Chapter Text
“Mr. Gauthier.”
I turned around and saw our new maid. A half blooded girl, no older than seventeen—her name, I believe, was Laura—stood in the doorway of the sitting room, her eyes lowered and hands clasped tightly in front of her. I noted in passing how striking she looked in her black uniform dress that fell just to the knees and a crisp white apron. It was clear she was nervous—this, I think, was the first time she had addressed me by name, even though she’d been living in our house for nearly a month. Not long, perhaps, but she’d been given a good room in the servants’ cottage, thanks to being the niece of Sylvia, our housekeeper.
“Mr. William requests your presence in his study,” she said.
I didn’t reply. She gave a small nod, as if I’d issued her some silent command, and quietly left the room without ever once meeting my gaze.
I had never given much thought to who did the shopping or decorated the drawing room for the holidays—I simply took it for granted that all three floors of our house and the grounds were always in perfect order, that my shirts were pressed and hanging in the wardrobe, waiting their turn, and that at any hour of day or night I could have freshly baked bread, hot soup, or grilled beef.
Only recently did I begin to realize that things didn’t magically return to their places after Gabriella, my little sister, tossed them around during her games; that when my older brother Gedeon, in a fit of rage, tore through half the house (which had become increasingly frequent, especially during Father's long absences), it wasn’t by some wave of a wand that everything looked as it should just a few hours later.
Only the servants unusually quiet behavior gave away that something out of the ordinary had occurred. I heard whispers here and there, but the moment I entered a room, they would fall silent, looking as though I’d caught them selling the family china.
I remember once—must’ve been around the age of ten—I woke up early in the morning from a nightmare. I lay in bed for half an hour, unable to fall back asleep, and finally went downstairs to get a glass of water. But in the kitchen, I unexpectedly ran into Catherine and Fanny: still drowsy, they were mechanically kneading dough for the morning bread. It startled me. Why weren’t they asleep? Why were they cooking at such an hour?
That was the first time I glimpsed the underside of our everyday life.
After that, I made a habit of keeping my room tidy, trying to stay clean, reminding eight-year-old Gabriella to pick up her toys. And there were so many of them—God as my witness, it was like we spent our days frantically raiding every toy store in the city. Her junk was everywhere. Dolls with their endless outfits and little houses, teddy bears, puzzle pieces scattered in every corner—puzzles that Gabriella might finish only by the time she was eighty.
But the worst of it—the stuff of nightmares—were the tiny, sharp Lego pieces. From a distance, her soft, pale carpet looked innocent, but up close it resembled a minefield. I wouldn’t step into that room for all the gold in Octavia.
Scarial, my best friend, actually liked Gabriella’s toys. He didn’t mind sitting with her, sipping tea from a miniature porcelain set while surrounded by stuffed rabbits and elephants—which, thankfully, didn’t happen too often.
Now and then, having overheard our father, Gabriella would hit him with a barrage of questions in her usual, blunt, childlike way:
“Scarial, are you a half-blooded? Like Sylvia and Laura? My papa says half-bloods in Octavia never had the same rights as pure-bloods. All half-bloods have to work for pure-bloods. Do you work too? Have you ever been to the Forbidden Lands? That’s a very bad place.”
But while I could calm Gabriella down, there was no way I could stop an enraged Gedeon—and I never even tried. My instinct for self-preservation still worked just fine. Gedeon was four years older than me, though judging by how he treated me, it might as well have been forty.
Always composed and tactful on the surface, my brother was like a volcano—years of suppressed tension ready to erupt with devastating force. When it happened, it was sudden, dangerous, and unstoppable. The only sensible move was to raise the white flag and surrender immediately.
I always felt ashamed of the way he’d tear through the house whenever he lost control. I don’t know what he felt afterward, but after one of his episodes, he would disappear into his room for days. And then he’d reemerge as the same well-respected, impeccably proper Gedeon Heathcliff everyone admired. Until the next outburst.
Sylvia would rise before dawn and oversee all the servants responsible for keeping the household running. A few women handled the cleaning; Catherine and Fanny ran the kitchen. The new girl, Laura, took on simple tasks and was still learning the ropes. Perhaps one day—twenty years from now—she might take her aunt’s place.
My driver, Kevin, could probably be considered a lucky man. He drove me to the lyceum in the morning and picked me up after lunch. That was the extent of my travel by car.
I’d often wondered what Kevin did with all his free time. He’d been driving me for years, yet we’d never had a proper conversation. I knew he was a talkative guy—I’d sometimes hear his cheerful voice out in the courtyard, chatting with the rest of the staff.
But I never asked questions, and he never initiated a conversation. So we rode in silence, day after day, like two ghosts in a hearse.
