Chapter 6 Part 1

Sleep brought no peace. James tossed through the night, Father Augustus's frail "thank you" echoing in his mind like a prayer whispered in an empty chapel. When morning finally came, it arrived grey and unremarkable, offering no answers to the questions that had kept him wakeful.

The old priest's strange vulnerability lingered in James's thoughts as he moved through Saint Ursa's familiar routines. For the second week running, the classroom lectern stood empty—Father Alaric's continued absence sending ripples of speculation through the older boys. James felt a small mercy in this; his carefully constructed essay on Sparrow's Point would remain gathering dust on Mr. Davies' desk, and Marcus Kaelen's coterie would be absent from their usual taunts during the village walk.

This reprieve came with its own irritation. The boisterous newcomer, Finn, had somehow attached himself to their daily walks to and from Vesper's Knoll. Since he didn't know the way and Philips was too kind to abandon him, James found himself trapped with the boy's loud cheerfulness—a grating intrusion into thoughts already tangled with unease.

The walk to school passed in a blur. James's senses, usually sharp enough to catalog every shift in the village, were dulled by preoccupation. He barely registered the path, let alone Mrs. Albright's curious inquiries about their "new friend" or Finn's inevitable performance in response.

"Something I need to check on," James muttered when the exchange grew too tiresome, the words brusque even to his own ears. He veered off without explanation, feeling Philips's disappointed gaze follow him toward Saint Ursa's grey walls.

That evening brought a different kind of drama. The refectory doors burst open with a resounding bang, driven by wind that smelled of deep-sea salt and churning rain. Half the candles guttered out, plunging the room into flickering shadow as a broad-shouldered figure stomped through the doorway, shaking water from his storm-cloud beard.

"It's Barnaby," someone whispered, and the room filled with excited murmurs.

Barnaby was the orphanage's cleaner, returned from his extended annual leave. He stomped his heavy boots on the flagstones, shaking his head and sending a spray of water arcing through the dim light, earning a few yelps from the boys at the nearest table.

Barnaby possessed a forgetfulness so profound it bordered on the supernatural. Names simply refused to adhere to his perception of the boys, replaced instead by whatever label his peculiar intuition conjured at any given moment. A younger boy named Garret, frozen mid-floor and gawking at the dramatic entrance, was blocking his path.

"Move it, Sprout," Barnaby barked, his voice a cheerful gravel that cut through the murmuring. He nudged the boy gently with his knee. A few of the older boys snickered. Garret, flustered, scurried back to his seat.

From his table, James didn't look up, but an almost automatic urge to correct the man surfaced. "It's Garret, Mr. Barnaby."

The cleaner squinted in James's direction, then back at the boy. "Is it? Could've sworn he was a Timothy."

A few boys who knew the routine leaned forward, anticipating the familiar exchange.

"No," James replied, the rhythm of their banter almost comforting. "You called Timothy 'Weasel' last term."

This drew a fresh round of stifled laughter. "Right, right," Barnaby waved a dismissive hand, finally moving past the tables. "Too many names in this place. A man can't be expected to hold onto them when they shift like mist. Sprout's a better fit anyway." He marched off, muttering just loud enough to be heard.

James allowed himself the faintest shadow of a smile. Barnaby's nonsensical pronouncements never changed—and somehow, that felt like an anchor in the shifting uncertainties of Saint Ursa's. It was only then, as the room's chatter slowly returned to normal, that he truly registered the state of the man.

"Your clothes are soaked," James observed quietly as Barnaby passed his table on his way to the kitchens.

The cleaner's good humor faded as he glanced back toward the raging dark. The boys nearby fell silent again, sensing the shift in his tone. Barnaby nodded grimly. "Aye." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble meant only for James, but loud enough for the closest ears to catch. "The sea's got its hackles up. That wind out there has a sound to it—a song you learn to listen for on these isles. When it sings that tune, the tide can turn on you so fast you'd think it was a conjurer's trick." He straightened up, his gaze distant. "The sea keeps its own counsel, lad. Best not to argue with it when it's in a mood."

The wind howled all night, a wild, restless counterpoint to the turmoil in James's own mind. Barnaby's words had given a name and a shape to the vague dread that had been following him, grounding it in the raw, unpredictable power of the isles. But beneath that immediate concern lay deeper currents—Father Augustus's strange vulnerability, the growing distance with Philips, the sense that something fundamental was shifting in the foundations of their world.

