chapter 5

The moon hung like a shard of bone against the black sky, casting barely enough light to navigate Saint Ursa's silent grounds. James moved through the shadows with practiced quiet, Fangtail padding beside him—a ginger ghost in the deeper darkness. Three nights of these patrols now, ever since young Thomas had stammered out his account of a tall figure stalking the corridors.

What truly unsettled James wasn't Thomas's fear—children frightened easily in a place like this. It was the other sightings. Garret from Room Six had mentioned something similar two days prior, speaking in hushed tones about a presence that shouldn't have been there. Mrs. Gable from the kitchens had whispered of glimpsing "something wrong" near the west wing. Three witnesses who'd never spoken to each other, three separate encounters.

But it was Fangtail's behavior that convinced him something prowled these halls. The cat had begun acting strangely in certain corridors—fur bristling, ears flat, amber eyes tracking movement James couldn't see. Tonight, as they rounded the corner toward the main dormitories, Fangtail suddenly froze, his body going rigid with attention. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he stared into the darkness ahead.

James followed the cat's gaze but saw only empty corridor stretching toward familiar doors. Yet something felt different—a displacement in the air, a sense of recent presence lingering like the ghost of warmth after a candle's flame dies. He waited, counting heartbeats, until Fangtail's tension gradually eased and they continued their circuit.

In the grey pre-dawn light filtering through tall windows, James slipped back into the dormitory to find all beds occupied, each breathing form accounted for. All but one appeared truly asleep. Philips lay motionless in his cot, yet something in his stillness—the too-careful rhythm of his breathing, the slight tension in his shoulders—spoke of wakefulness. As James settled onto his thin mattress, exhaustion settling deep in his bones, he felt the weight of Unspoken questions hanging in the darkness between them.

Sleep offered no escape, and when morning finally broke, it brought with it five new faces, huddled near the refectory entrance, their bewilderment stark against the practiced weariness of Saint Ursa's regulars. James watched them through eyes gritty with exhaustion, noting how they flinched at every sound—the scrape of tin spoons, the creak of ancient floorboards, the perpetual sigh of wind through stone.

Four were small—two barely past their seventh year, eyes wide and darting like frightened rabbits. The fifth, perhaps James's age or older, carried himself with boisterous energy that seemed to consume whatever space he occupied, his voice already echoing off stone walls before Father Sam had properly introduced them.

Father Sam's warmth felt strained as he gestured toward the newcomers. "Brothers, we've some new lads joining us." His smile didn't reach his eyes, and James noticed how his hands worried at the edges of his cassock. "Saint Ursa's has quite a history—the Order of Ursa sheltered their young here for generations. Now we carry on that tradition, as best we can."

He paused, something frayed beneath his calm demeanor. "Keep an eye on each other, boys. Help where needed. This place runs better when we look after one another." His gaze swept the assembly with unfamiliar tightness, lingering on the older boys as if taking inventory. "James, Philips—would you show our new arrivals around after breakfast?"

The older newcomer caught James's eye and grinned with easy confidence. "Nice cat," he said, nodding at Fangtail, who regarded him with regal indifference before rubbing against James's leg.

"Thanks," James replied flatly, his voice gravelly with fatigue.The simple exchange felt like more effort than it should have required.

After sparse breakfast, Philips took charge. James trailed behind, Fangtail at his heels, eyelids heavy as his friend began the familiar litany—refectory, kitchens, dormitory arrangements.

"And for us bigger chaps?" the older boy interrupted, voice carrying. He glanced at James. "Where do we sleep? Or do some prefer the night air around here?"

James blinked, caught off guard. Was that a jab? Probably not—just swagger.He said nothing, letting Philips continue the tour while he drifted behind, Fangtail brushing silently against his legs.

Philips smoothly continued the tour—prayer hall, Father Sam's quarters, the main office, the forbidden bell tower with its silent bronze and enduring cross. James found himself drifting until Philips's voice sharpened.

"Absolutely no sneaking about at night."

The words landed like cold water. James's ears burned. Philips hadn't been teasing—there was genuine reproach there, concern edged with something harder.

The older boy—who'd introduced himself as Finn during the tour—seemed to sense the undercurrent of tension. His knowing grin widened as he watched James's reaction to Philips's admonishment. "Bet this place has secrets," he said, not quite joking, his gaze calculating.

James studied him. Still cocky, but something alert lurked behind the bravado. Vigilant.

"The upper floor holds the library," Philips continued, lowering his voice. "Father Daniel Augustus's domain. If you want access, you'll need his good graces."

Finn snorted dismissively. "What good are moldy old books when you need real skills? Can't eat knowledge, can't fight with prayers."

James felt a sharp flicker of irritation pierce his exhaustion. The library held centuries of accumulated wisdom, ancient texts that revealed Saint Ursa's true history, mysteries and strategies this fool couldn't begin to comprehend. The Order's survival had depended on preserving knowledge when steel and gold failed. Yet he remained silent, his expression carefully neutral, unwilling to give the newcomer any more ammunition.

Philips glanced at James hopefully, clearly waiting for him to engage, perhaps to share some insight about the library's treasures or defend the value of learning. When James offered no response, his friend's face fell slightly, disappointment flickering in his eyes.

"Some of us find them useful," Philips said evenly , directing his words to the younger boys who were listening with wide eyes. "If you need help with letters or want a good story, James knows his way around books. He'll help if you're lost."