I set the book I’d been reading aside. To be honest, I hadn’t absorbed a word of it for the past ten minutes. My eyes had been drifting across the lines without registering a thing. I’d lost the thread of the story long before Laura appeared.
Most of the time, I stayed in my room—reading, playing on the console I’d won through long, grueling negotiations with my father, and doing my homework.
Sometimes I’d get completely lost in an imaginary world, caught up in the fate of characters from games, books, or films. I’d forget about my family—hell, I’d forget about basic things like eating or sleeping. But whether that was fortunate or not, I could only afford such escapes during the holidays.
My father didn’t invite me into his study often, and I was already bracing for the worst. He might start talking about Scarial again.
I loved my father and was fairly certain he loved me too—but he was firmly against showing any kind of emotion, even the parental kind. There were no heart-to-heart conversations (which, honestly, was probably for the best—just imagining such an awkward scene makes me want to crawl up the wall), no outings to the movies or cafés, no trips to the stadium to cheer for a favorite team. That sort of thing just wasn’t part of his repertoire.
We never talked about anything for more than ten minutes.
His study was on the third floor and doubled as a private library, with a large desk in the center. I knocked and entered.
Father, a tall, dignified man with completely silver hair, was busy with paperwork. It felt very much like I’d barged in uninvited right in the middle of an important workday.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Sit down,” he said with a nod.
I could already tell this conversation was going to be a difficult one.
“How are things at the lyceum?” he asked, eyes still fixed on a document in front of him.
Perfect, I thought. Doesn’t my report card—probably the very one you’re looking at right now—say it all?
I stayed silent. Somehow, I didn’t know how to answer such a simple question. He received my grades at the end of every week. The teachers reported on all my achievements and failures long before I even made it home.
Sometimes I felt like the only reason I’d been admitted to the lyceum at all was because my father had eyes and ears in every hallway.
I used to think about that a lot during my first years there. I constantly wanted to pull some shocking stunt—not enough to give him a heart attack, maybe, but just to prove that I wasn’t completely under his control. That I could act out.
But every brilliant plan I came up with popped like a soap bubble.
In my head, I imagined a thousand rebellions. I wanted to do something—anything—to show I could disobey him, stand up to my brother, voice my own opinions to the teachers, argue with classmates. I wanted to prove that I could be more than a shadow following someone else's expectations.
I was at that age when you still believe you’re invincible. That the whole world is just waiting for you to challenge it.
“Next year you’ll be entering the Academy,” Father said. “Start preparing more seriously.”
I nodded. It looked like my fears weren’t going to come true—at least for now. The conversation seemed harmless enough. Father was delivering the usual textbook wisdom.
He set the report card aside and looked at me.
That evaluating stare—I was used to it. What would’ve truly thrown me off was if he suddenly reached out, took my hand, and said something heartwarmingly fatherly.
You know, something like: “Son, I saw your grades—well done,” while dabbing at a single tear.
I would’ve passed out on the spot.
I sat up straight, just as I’d been taught.
Posture.
Eyes on the speaker.
Calm. Focused.
Even tone.
A faint smile.
Hands open—don’t tense up, Gautier.
“You remember about the mentors?” Father asked. “You’ll need to choose one from among the senior students.”
Ah, yes. The mentors. How could I forget? I’d only been reminded about them… what, twenty times a week?
Next year, when I officially become a first-year student at the Academy of the Saints and the Great, I’ll be assigned a mentor—someone who’ll be responsible for me.
A symbiosis of youthful and mature minds. Experience guiding inexperience.
That’s how the brochure put it.
In reality, it was painfully mundane. A senior student would help me adapt, offer some tips about life at the Academy. Supposedly, with their help, I’d pass both theory and practice with flying colors—and in return, they’d earn points for my success.
And then the two of us would frolic hand-in-hand across a green meadow, laughing like children while a rainbow sparkled overhead.
I shuddered.
“Don’t want a mentor?” Father smirked. “You could ask for Oscar.”
Oscar Watermill. The eldest son of my father’s best friend.
Mr. Watermill owns a chain of luxury liquor factories. The king of hard spirits. Mr. Ten-out-of-Ten Hangover.
Back when they were kids, Oscar and Gideon used to be close. But after some mysterious falling-out, Gideon only talks to him through clenched teeth.
Every time Oscar visited us for yet another official banquet, Gideon treated him like a sworn enemy. I swear, it always felt like my brother’s face was about to erupt into a full-blown volcanic explosion, and Oscar Watermill would be the first casualty.
I figured Oscar could only become my mentor if I completely lost my mind and decided to burn every last fragile bridge of brotherly affection between me and Gedeon.
If the day ever came when Oscar and I were laughing and skipping through a meadow hand in hand, it would probably be the last day of our lives.
I wouldn’t even be surprised if Gedeon just shot us both. Two birds with one stone. Lucky him, right?
