7

Someone had shouted in his sleep, and now Gray lay heart-poundingly awake.

Things hadn’t seemed bad at lights-out. They were heroes in the Remove, not only because of the exploit itself, which Trevor had embroidered to suggest that they had rescued the fags from the predations of Pious Pearce, but also because of their cool indifference in the face of the lines Burton-Lee gave them for disseminating said embroidery at Prep.

Trevor had done his lines, but Gray had advanced Valarious two days’ journey on his quest, through Magnus Marsh, where dwelt hags who told him lies disguised as fortune, into the mists of Fulsom Fell, whose stones bedeviled his compass, leading him farther and farther astray until he collapsed in a thicket of heather, his gabardine pulled tight against the rain.

His own lines would have to be done tomorrow during French or just before tea. He should have done them at Prep, but after Valarious, an idea had come to him about Napoleon, a parallel between Napoleonic Code and Dr. Sebastian’s regime at the Academy. Grieves would demand more evidence than Gray could provide, but that was precisely why he’d presented it as some might say. Grieves, as a rule, did not stand for some-might-say, but if the notion intrigued him—Wipe that smirk off your face. In the study, Grieves had treated him like a magsman whose trick was known. (What smirk even?) Trevor said Grievous had believed them, or at any rate he’d let them go, which Trevor deemed a top-hole outcome. But Trevor was native to Stalky, not an imposter like Gray. What kind of book could ever revolve around Gray? He was failed material for a character.

Halton had got six and then had the nerve to bait them, his elders and betters, before half the school. He’d got it from Pearce, of unknown reputation, but bets on vindictive. Gray had only taken six once, and not until this year. The difference between four and six had not been trivial. Halton clearly had a grudge against them, or at least against him. Whose foot had he trod?

A mind like Trevor’s would press him to say what he’d actually observed from the loft of the barn. What could he swear to in a court of law? Squeezed by Pearce, Halton had turned his head in the direction of their cache. He was close enough to see inside, m’lord. The expression on his face had changed. Oh, he could hear the barristers cross-questioning him—Were there not any number of things to change the expression of a boy in hot water?—but given Halton’s remarks in the changing room, in the cloisters, could Gray ever allow himself to imagine they were safe?

If he were the writer rather than merely an observer from above, of course Halton would have seen not only the worn spines and tattered covers of Gray’s penny dreadfuls (testifying to a regular occupancy of the barn), not only their original Stalky (the Complete was above in the loft), but seen also deep into the crevice, where light from the sun, having broken through cloud—except it had started raining again by then, hadn’t it?—light from the sun, filtered through cloud, passing on express purpose through the dirty windows of the barn, straight into that crevice until it collided with the silver nameplate, which would reflect the light and send it out again until it met the next object, the cornea of Halton’s eye. It was simply too inefficient for Halton to find himself in the Keep, to be threatened almost beyond endurance by cruel and wicked Pearce, and for him not to see the treasure. Enemy hands, enemy eyes, the thing he ought to have burned years ago.

Halton would have stood cold and hungry before the JCR. An inquisition more probing than their Housemaster’s would have rolled forth: the barn, their habits, the smoke. Whatever Halton had said, it had not caused Trevor and Gray to be summoned, but it had inspired the JCR to the maximum penalty. Had Holton gone first, according to school practice that saw boys dealt with in order of seniority, or had he been made to wait in the corridor? Gray knew the churning fear, the slowing and speeding of time. Halton would be told to bend over. He’d remove his jacket and lean across the back of the JCR chair until his head touched the seat. Feeling a stretch in the back of his legs, he’d lock his knees. One of the prefects would take up the cane—Carter if he was lucky, Swinton if he wasn’t, but, right, in this case Pearce, still hot with anger. He’d do what they always did, flex it as he paced, building suspense, working the nerves. When he saw a sufficient trembling, Pearce would back away from his target, raise the cane, and cut through the air with a swish-and-crack.

Halton would gasp. He wouldn’t be able to help it, and as his breath returned he’d feel the burning, stinging ache. Nothing for him in the world besides this bottled breath, this room upside down between chair rungs. If Pearce had learned anything over the past five years, he would strut back to the mantel, giving Halton time to think. Halton might wonder how many he could take without yelping; he might decide the exploit hadn’t been worth it; he might reconsider silence for no cause. Pearce might not know what Halton was thinking, but he would certainly know what he was feeling when he delivered the second cut with a force and precision equal to the first. Halton would gasp again and brace himself for the third, already slicing through the air. With it no thought, just pain, more pain, three to go.

If Moss was giving it, or Swinton in a mood, you’d know they wanted you to stick it; and even if later the shame bit, in that window when it was happening, they might if they were decent (most weren’t, but if they were) make you feel they were on your side. But with one who hated you, one who kept going—and then afterwards, no matter who had given it, you’d be altered. It was grafted to you, whatever you might pretend, like the marks that changed color, reminding you, even after it hardly hurt anymore.

But all that had happened to Halton, not to them. He oughtn’t be lying awake to demented hours. They had got away with it. There was no reason for Grieves to have done anything but thank them for rescuing Pearce. Instead, their Housemaster had released them under a cloud. It would have been one thing if he’d made them return on their own, dragged them formally over the coals, told them to their faces that he didn’t believe them, but to send them away with an air of disgust? You must remember to use your eyes, his father said. If you close your eyes, it grows bigger, stronger, monstrous. What if Grieves didn’t suspect him of anything? What if he simply didn’t care? Grieves had liked Wilberforce, at least Gray remembered Grieves treating Wilberforce with a warmth he showed no one else. Was the man incapable of loving, or was it merely that no one could ever love—