The crowd parts. Conversations hush and hang broken. Curious yet fearful eyes follow as Cy leads me through the atrium. Is this what it’s like whenever the Baroness enters a room? The ability to draw such attention, their terror sending the air cold, the wordless respect given… I could get used to this. It won’t be for long, of course. Only two more months until the carriage comes to deliver me unto my future.
Out from the throng break two figures. One tall, one less so, both dark skinned and black haired, both concealing their excitement. Max and Kym pull me into a three-way hug and welcome me back with happy smiles. Does he know she visited most nights for the last three weeks? Would she have told him? Did he perhaps act as her scout to make sure she had safe passage? I won’t ask; better to preserve the secret if it exists between the twins.
Returning to the daily regimen comes with relative and surprising ease, save for the new silent attention whenever I enter a room. The quiet gawking fades after the first few minutes each time, that time growing shorter with every passing day. However, in the back of every group who does their best to avoid my gaze, there always seems to be one of Wassim’s crew watching me. Jibara and Janco, wingless gargoyles, pantomime their intentions. This often includes crushing, stomping, breaking, or a mix of all three. Telarria simply stares with squinting hateful eyes and a murderous look on her fox-like face. Pinnow, on the other hand, sends a pleasant little grin my way whenever we see each other. Does he even remember what happened? Or does he blot it out entirely, a memory locked away deep in a dark old strongbox never to be seen or mentioned again? I would prefer the latter if I were him, but even my month in the Frozen Chamber keeps it in the back of my mind.
In the following weeks, the others let loose their fear and avoidance. The gaps they place between themselves and me close inch by inch. Some even go so far as to offer me a passing hello in the halls. Normalcy, or at least something resembling it, returns. By the end of the month, it’s almost as if nothing ever happened.
“They’re staring again,” Kym warns in a whisper.
The dining hall around us buzzes with conversations. Huddled at a table near the exit is Wassim’s crew, all but Pinnow shooting daggers at the three of us. Their leader remains absent, but they leave an open seat for him. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Wassim since my return. Not that I’m complaining, of course. But I do wonder from time to time where he’s hiding. Does he hide away in his dormitory all day, too afraid of crossing Kym’s or my path again? Does he remain in the infirmary, still recovering from his injuries? Surely he hasn’t died. There’s no way the Baroness would allow me to wander free if that were the case.
“Let them,” I shrug, focusing back on my meat sandwich. “That’s all they do nowadays. They don’t even go after the littler kids anymore. Not since…”
Kym’s eyes cut to mine. They plead, beg me to not bring up the subject. How can she, or we, move on from the incident if it gets brought back up again?
“Not since the evil king was deposed of his wicked throne?” Max suggests a beat later.
“Where has he even been?” I ask before I can stop my curious tongue.
“Don’t know,” Max shrugs, taking a bite of his own sandwich.
“Don’t care,” Kym adds. Her food sits on her plate, suddenly unwanted. Her fingers roll a red grape around the plate, the end of her digits gently kicking it around as if the little fruit was a ball. “Wherever he is, he deserves to be somewhere worse.”
Dropping the subject, the three of us fall into silence. Max and I avoid the awkwardness by enjoying our lunch. Kym continues her little game until it bores her and she rises from the table. She holds her hand out to me as I finish my last bite.
“C’mon,” she says. “I wanna go to the Overlook and watch the water.”
Wiping my mouth as I swallow, I take her hand and follow as she leads us out of the dining hall. Max stays behind, and I know the eyes I feel on me are not his. A glance to the table nearest the doorway finds three sets of controlled violence. However, I shrug it off. They’re too afraid to act without Wassim, I reason with myself. How pathetic, their lack of autonomy. Good little soldiers, sure, but nothing more. They would rust in their armor if they were told to stand out in the rain. Perhaps that is what their last order had been, but it matters not. Soon, I will be gone and their actions will have no consequence to me.
* * *
A knocking, soft yet urgent, wakes me to the darkness of my dormitory. Beyond the door, the rest of the boys’ wing sleeps in the quiet moonlight. Though a small space, my room has been my personal comfortable solitude for fourteen years. The bed sits under the tall window, white streaks of light illuminating the sole door. A small dresser sits along the wall to the left, a cold candle atop waiting for its next rendezvous with a lit match. On the wall to the right hangs a lone painting: a woman with flowing golden hair who, though is faceless, smiles upon me with an earnest care and love. Skrolba, Mother to the World. Mother even to orphans like me.
The rapping comes once more. A dull candlelight glowing in the gap between the bottom of my door and the floor shows two shadows there. Something slips through the small empty space, the sound of paper sliding along stone creeping through the air. The shadows move away then, leaving behind only the candleglow and the piece of parchment. I brave the cold stone floor against my bare feet to retrieve the note.