“I’ll think about it,” I muttered after realizing I needed to say something. Anything.
Father reached for another stack of documents and continued:
“Or you could ask your brother to be your mentor. He’ll be in his final year, and it would be the most practical option for both of you. Gedeon has to choose a first-year student too.”
It was easier to throw myself under Gedeon’s wrath when he was in a bad mood than to live like a ticking time bomb all school year long.
Would he explode now, or in a second?
Could I finish my glass of juice, or would he hurl his mug at me first?
I couldn’t remember the last time we had a proper conversation.
I might say dramatically that I’d forgotten what his voice sounded like, but every morning I still heard his restrained:
“Good morning, Father. Have you seen today’s financial reports?”
He was polite with everyone else in the house:
“Gabriella, would you be so kind as to finish your juice?”
“Sylvia, could you please prepare your signature dish for dinner? Yes, the roast goose.”
But he avoided me, as if any interaction between us could lead to catastrophic consequences.
“I’ll think about it.”
“All right,” Father nodded. “That’s all.”
That’s it? He really let me go that easily?
I must’ve shown every shade of positive emotion on my face—a rare occurrence.
I jumped up so quickly, I had to hold myself back.
As I was leaving the study, Father called out to me. Biting my tongue, I put on an angelic look of obedience and turned back to him.
“Where were you last night? Sylvia says she saw someone in the yard beneath your window,” he said insistently, without looking up from his papers.
Why on earth was diligent, sharp-eyed Sylvia awake at night? She had to get up early, and her years weren’t getting any younger. And it seemed someone who was making too much noise sneaking to my window deserved a serious lesson.
“I was asleep, Father.” Partly true—I was asleep until Scarial Low showed up in the middle of the night.
“That half-blood friend of yours doesn’t come around at night, does he? If you were a girl, I’d be worried you might bring me a bastard in your skirt.”
I put on a look of wounded innocence. How could he think that of me?! If I were a girl, I wouldn’t let Scarial anywhere near me, not even within a cannon shot.
But I could understand Father’s worries. Scar made, to put it mildly, a rather questionable impression. And to be honest, as Catherine, one of our cooks, put it — which I overheard by accident while she was talking to Laura — “That Low boy looks like he came to rob the house and take a dump by the front door.”
The whole heart-to-heart with Father lasted maybe five minutes, and I’d even say that was one of our longer conversations. There were days when the only thing I managed to say by the end was, “Understood. May I go now?”
Still, those five minutes were packed. I was expected to choose a mentor soon, and it was made quite clear that the only candidates Father would accept were Oscar or Gedeon. No one else was even up for discussion.
And, for good measure, he reminded me yet again that I needed to dedicate more time to studying and preparing. Getting into the Academy of Saints and the Great — which Scar liked to call the Academy of Miserable Sinners — was no easy.
At the end of spring, I had to get an A on all my exams and confirm at least an intermediate level of dark matter manipulation. That last part terrified me most. My grasp of dark matter was barely enough to meet the admission threshold.
And lastly — Father wasn’t thrilled about my friendship with Scarial Low. Especially not about his late-night visits, which, frankly, wasn’t surprising.
I went down to the sitting room and picked up the book I’d left on the coffee table. More than anything, I wanted to toss it into the fireplace. But throwing things into flames was more of a Gedeon thing. So many decent things had been sacrificed to fire in one of his fits.
I never had a deep attachment to trinkets. I wasn’t sentimental about material stuff — though I’ll admit, if he ever tossed my favorite books or games, I’d be pretty upset. But the way Gedeon hurled porcelain figurines, painted vases, artwork by famous (and not-so-famous) artists, and throw pillows with such rage — not to mention books he happened to grab mid-outburst — honestly, I just started to feel sorry for the things themselves.
There was only one thing I couldn’t forgive my brother for — when he destroyed a vase or painting that had something to do with Mom.
Frowning, I looked down at the book I hadn’t managed to get past page two hundred of. The text was a soul-crushingly dull — and worse, excruciatingly detailed — account of every historical event starting from the nineteenth century. Reading it and writing an essay was our homework for Dark Forces History.
If I weren’t afraid of getting a bad grade — or more precisely, of Father’s reaction to a bad grade — my essay would’ve gone something like this: “I bravely made it through the first two hundred pages, then used the remaining three hundred to fold origami. Please find enclosed my paper dogs and frogs.”
But that was more Scarial’s style.
I was supposed to go upstairs and start my homework, but I was putting it off as long as I could. Suddenly, I felt an urgent need to grab a snack. Or change clothes. Or maybe take a shower. Or feed Gedeon’s fish.
They’d been living in my brother’s room for a while now, and how the aquarium hadn’t once been knocked over — and how the fish had only ever died of natural causes (rather than, say, Gedeon generously feeding them a pound of salt) — completely baffled me.