Morning arrived not with sunlight, but with a washed-out, exhausted grey. The storm had broken, leaving behind a world that felt scoured and clean, yet profoundly weary. Puddles the color of slate dotted the courtyard, and the air in the refectory was thick with the smell of damp stone and the distant, rhythmic boom of a chastened sea.

The usual breakfast chatter was subdued, the boys moving with a lethargy born of a sleepless night. The only sounds were the scrape of spoons against tin and the steady drip of water from a leak somewhere in the ancient ceiling. The quiet was heavy, expectant.

It started near the entrance—a silence that was not merely an absence of noise, but a presence in itself. A few boys fell quiet, their unease spreading like a frost across the room until the scraping of spoons faltered and the dripping from the ceiling seemed as loud as a hammer blow.

James looked up from his porridge to see Father Daniel Augustus standing in the archway. He was not lost or vacant, as James had seen him by the storeroom door two nights before. He was ramrod straight, a pillar of shadow against the grey morning light. His eyes, sharp and piercing as chips of flint, swept the room with an unnerving, deliberate intensity. He wasn't looking for someone; he was taking stock, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second too long on each face as if committing it to a ledger.

Boys froze, spoons hovering midway to their mouths. Some stared, wide-eyed and fearful. Others, like James, looked down at their plates as if the cold, lumpy porridge held the answers to the universe. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

After a long moment that seemed to draw all the air from the room, Father Daniel's gaze completed its circuit. He gave no sign of approval or dismissal. His expression remained a mask of cold granite. He simply turned, his black cassock swirling like smoke, and disappeared back into the corridor.

The vacuum he left behind was instantly filled with a frantic, hissing whisper.

"What was that about?"

"Did you see his eyes?"

"He was looking for someone ."

The nervous energy was a stark contrast to the weary quiet of moments before. Something had shifted. Another piece of their predictable world had just broken off and fallen into the sea.

That evening, the dormitory was a hive of hushed, nervous theories. The encounter with Father Daniel had left a crack in the monotonous grey of their world, and the boys couldn't stop probing at it with their whispers.

"He was looking for someone," Miller insisted from his cot. "I saw him."

James remained silent on the edge of his own bed, polishing a small, smooth stone with his thumb. He alone knew that the pillar of cold authority they had all witnessed was a mask. The knowledge made him feel strangely separate, as if watching a play whose tragic secret only he understood.

The dorm room door creaked open, breaking his concentration. It was Finn, his grin a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere. "Still spooked by the old ghost?" he asked, his voice too loud for the room. "Forget him."

He leaned against the doorframe, radiating an easy confidence that James found both foolish and grating. "The storm's passed completely. The sky's clear as glass. Perfect time for the caves. We're heading down around four—gives us plenty of time before the evening bell. You lot in?"

A sudden, hopeful energy surged through the room, a current so powerful it felt like a physical force. James saw Philips turn to him, his eyes bright with an uncomplicated excitement he hadn't seen in weeks. "The caves! We should go, James! It's been ages."

The Image of Barnaby's soaked clothes and the memory of his grim warning surfaced in James's mind. "It's not a good idea," he said.

The hopeful energy In the room faltered. Philips's smile dimmed.

"Why not?" Finn challenged, his tone amused. "Afraid of getting your feet wet, Thorne?"

"The clear sky doesn't matter," James said, keeping his voice quiet and level. "Barnaby said the sea would be unstable after a storm like that. The tide can turn without warning."

Finn laughed, a dismissive sound that easily won over the room. "Who the new cleaner? You're going to listen to the mad old cleaner over your own eyes? The sea is calm. It's perfect." James saw the decision being made in the boys' faces as they started pulling on their boots.

Philips's face was a mask of conflict. "We could be careful," he pleaded, his voice soft, a final attempt to bridge the divide. "Please?"

James looked at his friend, then at the reckless energy Finn had unleashed. He felt a profound weariness settle deep into his bones. It was a losing battle. He gave a slight shake of his head and turned away, picking up a book from his bedside as if the matter was closed.

The rejection, quiet as it was, was absolute.

Philips hesitated, a flicker of deep hurt in his eyes. He looked down at Fangtail, who sat faithfully at James's feet. "Well," Philips said softly, his voice aimed at the cat. "What about you, little guy? Want to see the caves?"

James felt a pang of irritation at the question. Of course the cat wouldn't— But then it happened. Fangtail looked up at Philips, gave a small, questioning meow, and then trotted over to the departing group, weaving through their legs as they headed for the door.

The thud of the door closing behind them was the sound of absolute solitude. James stared at the empty space where his cat had been. His silent partner in the night's vigilance had chosen them. He had chosen the fun.