He stayed like that as the twin moons set and the first suggestion of morning light began to trickle through the window, knees pressed against chin in a tight huddle against the chill. Silas heard Pa begin shifting around in his bedroom down the hall. He listened to the murmured swish of slippered feet slide over floorboards as his grandfather padded about in the early hours of a newborn day. After dressing and barbering, Pa would slip quietly downstairs—still in slippers—to allow Silas to sleep undisturbed until ringing the breakfast bell. Rarely was Silas awake before Pa. Restful slumber seldom failed except on the eve of Syzygy Day; the excitement for the holiday often proved too stimulating. Silas listened closely when began Pa muttering to himself, ears straining against the penetrating silence that muffled the man's words into indiscernible whispers. Eventually, Pa crept out of his room and stepped onto the landing. Silas heard him take several steps before stopping in front of his bedroom door. Pa stood there for several long moments, breathing audibly as though with physical exertion. At the rattle of Pa’s hand on the door handle, Silas separated his knees from his chin and drew the comforter around himself, shutting his eyes the moment the door pushed open. Pa's eye peeked through the crack between door and frame.
Silas focused on breathing deeply and evenly, hoping his performance was sufficiently convincing. Pa's single eye regarded Silas's prone form carefully, attention settling on the boy's fists clutched so tightly to the comforter that they were trembling. Exhaling defeatedly, the man stepped back from the door and latched it gently closed before resuming his journey to the kitchen. Silas relaxed his grip, extremities electric with tension. After lying like that for some time, he dozed briefly before Pa finished his cooking and rang the bell, returning Silas to awareness. Silas sighed, his short jaunt into sleep reminding his body how little rest it had received. A heavy fatigue latched onto his limbs as he lumbered from bed and went through the motions of a new day.
Silas and Pa ate breakfast in relative silence. Pa attempted small talk, but Silas's noncommittal nods and head shakes forced what little conversation there was to burn down to embers and eventually sputter out entirely. Picking at his food, Silas took several reluctant bites and then bolted from his chair, declaring that he would like to leave for school. With a sad smile, Pa relented, guiding Silas out the front door and into the biting howl of the westerly wind, which carried with it the promise of approaching tempest.
"I will be there tonight for guardianship time," Pa pledged assuredly as Silas climbed out of the boiler idling parallel to the Foundry School's walkway.
Silas nodded distractedly, not meeting his pa's searching gaze. He slammed the door shut—blocking any further dialogue attempts from Pa—and fought his way against the wind toward the school building with numb fingers thrust deep into pockets against the cold.
Trobuk's attempted taunts and jeers were ineffective against the impenetrable wall of apathy Silas built around himself, and by midday repast, the bully grew bored, ceasing further attempts at eliciting a response from his victim. Sitting beside him in the canteen, Charlotte tugged at his sleeve to draw his attention, her other hand pressed against her muting earcovers to soften the clamor booming from the other pupils seated around them.
"Silas okay?" she asked quietly, her meek voice swallowed by the din.
He smiled weakly and nodded, unable to maintain his dour mood around his friend. Charlotte's lips curled down into a frown, her hazel eyes boring through his fa?ade until he could take it no longer. Silas relented and pulled out a piece of parchment and a stylus.
"I did not sleep well last night," he wrote in admission. "Or at all, really."
Charlotte leaned her head against his shoulder as he wrote, eyes darting across the parchment in time with his stylus strokes. When he had finished, she lifted her gaze to look at him, frown deepening.
"Head hurt?" she asked, tapping her forefinger against his temple.
Silas shook his head and resumed writing.
"Not another episode, no," he scrawled, pausing with stylus raised mid-stroke. "My pa and I had a disagreement last night. He is still being dodgy when I ask him to explain himself." Admitting this to Charlotte felt right. He knew he could confide in her for support.
