That night, the dormitory was heavy with the smell of damp wool. Rain had blown in through one of the warped windows earlier, and though someone had pushed the pane shut, the blankets still felt cold against the skin. He lay still, listening to the rhythm of breathing around him.
Somewhere down the row, Harris whispered to another boy, their words muffled under the covers. Laughter followed — low, quick, as if they feared it would carry.
He turned his face to the wall. The plaster there was cracked, the fissures branching like dark rivers in the faint lamplight. If he traced them with his eyes, they would lead him to the corner where the ceiling dipped, the shadows pooling thicker. He stayed there, staring, until the laughter faded.
The next day, the yard was slick with mud. The boys whooped and slid across it, their boots sending up sprays of brown water. A football thudded into his shin. He stopped it, the leather heavy and wet, and Harris jogged over, cheeks flushed.
"Kick it back!" Harris said.
He toed it forward without hurry. Harris frowned. "Harder than that."
He sent the ball rolling with just enough force to return it. Harris caught it under his boot, glanced at him once more, then turned away.
The game moved on without him.
Later, in the laundry room, the air was thick with steam and the hiss of the iron. Mrs. Whittaker stood at the table, pressing a shirt flat. She didn't look up when he came to drop off a basket.
"Leave it there," she said.
He set the basket down and stayed a moment longer than necessary, watching her hands smooth the cloth. She stopped, glanced up.
"What?"
"Nothing."
She held his gaze for a moment before returning to her work.
By evening, the rain had returned. He stood at one of the upstairs windows, watching the drops trail crooked lines down the glass. The other boys were crowded at the far end of the room, arguing over a deck of cards.
One of them — Thomas — looked up, caught his eye, and hesitated. Then he turned back to the game.
The voices rose and fell. The rain kept on.
He stayed at the window until the lamplighter passed in the street below, his long pole tipping the faint flame into each glass lantern. The glow spilled in patches across the wet cobblestones, making the puddles shimmer like bits of broken glass.
Behind him, the card game turned into an argument. Someone accused Harris of hiding a card. Harris swore he hadn't. The voices tangled and rose until one of the matrons' footsteps came down the hallway.
"Quiet in there," Miss Aldridge said, pushing open the door. She scanned the room, her eyes pausing on him for the briefest moment before moving on. The game resumed in mutters.
The next morning the corridors smelled faintly of ashes. The stove in the kitchen had been temperamental again, and the first meal of the day was porridge thicker than usual, clinging to the spoon in clumps. He sat two seats from the end, eating slowly, watching the steam curl from the bowl.
Beside him, a boy named Lenton scraped his spoon noisily, then leaned over to Harris.
"You hear about the crate?" Lenton asked.
"What crate?" Harris mumbled through a mouthful.
"Down by the back gate. Big one. Got left there last night. Might be tools in it."
"Or food," Harris said.
The two leaned closer together, voices dropping. No one thought to include him. He kept eating.
After breakfast, chores took him to the storeroom. The air there always smelled of old wood and flour. In the corner stood a sack that had split open, spilling a heap of grain across the floor. He knelt, sweeping it into a pan.
Footsteps in the hall. The door creaked open and Miss Aldridge stepped in, brushing dust from her sleeve.
"You're here," she said. Not a question.
"Yes."
She glanced at the grain. "Careful. Mice get bold if we leave it too long."
"I know."
She lingered, as though there was something else she meant to say. Then she nodded once and left.
That afternoon, the older boys gathered in the yard again, this time with a rope for tug-of-war. He watched from the doorway as they planted their boots in the mud, straining, the rope stretched taut between them. Harris called for him to join one side.
"Come on!"
He stepped forward, took hold of the rope. The hemp was rough against his palms. The signal came and both sides heaved. The rope shuddered under the strain, the mud slick beneath their feet.
He felt the pull in his arms, the surge of the others leaning their weight into it. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip. The rope slipped in his hands, the sudden slack unbalancing the boys on his side. The other team cheered.