The attempt to include him, to bridge the growing distance between them, was painfully obvious. James recognized it for what it was—an olive branch extended despite his recent withdrawal. But his mind was too tangled with exhaustion and irritation to respond appropriately.

The moment passed, leaving familiar loneliness settling cold in his chest.

In the main courtyard, where pale morning light struggled through perpetual overcast, the group came to a stop. The younger boys huddled together, whispering nervously about their new surroundings. Finn surveyed his domain with something approaching satisfaction.

"Any questions?" Philips asked brightly.

A small hand rose tentatively. "Are there really ghosts here?"

A knowing look passed between James and Philips. Every orphanage had such stories, and Saint Ursa's collected more than most.

"Just stories," Philips said gently. "Old buildings make old sounds. Nothing to worry about."

James remained silent. He'd never seen a ghost, but sometimes he wished he knew the real answer.

Finn laughed too loudly. "Ghosts! What nonsense."

But when another newcomer asked the inevitable question—"How often do boys get picked for families?"—James watched Finn's cocky demeanor falter. The older boy leaned closer to Philips, suddenly attentive, his mask of indifference slipping just enough to reveal the desperate hope beneath.

Philips's expression softened with genuine warmth. "It happens, lads. Father Sam always reminds us—be good to each other, help where you can. Make this place what it ought to be. A family." For a moment, he sounded like the Philips James knew best, who truly believed small kindnesses could light candles against the dark.

As the courtyard emptied, Philips lingered, hands deep in his worn pockets, gaze fixed on flagstones where anxious faces had clustered moments before. Fangtail rubbed against James's ankles before settling to watch Philips with quiet attention.

"You okay?" Philips asked quietly, still not meeting James's eyes.

James shrugged heavily. "Just tired."

Philips nodded, but uncomfortable silence stretched between them. The distant clatter from kitchens, the eternal sigh of wind around stone eaves.

"I tried to include you back there," Philips said finally, voice quiet but clear. "During the tour. Didn't seem like you wanted to be."

James blinked, genuinely surprised. His exhaustion had obscured such nuances. "What?"

Philips managed a small, tired smile that didn't touch the shadows in his eyes. "Never mind. Just… try not to drift too far, yeah?"

Before James could respond or fully process the gentle admonishment, Philips turned toward the west wing, shoulders held straighter than usual—as if consciously keeping something precious from slipping away and shattering on unforgiving stone.

James watched him go, unfamiliar disquiet stirring beneath his exhaustion.

That evening, after meager supper had been cleared and the younger boys herded toward their dormitories, James found himself drawn to the west wing despite his exhaustion. He'd intended to seek the familiar solace of the library, but as he neared the first-floor corridor, a movement caught his eye that stopped him cold.

Old Father Daniel Augustus stood before a narrow, seldom-used storeroom door—not entering, not emerging, just staring at the ancient, scarred wood as if its very grain held some profound, indecipherable meaning that danced just beyond his grasp. His usually sharp posture was bent, shoulders curved with a vulnerability James had never witnessed. The old priest seemed smaller somehow, diminished, as if the fierce intelligence that normally radiated from him had dimmed to barely glowing embers.

Fangtail let out a soft, questioning mewl, his ears swiveling forward as he sensed the strangeness of the scene. The cat's amber eyes were wide, reflecting the same unease that sent a sliver of ice down James's spine—colder than Saint Ursa's usual chill.

James hesitated, then took a careful step forward. "Father?" he ventured quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The old man didn't react for a long moment, as if James's words had to travel through thick fog to reach him. Then his head turned with dreamlike slowness, his usually piercing eyes struggling to focus, pupils dilated and distant. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin, reedy, stripped of its customary authority. "Thorne."

A beat of silence stretched between them. James, bracing himself for the sharp dismissal that usually followed any interaction with the formidable librarian, found himself instead asking, "Do you… require assistance to the upper floor, Father?"

To his profound shock, Father Augustus gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Yes. That would be… acceptable."

Carefully, as if guiding something both fragile and infinitely precious, James stepped closer and offered his arm. Father Augustus took it without protest, his grip surprisingly light—not the weakness of illness, but the ethereal quality of something slowly becoming untethered from the world.

As they walked, James caught the familiar scent that always surrounded the old priest—ancient vellum and dried herbs, centuries-old parchment steeped in whispered prayers and the careful touch of scholarly hands. But tonight it seemed fainter, as if even the essence of accumulated knowledge was gradually fading.

When they reached the upper floor and the warmth of the library's hearth spilled into the corridor, James felt the faintest shift. Father Augustus's step grew marginally steadier, his shoulders straightened slightly, and in his eyes, for just a brief second, a flicker of the familiar keen intelligence gleamed through the encroaching fog.

At the library door, Father Augustus paused, his hand resting on the worn brass handle. "Thank you, Thorne," he said, the words still quiet but carrying a trace of his former self—a ghost of the man who had ruled this domain with such formidable presence.

He turned and disappeared into the shadowed depths of his sanctuary, the door clicking softly shut behind him. For a long moment, James stood frozen in the corridor, the echo of that frail "Thank you" hanging in the air like the memory of a prayer.

Fangtail rubbed against his leg, soft and insistent, giving a low, breathy mewl. The cat's ears were tilted back—not in fear, but as if he too had sensed something fundamental shifting in the foundations of their world. His gaze lingered on the closed library door with an almost human expression of concern.

"I know," James murmured, resting a hand on the cat's warm head. The familiar comfort of Fangtail's presence grounded him, pulled him back from the unsettled tangle of thoughts and emotions the encounter had stirred.