She nodded, her expression softening. Silas tensed as Charlotte wound her fingers through his. She smiled at him reassuringly, her eyes shimmering with the soft brilliance of starbloom light. Relaxing, Silas curled his fingers around hers, allowing himself this moment of tenderness.
The bell tolled to cue the end of repast period. Silas jerked his hand free from Charlotte's and quickly shoveled the last few bites of food into his mouth before hefting the tray into the air and rushing to the bin near the canteen exit. Charlotte remained seated for a moment—staring at the hand that moments before held Silas's—then gathered herself and trailed after him. Side-by-side, they walked toward their next class. Silas stole frequent glances at the clock, dreading the end of the school day that inexorably approached.
Afternoon classes languished by—the lessons blurring together incomprehensibly as Silas simultaneously fought against the heavy pull of sleep on his eyelids and willed his jittery nerves to calm. The clock toyed with him, the ticking of its hands expeditiously fast at times and unbearably leisurely at others. When last period finally transpired, a steady throbbing plundered Silas's cranium and drummed its assault against his forehead in time with his pulse, the migraine threatening to scathe the remaining dregs of patience stored in his arsenal.
"Please remain seated," Ms. Adlewood reminded as the last bell tolled.
Several pupils—either forgetting the evening's planned event or attempting to avoid its consequences—had risen from their desks in preparation to leave. With annoyed grumbles, these pupils reclaimed their seats, Ms. Adlewood's stern demeanor quieting the remaining murmurs of dissent.
Clearing her throat, she continued, "Your parents and guardians will be arriving shortly if they are not here already" —her eyes strayed to Silas fleetingly— "so posture yourselves accordingly."
Guardianship time occurred once every semester—midway between terms and directly preceding Media Examenen—midterm examinations. Pupils, guardians, and instructors shared a similar aversion to the event—pupils and faculty had to stay at school longer than the standard school day, and guardians were required to take time out of their busy schedules to attend. A requirement for all accredited academic institutions in the Empire of Brassanthium, guardianship time was a performance: a reenactment of the school day to entertain the parental audience. Naturally, pupils and educators alike behaved knowing that their actions were being calculated against a draconian rubric, the entire production enacted for the benefit of the school's headmaster and accrediting authorities. At the end of the spectacle, pupils and guardians were expected to linger for a commentary session with instructors, who provided feedback on the pupils' progress and offered recommendations for improvement. Pa was usually absent or found a way to slink away before Ms. Adlewood and Silas's other mentors could confront him; this behavior endowed Silas with unbidden attention from the headmaster and provided a foundation from which Trobuk built ridicule.
The first guardians began trickling in, finding their kin and taking up position on either side of their desks. Silas allowed his mind to wander, encouraging his thoughts to carry him away to some other place in some different time. Standing politely behind her podium, Ms. Adlewood ushered in the visitors and guided them to their places. Gentleman tipped their hats to her in salutation while ladies bent knees and lifted skirts in tart curtsies. Silas felt someone watching him. Turning toward the source, he found Trobuk's mother and father marching over, their attention fixed not on him but their son to his posterior. Baron Dannel was a severe gentleman, a noble of minor station whose virtuous enterprises and tepid jaunts into philanthropy were for the benefit of his peers and status. The missus—who rarely deigned for public appearances save for her children's exploits—was often seen in an avant-garde mask that veiled her entire face such that only her glossy, pouty lips were visible. How she saw enough to avoid careening into her surroundings was a topic Silas mused each time he saw the lady. Silas heard an expectant gulp from Trobuk behind him and relished the idea of his tormentor's plight. Baron Dannel viewed his youngest son as an embarrassment to his position in high society—the boy's raging behavior landing him in the Foundry School for Education and Asylum, a blemish on his family's public appearance. The nobleman's other children all attended The Aurelian Institute for Noblemen and Women—an esteemed and lavish institution for the education of high society's posterity. Yet here Trobuk was, being educated by commoners at an institution for troublesome and ignoble youth.
"How serendipitous to see you here, Mr. Carrow."