“Meet me in Sister Signe’s old classroom in the western hall,” it reads in an elegant flowing script. The signature at the bottom names Kym, and my heart leaps from my chest into my throat. Could this be it? After so many months, when I am so close to my leaving day, are we about to make our unspoken romantic intentions known? Will we finally step out of the shadows of secrecy and into the glorious light of unbridled and unabashed truth? Even if it must be done in the middle of night, perhaps that is what is more comfortable for her. I will not argue with that; the destination matters more than the path.
Gathering my slippers, I head out. The silent still air surrounds me as I sneak my way through the boys’ wing and out into the atrium. Despite my excitement, I move slow and quiet; I can’t have someone hearing or spotting me. Leaving Kym waiting all night would certainly ruin any chance of progression.
Sister Signe’s old classroom sits on a whole floor of abandoned classrooms. She had been the last to move her lessons when I was still little. The other instructors had left their rooms behind before I had arrived at the Tower of Lost Children. Lingering rumors suggest there had been an accident, but the specifics are lost to time. Nowadays, other rumors spread about this forgotten hall, chiefly those old romantic stories Augustin used to tell.
Old muscle memory leads me to the correct room. The door creaks open on rusty hinges. The moonlight cascades through large glass panes and silhouettes her figure. Kym sits with her back turned to me as I step inside. Desks remain in their old posts, a grid of five by five. She sits atop the desk in the direct center. The eagerness and excitement in me wanes; there is something off about the air here. I can’t feel her nervousness, her anticipation. As I draw near, her silhouette becomes clearer, and it’s wrong. The shape of her lacks the proper curves. The hair, while black, is cut too short. White bandage wrap hides under the shaggy growth.
The door shuts with force behind me. The sudden sound grabs my attention, and I turn to find that fox-like sneer and red hair of Telarria. Murder shines in her eyes, clear and present. Out from the shadows step the gargantuan twins, Janco and Jibara, the same look on their mirrored dumb faces. Pinnow reveals himself slower, fear and uncertainty scrunched up on his little face. Regret and apologies follow once we see each other.
“I never pegged you as the brightest,” comes the wicked and snide voice from the silhouette, “but I’m surprised you fell for the bait so easily.”
Turning on the desk’s top, the rest of the bandages come into view. Most of his face is hidden, but his rum eyes glint from within the surrounding white. A small gap is left for his mouth, which I’m sure is curved into a twisted grin. He watches me for a long moment, and I can feel the seething vitriol in the air around him.
I need a game plan. I need to figure out a way to get out of here. Telarria has the door blocked, but a strong wind could push her over. Pinnow likely wouldn’t stand in my way. Wassim might still be too weak to present any physical danger himself. The only true obstacle are the twins. Taking on just one of them is enough of an ordeal, let alone both of them. I could outrun them maybe, but I still would need to get past Telarria. If only I had some of Kym’s magic to help me out. Perhaps if I’m quick enough and catch them off guard, maybe I could just shove Telarria aside and make a run for it. It’s worth a shot.
Turning on my heel in a flash, I make my attempt to escape. A wall, tall and wide and made of flesh, blocks the path now. Janco (or Jibara, it’s hard to tell them apart most of the time) gives me a little wave with his thick digits, a sinister taunting grin accompanying the gesture. A hand just as large grabs my shirt collar from behind, wrenching me backwards. I crash into the front line of desks, the impacting sending a shock through my spine. A heavy fist comes into view too late for me to dodge. Blackness flashes before my eyes as the strike cuts across my jaw, and with the follow-through comes the taste of blood in my mouth. He chuckles as I take a knee, blinking as the room comes back into view. Wassim cheers on Jibara in the background, encouraging more of the beatdown.
That same hand forces me back to my feet with another fist ready. I spit the mouthful of red up into his ugly mug, taking a quick moment to revel in his disgusted look. The satisfaction does not last long; another hit comes and knocks me down once more. A stream of bloody saliva trickles from my mouth as I collapse to my hands and knees. A body slams into mine, smaller but with enough momentum to knock me flat on the floor. Face up, I find Telarria on top of me. Her nails glisten sharp and deadly in the moonlight. Fingers like talons dash at my face, but I raise my arms in time for my forearms to take the brunt of the attack.
“Stop it!” cries Pinnow. “Make her stop, Wassim!”
“Shut up!” Wassim barks. “He deserves this! You’ve seen what –”
Sudden silent stillness cuts through the room, and the temperature drops. Telarria’s claws cease their slashing. Despite the sharp pain from the many little cuts on my arms, I part them. With her bloody fingernails at her sides and her eyes rolled into the back of her head, Telarria sits frozen on my lap. The others watch, unmoving in either confusion or terror, as an obsidian tendril of smoke billows from the top of her head. Transfixed on the oddity for a long moment, my eyes soon follow the focused black cloud across the room to Pinnow’s small outstretched palm. Furrowed brow and narrow vengeful eyes glowing with a sinister green, he concentrates on the girl.
