hear the restless turning of his dormitory mates, the occasional whispered conversation that faded quickly into uneasy silence.
For James himself, sleep wouldn't come at all. He lay on his thin mattress, turning over and over, the Bishop's words echoing in his mind. Pruning the withered branch. He considered the possibility of being sent away, to the mainland or even to Alaric's starker school. Perhaps it would be better. But he knew, with a certainty that was cold and hard as stone, that they would always be seen as lesser. Boys from the backwater, tainted by the "barbaric traditions" of the Westering Isles.
A sudden, soft pressure against his hand broke his thoughts. He looked down. Fangtail had padded silently to his bedside and was nudging him, his entire body rigid, fur bristling with an unmistakable alertness.
James's first instinct was to move, to follow the cat's silent alarm. The shadow. But then the memory of the beach trip surfaced, a bitter taste in his mouth. He hesitated, his faith in the cat's judgment now a fractured, uncertain thing.
As if sensing his doubt, Fangtail nudged him again, more insistently this time, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. The sound decided it. James swung his legs silently over the side of the cot, the cold of the flagstones seeping into his bare feet. He looked around. The other boys were still, their breathing deep and even.
"James."
The name was a sharp, angry hiss in the darkness. His heart leaped into his throat. He turned.
In the faint moonlight, he could just make out Philips, sitting bolt upright in his own cot, his face a pale mask of fury.
"Where are you going?" Philips whispered, his voice dangerously low.
"The privy," James lied automatically.
Philips's glare was a physical force in the dark. "Don't. Don't you dare try to fool me. I know you've been sneaking out for hours at night. I hear you leave. I hear you come back." His voice cracked slightly. "What are you doing? Stealing from the kitchens now? Is that what this is? Lying and stealing?"
The accusation stung more than a physical blow. James felt his own defenses rise, cold and sharp. "Fangtail sensed something. I'm going to see what it is."
"Fangtail sensed what?" Philips's disbelief was palpable. "The wind? A mouse?"
"Maybe the shadow," James said, his voice flat. "The one Thomas saw."
He saw Philips flinch as if struck. The hurt in his friend's eyes was raw, immediate. "Oh, so now you're telling ghost stories? I can understand Thomas, he's a child. But you?" Philips leaned forward, and James caught the shine of unshed tears. "Why are you lying to me, James? Why now, when everything is falling apart?"
There was something desperate in his voice, something that made James want to sit back down, to explain everything, to bridge the growing chasm between them. But Philips continued, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper.
"Don't you understand what's happening? The Bishop is here. They're watching everything. If they catch you prowling the halls at night, what do you think they'll do?" His hands gripped the thin blanket. "We're already walking a knife's edge, and you're going to ruin it for all of us with your games."
James looked at his friend—really looked at him. Philips's hair was mussed from sleep, his face drawn with worry that went deeper than their argument. There was something fragile about him in that moment, something that made James's chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't name.
"I am not a liar or a thief," James said quietly, but his voice carried an edge as cold and hard as the stone floor.
"Then stay," Philips said, and now his voice broke completely. "Please. Just stay here with me. Whatever's out there, it's not worth losing everything we have."
The plea hung in the air between them, heavy with years of friendship and the weight of all the things they'd never said to each other. James felt something crack inside his chest, but Fangtail nudged him again, more urgently, and the moment shattered.
"I have to go," James said.
Philips's face crumpled, then hardened. "If you walk out that door now… I won't speak to you again. I swear it."
It was an ultimatum. A final, desperate line drawn in the sand.
James paused, his hand on the iron latch. At his leg, Fangtail nudged him again, a silent, urgent command: Move. He looked back one last time at Philips's face, half-swallowed by shadow, seeing the glint of tears in his friend's eyes and the set of his jaw that said he meant every word.
For a single, agonizing moment, James hesitated. Then he opened the door, stepped into the dark corridor, and followed the ever-vigilant cat into the waiting silence.
The image of Philips's face, stricken and shadowed, was a fresh wound. James forced it down, burying it under the immediate, pressing need for silence. Each step he took was a betrayal of his friend, a choice made. He could only hope it was the right one. He focused on his breathing, on placing his thin-soled shoes noiselessly on the worn stone. The cat moved ahead like a silent grey ghost in the gloom, leading him toward the west wing, which meant crossing the cavernous space of the refectory.