Silas's head jerked up, his attention flicking between Ms. Adlewood—eyebrows raised in mirth—and his pa—who sheepishly squirmed into the room, barely offering Ms. Adlewood a "pardon me" before stumbling to Silas's desk. Ms. Adlewood watched Pa dubiously as he stopped beside his charge. The man risked a hand on Silas's shoulder, who shrugged off the touch. With reluctance, Pa relaxed his grip, hands dangling at his sides.
Considering the full room—each pupil beset by guardians in rare full-attendance—Ms. Adlewood clapped her hands loudly to silence all twittering conversation and restless movement. "With all parental figures here, I call this famed evening to commence." All snappy heels and gritty strokes of chalk on board, Ms. Adlewood took center stage, conducting the scene with practiced aptitude.
The faux lesson—a lecture on alchemical properties and common applications—was acted out in formulaic demonstration. Ms. Adlewood lectured for a time, then paused to ask an open-ended question. With manufactured zeal, she provided the pupil who volunteered to answer with detailed feedback on their response. This process was repeated until each pupil had answered at least once, Silas's face burning when Ms. Adlewood interpreted his signing for the benefit of the room during his turn. Pa frowned at Silas's reaction but said nothing, glancing down at him once or twice before affixing his attention on a single point in the front of the room. The headmaster—flanked by two accreditors in the crimson and gold of Imperial attire—inspected briefly before departing for the next class, accreditors scrawling away at their Records all the while.
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The lesson came to its finishing act; Ms. Adlewood distributed a piece of parchment inscribed with fine print to each pupil's desk: their Progress Reports. Penned by their instructors and reviewed by the headmaster, each Progress Report detailed the pupil's strengths and weaknesses, with recommendations for improvement and growth. Silas hung his head as Ms. Adlewood deposited not one, but a stack of parchments upon his desk. Progress Reports were to be kept and redistributed each guardianship time until reviewed by the pupil's caretakers. Silas had thus accumulated many articles of parchment on account of Pa's numerous absences. Unfazed, Pa plucked the pile of parchment from Silas's desk and studied their contents through the spectacles perched precariously at the end of his nose. His brows knit together tighter the longer he read.
A melody of ruffled papers and hushed whispers played from the classroom's inhabitants as guardians reviewed Progress Reports in preparation for each pupil's private meeting with Ms. Adlewood. With a swish of skirts and click of heels, the educator departed from the room, announcing that—in alphabetic order of last name—pupils and their families would meet her in private in the staff lounge starting at half past the hour. Glancing at the clock, Silas noted the rapid approach of this impending gathering, a nervous bubble of perspiration arising at his hairline.
"Your grades are as impressive as always, lad," Pa said proudly, scanning between several pieces of parchment. Lingering for a moment on the bottom of a page, melancholy washed away the pride, sadness encroaching in its place. "But it says here you've become more withdrawn lately, hardly even spending any time with Charlotte." Pa looked up and studied the back of Silas's head, the boy's attention fixed to the front of the room. "Is everything okay?"
After a pause—Silas watching the first pupil and her family leave the room to find Ms. Adlewood in the lounge—he shrugged, a barely perceptible jerk of his right shoulder. His migraine had evolved into a ringing in his ears. The whirring, squealing sound blended with the growing din of pupil and guardian, coalescing into a thrum that beat against his eardrums.
"You know you can talk to me about anything, Silas," came Pa's voice, barely heard over the rise and fall of the racket.
At this, Silas turned, an exasperated look plastered to his face. "Anything, is it?" Silas signed jerkily, his hands tremulous with anger. "So long as the conversation does not concern questions directed at you, of course."
Pa flinched as if struck, turning away from Silas's signs in shame.
The first pupil and family returned from their brief meeting with Ms. Adlewood, signaling the next to take their place. This new group briskly exited the classroom as the previous pupil returned to her seat. Silas's vision pulsed with the thrumming in his head, the pressure building against his temples as indignation clashed with the mounting pain behind his eyeballs. Pa noted the sickly, wan hue of Silas's complexion with concern but said nothing, biting his lip to refrain from speaking.