Janco and Jibara break from their horrified trance and make their way toward the little one. His free hand points to them and shoots a new column of smoke at them, splitting in two and planting into each of their foreheads. They stop in their tracks and fall to their knees, limp and helpless.
“What are you doing?” Wassim asks in a shaky breath.
The glowing green eyes dart to him, and without hesitation or warning a new tendril shoots into the bandages. Pinnow holds the four of them in their spots for a long time, and I’m too afraid to move or say anything. His face soon loosens, the glowing dulls back into his regular shade of emerald, and the smoke dissipates. Released from the strange magical hold, they all collapse to the floor. Telarria falls to my side, freeing me.
Getting to my feet, I make slow steps toward Pinnow. His eyes downcast, his shoulders slumped, he seems tired and ashamed. The last thing I want is to reignite that ire. He either does not notice or does not care as I get close. Power, dark and mighty, emanates from his little body but quickly retreats back into himself. I had never felt anything close to it before, especially not from him. Great things come in small packages, I remind myself.
“Thank you,” I say, soft and careful and earnest. “Are you okay?”
Untold years of hardship darken his youthful face, shadows of hidden wrinkles playing on his skin and giving way for just a moment. When his gaze meets mine, he offers a faint smile. But gravity lingers in the emeralds, unable to defy or deny what just transpired. Enigmatic past horrors hide there still, giving fuel for a curiosity that knows better than to ask. Not now, likely never. So it shall be, for not all mysteries can be solved.
“It’s way past bedtime,” he says simply as he heads for the door. “We should get back to bed, Rokkoh.”
“But…” I start but trail off quickly, looking between the four on the floor. Motionless, I pray that they still breathe.
“They’ll be fine,” Pinnows shrugs off my concern, stopping at the door and turning back to me. “They’ll wake up in the morning and forget any of this happened. They won’t even remember the note or the plan.”
“Won’t they just try something else later?” I ask, making my way toward him. Pinnow opens the door as I step over the sleeping twins, soft snores rumbling from their noses.
“Only time can tell,” he answers without really answering. “Come on.”
While I tiptoe through the halls, Pinnow strolls as if it were midday. Hands in his trouser pockets, a small smile on his now-carefree face, and humming a tune, he seems unconcerned of the idea of being caught. Does he do this often? Does he take nightly walks through the stairways and passages, from wing to wing? Does he get up to mischief, or does he simply enjoy the peace and quiet? How does he avoid being seen? Does he use that strange magic to get out of trouble? What is he even capable of?
“Relax,” he chuckles. “We won’t get caught. I thought you were braver than this. Novhina know you’re not a stranger to getting in trouble in the first place.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I mutter, stopping midway back to the boys’ wing.
“What’s going on, Pinnow?” I press when my curiosity grows too large for me to contain any longer. “What did you do to Wassim and the others? Are you going to do the same to me? Why didn’t you just do that to Wassim back in the kitchen to make him stop?”
Pinnow stops as well, hanging his head for a moment with a sigh. He turns around, and for a moment I expect him to wear a look of childlike innocence and ignorance. But that heavy darkness returns, and suddenly he looks old and worn down. A once-restored relic that has again fallen into disrepair. Is this how he is meant to look? Does he hide under a veil of youth via a carefully crafted magic?
“Rokkoh,” he breathes, almost sounding defeated, “it’s a difficult and complicated story to tell. We don’t have the time and I don’t have the energy. Feats like what I just did take a lot to target one person, let alone four. And fear can even paralyze the most weathered soldier. Just know that they won’t be coming after you or your friends. That’s all that matters.
“Now, please, let’s get some sleep.”
I hesitate for a moment. I am certain that I can trust him, but something still lingers in my mind: if he is able to perform such impressive magical triumphs, how long has he been training and how has he managed to do it in the first place? Kym had joked about studying things from a book, but does the library truly hold such tomes? It had been my understanding that only simple restorative arts were taught at the Tower of Lost Children, and even then it was a selective group who were awarded the privilege.
“I’ve been here a very long time,” Pinnow answers my unspoken ponderings with another exhausted sigh. “And all the best things are hidden, but not necessarily hidden well. You just need to know where to look. I’m tired of questions, Rokkoh. I’m going to bed whether you’re coming or not.”
True to his word, he carries on toward the boys’ wing. After a few steps, he straightens his posture and seems to regain his pep. Not wanting to be found alone, I follow. We make it back without being spotted, silent as the grave, and part without a second glance at each other into our rooms. My own exhaustion kicks in as I undress and crawl back into. The adrenaline in me drains to the last drop. Mother Skrolba watches over me as she does every night.
Tyler Gohde 
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