No, the fish were a last resort. I could feed them right before exams — and then I’d probably end up prepping for finals from the trauma ward. Maybe the school would cut me some slack, considering it’s not exactly easy to take tests with a broken spine. Not that I had firsthand experience, but it felt like a valid excuse.
I settled on the snack. Fanny was already in the kitchen, getting ready to start dinner; she gladly agreed to make me a sandwich when I said I was hungry. (To be honest, I’d planned to make it myself, but she simply wouldn’t let me.)
The whole meal took no more than ten minutes.
"— Master Gauthier, what do you think you're doing?"
She snatched the plate from my hands without ceremony.
"Go on, I’ll wash it myself."
Thus, my noble attempt to help the staff — and, more importantly, stall for time — was crushed at the root.
I climbed the stairs to my room like a man walking to the gallows, dragging my feet with the face of a martyr who knows a terrible fate awaits: homework.
I was in my final year of the lyceum, and though only two weeks had passed, this year already qualified as the hardest of my life.
"Dear God."
I entered my room and flinched.
Sprawled across my bed, Scarial was reading my planner.
I mentally congratulated myself for not writing anything important in it.
"You can just call me Scarial," he snorted.
"You’ve got an exceptionally boring diary."
He tossed the notebook aside with a lazy flick and gave me a look that screamed, "You’ve disappointed me, Mr. Heathcliff."
"Screw you," I muttered, sitting down beside him.
I had to push his legs aside — naturally, he hadn’t taken off his sneakers.
"It’s not a diary," I added.
"Yeah, I figured," he said.
"I was hoping to find pages full of my name scrawled in hearts, but it’s just lesson plans and dentist appointments. Who even logs dental visits, Gothy? A crazy old lady afraid of losing her last teeth?”
I shoved him off the bed and flipped him the finger.
Stretching out full-length — he was half a head taller than me — Scarial made himself quite comfortable on the floor.
I placed the planner back on the bedside table. My father had given it to me for my fifteenth birthday. Who in their right mind gives a teenager a planner?
I only used it occasionally, mostly because it was a gift from him.
I’d once seen a TV show suggesting that if you feel like talking but have no one to talk to, you should start a personal journal. Supposedly, you could write about your relationship with your father, your brother, your mother…
But there was absolutely no point in that.
I didn’t want a diary that could turn into a ticking time bomb to fall into anyone’s hands in this house.
It was safer to keep everything in my head.
“Rough day?”
Sometimes Scarial acted like my personal therapist. He tucked one arm under his head and looked up at me.
“Thanks to you.”
“Oh really? I’ve only been here for half an hour — what could I possibly have done already?”
I could hear the smug grin in his voice.
“Sylvia saw you last night. I caught hell from my father.”
“That old cow ratted me out.”
Low tried to sound offended, but it came off way too theatrical.
“What did your father say?”
“That I won’t get my inheritance if I get pregnant before marriage,” I muttered in a despondent voice.
“Don’t worry. I’ll marry you,” Scarial replied in the same somber tone.
We stared at each other and burst out laughing. I’d needed that kind of joke all day.
I tossed a pillow at him — naturally, he dodged it.
The next second he pounced on me with the pillow, laughing like a lunatic as he tried to strangle me.
Every day I had to keep myself in check. Watch my behavior. Make sure I didn’t slip up and embarrass myself.
Always under the eyes of the staff, my classmates, the teachers.
But the hardest part — constantly being under the scrutiny of my father and older brother.
They both had high expectations for me. Father talked about it often: you must be the best in the lyceum, you must pass your exams successfully, you must get into the Academy of Pathetic Sinners — “God, Scarial!” — you must reach a high level of dark matter, you must this, must that.
My brother spoke rarely, but his behavior made it clear: I was not to tarnish his reputation. Gedeon was top of the fourth year at the Academy, masterfully skilled in dark matter, and aiming for a career in politics. He was very determined to join the Council of Elders and work among the truly “worthy and great.”
Scarial had a different take on that — he called the Council a bunch of arrogant old fossils who thought they were the center of the universe and couldn’t see beyond their palatial estates.
For sixteen years, I had never given my family any reason to doubt me. I was an obedient son, caused no trouble, and did everything that was required of me. But since Scarial came into my life, I felt the shell that had held me back all those years begin to crack. It was clear from my father’s expression that he was displeased by these changes. He saw my friendship with Low as a minor flaw, a side effect of adolescence; he hoped I would soon “recover,” as if I had caught some kind of virus.
With Scar, I didn’t have to pretend to be anything. He grew up outside the city, where only half-bloods and the lower class lived, but he treated us as equals — no fawning, no trying to please me. And he demanded nothing from me, expected nothing. I was glad he accepted me as I was.