Minutes passed, the moments ticking by in agonizingly slow cadence. Silas stared at the door, ready to spring to his feet and lead Pa to Ms. Adlewood the moment the previous pupil returned. His foot began to tap impatiently, his heel bobbing up and down in time with his galloping heart. Finally, Silas jerked to stand when his turn came, thundering out of the room with Pa scrambling after in his wake.
Down twisting corridors aglow in the gloam of starbloom light, Silas flew, leading Pa to the staff lounge where Ms. Adlewood awaited. Pa called after him, urging him to slow his breakneck pace. Ignoring this, Silas plowed on until he stopped abruptly at the door to Ms. Adlewood's office. Collecting himself, he paused at the entranceway and then stepped inside, a breathless Pa trailing in seconds after him.
Ms. Adlewood sat behind a large wooden desk, her back straight between the stiles of a tall, elegant chair in matching lumber. Inlaid with a detailed curling border of fine carving, the dark wood of her desk shone with recent polish, a hazy glare illuminating its top right corner from a starbloom standing lamp situated behind Ms. Adlewood. Silas sat himself in one of two chairs placed before the grand desk, the furniture creaking softly as it bore his weight. Pa stood for an awkward second, wringing his hands while Ms. Adlewood scrutinized him with one eyebrow raised. He finally plopped into his chair—the sudden motion knocking his spectacles askew—which he corrected by pushing against their rim with his middle finger.
"I am pleased that you could make it this time, Mr. Carrow," said Ms. Adlewood, attempting to catch the man's flighty gaze. "We have much to discuss concerning your grandson." She cleared her throat and extended her arm, palm open expectantly.
Pa stared dumbly at it for a beat before realization dawned, and he placed the Progress Reports into her grasp. Ms. Adlewood retracted her arm, bringing the pieces of parchment to rest upon the smooth surface of her desk.
"Did you read through these in their entirety?" Ms. Adlewood tapped the parchments, the nail of her finger leaving small indentations in the material after each poke.
"Indeed," replied Pa, shifting nervously in his seat. "They were rather… detailed in narrative, but I do believe I have appreciated their contents in full."
Ms. Adlewood blinked languidly, her eyelashes fluttering with each open and close of eyelid. "Then I take it you understand the nature of my concern?" She leaned back in her chair, regarding Pa with barely veiled disdain.
"I-I… er—" Pa's focus switched between Silas and Ms. Adlewood before finally settling on his boots. He laughed nervously. "I believe so, yes," he admitted quietly.
"Headmaster Warren has ordered me to send you to his office after our discussion. Your continued dishonesty and punctual avoidance of guardianship time leaves him feeling concerned for Silas's safety at home." Ms. Adlewood addressed Silas, her sternness softening as she beheld his tense posture.
Silas bridled at her words. While Ms. Adlewood and the headmaster's concerns were valid—Pa's behavior only served to further their suspicions—he shied from the implications of their investigation. Would they move to expel me from this school? he thought, fear rushing through him with a zingy tingle that left his digits trembling.
"Y-yes," Pa stammered. "I-I would be glad to meet with Headmaster Warren to… to resolve any and all confusion."
"I am sure, Mr. Carrow." Silas strained to hear Ms. Adlewood over the muttered, whispered Voices that rose from the pain behind his eyes and filled his temples with their stentorian chaos.
The Voices sounded flustered and urgent, demanding his attention. Silas fixed his gaze on Ms. Adlewood's lips, hoping their movement as she spoke would draw his focus to the conversation happening in the room and away from the one raging in his mind.
"However, before that, there is one urgent matter I would like to discuss" —her eyes flicked to Silas for but a moment— "I will allow you to wager a guess at the subject matter."
"His episodes," Pa breathed, heeding the pallid sheen of Silas's skin accentuated in the blue-green starbloom incandescence.