Harris turned to him, red-faced. "What'd you let go for?"
He shrugged. "They were stronger."
"That's not the point!" Harris snapped. "You're supposed to try."
"I did."
Harris stared at him a second longer before turning away.
That night, the dormitory was warmer. Someone had stoked the stove too hot, and the air was thick with heat and the faint smell of soot. The boys lay sprawled on their beds, talking in low voices.
He lay awake long after the room settled. The heat pressed against his skin, but he didn't shift the blanket. From somewhere down the hall came the faint sound of Mrs. Whittaker humming to herself as she prepared for the morning.
It was the kind of sound that once would have felt comforting. Tonight it only reminded him that the walls here had ears — and voices — and that some of them spoke of him when they thought he wasn't listening.
He woke before the bell.The air in the dormitory was thick and heavy, the stale warmth of breath trapped under the sloped ceiling. A faint draft pressed through the warped frame of the far window, but not enough to cut the heat.
Harris, in the bed beside him, was curled tight under the blanket, the crown of his head showing in the pale half-light. Across the aisle, Thomas had sprawled sideways, one bare foot sticking out into the cold air. The boy twitched, muttering something in a sleep-slurred voice, then settled.
The boards under his feet were cold when he swung down from the bed. The sound of them creaking under his weight felt louder than it should have. No one stirred.
He pulled on his shirt, the fabric smelling faintly of the soap used in the laundry. The buttons were chipped, the top one missing entirely. His trousers were stiff from drying too close to the stove.
From somewhere in the house came the soft groan of a hinge — the kind the matrons never oiled. The sound was followed by slow footsteps moving in no particular hurry.
The washroom was dim, only a single candle burning low. The air was sharp with the smell of soap and damp stone.
He took a place at one of the empty basins. The water from the tap was so cold it made the skin on his hands prickle. He cupped it into his palms, bent, and threw it onto his face. It ran in narrow streams down his neck and under his collar.
The mirror above the basins was mottled with black where the silvering had worn away, breaking his reflection into ragged shapes. An eye in one patch, his mouth in another. He dried his face on the towel hanging from the hook — stiff from too many washings, frayed along the edges so that a loose thread brushed against his cheek.
Lenton stood at the basin beside him, head lowered, his hair still wet from the tap. He glanced once in his direction but said nothing. The only sound between them was water slapping porcelain.
By the time he reached the dining room, the lamps were still lit. Their light pooled weakly on the tabletops, leaving the corners in shadow.
Benches scraped the floor as boys took their places. The sound of cutlery clinking against tin bowls joined the low hum of conversation.
He went to his seat at the far end, the one that seemed to draw no competition. The porridge was ladled into his bowl without a word. Steam rose for a moment, then faded into the air.
Harris sat two places down, speaking in a low voice to Lenton. The pair leaned close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. He couldn't make out their words, just the rhythm of them.
In the middle of the table, Thomas laughed at something an older boy said. The sound was bright enough to cut through the murmur of the room before being swallowed again.
He ate in steady mouthfuls, the metal spoon cooling quickly in his hand. The porridge tasted exactly as it had yesterday, and the day before, and every day he could recall — a dull, heavy weight in the mouth.
Chores began after the last bowls were cleared. His broom leaned against the wall in the east hallway, its bristles already splayed from use.
The boards here had a thin sheen of polish, dulled in places by years of footsteps. The broom rasped softly as he pushed the dust into neat piles. Now and then, a bristle snagged on a splinter. He stopped each time, bent, and freed it, tucking it back in place before continuing.
The narrow window at the end of the hall let in a slab of flat light. Outside, the yard looked washed of colour.
Behind him, the faint reflection of movement passed across the glass — Miss Aldridge walking with a bundle of folded linen in her arms. She didn't slow, didn't speak, just moved past and disappeared into one of the rooms.