As they neared the archway, a faint, flickering light spilled into the corridor. A single candle. James's body went rigid. He flattened himself against the cold wall, heart hammering. He peered around the edge. A lone figure sat at one of the long tables, a hunched silhouette whose shadow danced on the far wall, a grotesque, wavering giant.
A cold, sharp fear lanced through him. He glanced down at Fangtail, expecting a low growl, but the cat showed no alarm. It was utterly focused, its gaze fixed not on the figure, but past him, toward the west wing.
James hid behind a thick stone pillar, his breath held tight in his chest, and studied the silhouette. The slump of the shoulders, the weary set of the head—it was Father Sam. He was just sitting there in the near-dark, a portrait of utter exhaustion. James didn't understand, but the sight of the priest's quiet misery did little to ease his own. He looked at Fangtail, trying to convey with a look that this was madness, that they should go back.
But the cat was gone. The space by his feet was empty.
Suddenly, a sharp clatter echoed from the direction of the kitchens. Father Sam bolted upright, the scraping of his chair deafening in the silence. He didn't hesitate; he dashed toward the sound. James seized the opportunity, darting from behind the pillar, his movements a silent grey blur as he crossed the refectory and slipped into the shadows of the western wing. He pressed himself into an archway, listening. No more sounds came from the kitchen. After a long minute, he felt a familiar, soft nudge against his leg. Fangtail had reappeared as silently as he'd vanished.
James stared down at the cat, a chill of bewilderment running through him. The timing had been too perfect, too deliberate. He'd always known Fangtail was clever, but this felt like something else entirely—as if the cat had orchestrated the entire sequence. The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
The cat led on, down a dusty, narrow corridor James had never visited. The air here was stale and dead. After walking in the tense darkness, every flicker of shadow seemed a threat. But there was nothing but the sound of his own breathing.
Then he saw it. Set into the stone wall at the end of the corridor was a door made not of wood, but of heavy, dark iron, studded with rivets. A safe. It was a monument to security, its surface cold and absolute, and he was certain no key in the orphanage could open it. What was it doing here, in a forgotten corner where no one would ever come, even by accident?
Was this where the shadow lived? The thought sent a fresh wave of helplessness through him. There was nothing he could do.
He looked down at Fangtail, a silent admission of defeat. But the cat was not looking at the heavy iron door. Its attention was fixed on another door beside it, one made of old, splintering wood. The cat gave a soft mewl, a clear command.
James pushed it. The hinges gave a low, groaning shriek, and he froze, hoping no one had heard. The room inside was absolute darkness. Not the familiar grey of the moonlit corridors, but a pitch black that suggested a space no one ever thought would need light.
Tomorrow, he thought, I'll take a candle from the chapel. The memory of Philips's accusation—stealing—made his gut wrench. No, he told himself fiercely. I am not a thief.
His eyes struggled to adjust. After a long moment, vague shapes began to resolve—crates, draped cloths, the skeleton of a broken chair. He stepped inside. The cat, however, made a confused, frustrated mewl at the doorway. It looked around, puzzled, as if what it was searching for wasn't there. Then it leaped onto a stack of crates, sending up a cloud of dust that caught in James's throat.
He choked back a cough, his eyes watering. He glared at the cat. It just stared back, a silent, mutual frustration passing between them. A wave of foolishness washed over him, hot and sharp. He had broken with his only friend, risked discovery, all to follow a cat that was likely hunting a mouse it couldn't find. For all its strange intelligence, it was still just an animal.
He shook his head, a single, disappointed glance at Fangtail, who seemed to understand and let out a low growl of frustration.
James backed out of the room before he coughed again and woke the entire orphanage. He felt more foolish with every step he took back down the corridor, the cat now trailing behind him, its head hung low. Everything had been for naught.
Then he felt it.
Not a sound, not a touch, but a pressure inside his own mind. A weak, insistent pull, like the phantom tug of a string tied to a place just behind his eyes.
He stopped.
At his feet, Fangtail's fur bristled, and a low hiss escaped its throat as it stared back into the darkness they had just left.
Slowly, reluctantly, James turned.
The pull was stronger now, not just a feeling, but a silent, one-word command echoing in his thoughts, a whisper that wasn't a whisper, using a voice that was not his own.
'Look'