Ms. Adlewood nodded. "Full marks, Mr. Carrow," she agreed.
Pa sucked in breath. "What about them specifically?" he tried in one of his weak attempts at derailing the conversation.
"Dr. Strath has several concerns," replied Ms. Adlewood evenly. "One, he made clear to me his reluctance to believe Silas is taking his prescribed dosage of Powder. Two, he once again urges you to take Silas to the Sanctorium for more rigorous investigation into their origins. And three—this one is my personal concern—if they truly are 'stress-induced' as you claimed they were when Silas enrolled here as a tike, then what is happening at home to allow such a drastic increase in frequency as we have seen over the past syzygy or so." The words poured from Ms. Adlewood, the volume of her inquiry increasing as heat flooded her cheeks with passion.
Silas started at the mention of the Sanctorium—also known as the Sovereign Infirmary—a center of clinical logics and physick training. Pa had never taken Silas there, even when he grew deathly ill from a ruptured appendix shortly after the celebration of his eighth syzygy. Whenever either of them was sick or injured, Pa avoided the Sanctorium like the plague, instead opting for home visitations from nomadic physicks with alchemical pharmaceuticals and unsterile surgical procedures.
Silas stifled a gasp by clearing his throat, the Voices mangling together into an indiscernible chanting. The room lurched dizzyingly with the force of the shouting, and Silas felt his head involuntarily jerk in accordance.
"W-washroom!" he signed hastily and wrenched himself to his feet. Swaying as the room listed dangerously, Silas's fingers again spelled out the sign for washroom—his twitching fingers stuttering the signing—before he stumbled from the room, ramming his hip into the chair as he did so.
In the hall, Silas allowed himself to lean on the wall as he staggered down the corridor. Outside, he kept saying to himself. Fresh air will help. I need to get outside. He found himself crouching, his head tucked protectively between his knees as though his limbs could protect him. A concerned parent kneeled to inquire about his health, but he shooed them away with a wave of his hand and climbed—unsteadily—to his feet to continue his drunken dance down the hallway.
Echo said, its Voice squeezed between the deafening roar of the others. Silas focused, willing Echo's voice into solidity.
Silas's eyes snapped open. He found himself at the double doors that marked the school building's portal.
Wincing at the volume of Echo's Voice, Silas yanked open the doors against the howling wind on the other side and stepped out, allowing the shock of frigid air and whipping wind to clear his senses.
Breathing heavily with exertion, Silas reeled down the walkway, forcing his legs to carry him farther from the building. The more distance between himself and the building, the quieter the Voices became, and the more confident his stride grew. Eventually, the last hissing susurration petered out. Blissfully, Silas could hear only the squalling wind, its turbulence buffeting his hair and stinging his cheeks. Shivering against the onslaught, he thrust his hands into his pockets and walked toward the succulent forest adjacent to the boiler park. Pausing to consider the spiny plants that blocked further passage, his gaze rolled upward to follow the ascent of the twin moons into the indigo inkiness of night. He stood like this for uncounted minutes, savoring the sweet aroma of cactus fruit that wafted from the succulent forest on tumbling winds. His mouth watered at the fruity fragrance, craving the juicy bite of prickly pear.
A sudden sound from behind alerted him. The creaking crepitus sent a bolt of fear through his chest. For a moment, he lingered on the verge of turning around and remaining as he was. The decision was made for him as a single Voice shattered the silence.
Limbs jerky in petrified ataxia, Silas swiveled around. Breath caught in throat, heart frozen in chest, he stared, agape, at the Unspoken postured before him, blocking his retreat to the school building with its ungainly body of overly-articulated joints and stiffly scaled skin. The creature's pinpoint vestigial mouth and black, bulbous eyes betrayed no emotion. It stood as still as a statue, regarding Silas with unfettered fascination. The boy's mouth fell open and a blood-curdling scream tore from his throat.