The kitchen was warmer, the heat rolling from the stove. Bread sat cooling on the counter, its crust still giving the occasional soft crack.
Mrs. Whittaker moved between the stove and the table, apron tied high, hair pinned back so tightly the skin at her temples shone. She didn't look at him until he picked up the bucket of scraps from beside the counter.
"Straight to the barrel," she said without pausing her work.
He nodded, though her eyes were already on the pot she was stirring.
Outside, the yard was quiet. The barrel leaned against the wall near the fence, its metal lid set aside. The scraps slid from the bucket in a slow heap, the sound dull and wet.
A crow landed on the fence, feathers shifting in the wind. Its head tilted, one dark eye fixed on him. He stared back until the bird flapped away, its wings beating a slow rhythm into the air.
The wind caught at his sleeves on the walk back. The kitchen door gave under his hand with the faintest groan, letting him back into the warmth.
Lessons were in the smaller classroom, the one with the tall windows. The smell of ink clung to the air, mingling with the damp wool of coats hanging along the wall.
Mr. Bowyer's voice carried evenly across the room, a steady drone over the scratching of quills. The pendulum of the clock swung in the corner, the soft tick marking each second with precision.
He copied the arithmetic from the slate onto his paper. Once, the nib of his quill caught, leaving a blot that spread in a slow, dark bloom.
Two rows over, Harris was bent low over his page, the corner of his mouth twitching as he drew something in the margin. Lenton shifted in his seat, the creak of wood breaking briefly through the quiet.
Through the window, the bare branches of the sycamore moved in a wind that could not be heard from inside.
Lunch was a thin stew, its broth cloudy. The bread alongside had been sliced unevenly; his piece thick on one end, narrowing to nothing on the other.
He ate without speaking. Harris and Lenton had their heads close again, voices pitched low. At one point Thomas nudged the bread plate toward him, his gaze flicking up for a moment before sliding away.
The afternoon was colder. The wind slipped under the door to the laundry room, bringing the smell of damp stone with it.
He carried the empty bucket to the pump at the yard's far end. The handle was stiff; the wood groaned each time he forced it down. Water spilled into the bucket in a steady, heavy rush.
On the walk back, he passed the laundry door. Miss Aldridge stood by the ironing table, pressing the iron into a folded shirt. Steam hissed and curled up past her face, which she kept bent toward her work.
She didn't look up as he passed.
By the time the call for supper came, the lamps in the hallway were lit. Their glow fell in tight circles on the floor, leaving the space between them in shadow.
The meal was bread, cheese, and tea so pale it was almost colourless. The bread was dry at the edges, the cheese brittle in places where it had been cut too thin.
Harris and Lenton spoke about something they'd seen near the back gate — a crate left half-broken against the wall. They speculated in turns, each more confident than the last. Neither paused to ask him what he thought.
After supper, the warmth of the common room drew most of the others in. The voices there rose and fell, overlapping in a way that blurred their words.
He stayed at the edge for a while, leaning against the doorway, the heat from the stove reaching him only faintly. When he turned toward the stairs, no one noticed.
The steps were uneven under his feet. The corridor above was colder still, the faint draft tracing along the wall.
The owl was waiting at the far window. Its feathers lay sleek against its body, but its eyes were wide, fixed on him. The envelope in its beak hung just enough to sway.
He reached out. The owl released the letter into his hand without a sound, then launched itself away, wings brushing the air with a weight that lingered a moment before fading.
The paper was heavier than it looked. His name, written in an unfamiliar hand, sat dark against the pale surface.
He stood with it long enough to feel the chill from the window working into his skin.
Then he tore it in half.
The pieces dropped into the iron bin by the door. A shred of red wax clung to one edge. He pushed them down until they were hidden beneath the scraps already there.
From the floor below came the sound of laughter, muffled by distance.
He turned from the bin and walked back into the corridor, his steps slow, the boards answering each one with their familiar groan.