Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I fear you don’t understand the situation you’re in – a-and that’s fine, I appreciate that this is a very tumultuous time for you, but—”

“But what?”

“...But this is a matter of the law. One that cannot be bent or broken just because you think it should be. It’s not within my power to make it so, I’m afraid. The fact of the matter is this…”

“You’re taking me away.”

“I...I wouldn’t put it in those terms. Relocating, I think is better, and I cannot stress enough that this is for your own good. Do you hear me? If you hadn’t gone to that clinic, we would never have found you. Try to see the best in this. Your life will change for the better.”

As the summer months continue to ebb away, leaving behind a cosy space for the brisk but cheerful autumn season, the routine of Misthallery changes. The mist grows thicker in the wake of worse weather, tacking a slimy paste of crushed leaves to the cobblestones, and the verdant greenery begins to fade into a pleasant but unenthusiastic olive. It’s the uneventful lull between the summer holidays and Christmas where all the listless kids are forced out into the streets to enjoy the fresh air before it gets too cold.

Gus has opted for a thicker jumper today. It’s his first step into his winter wardrobe, which is about as appealing as it can be when it’s all the same shade of grey and blue. Hand-knitted with the scratchiest yarn one could possibly find on these isles, he and every other poor youth in town are dreading the time of year where they’re forced into layers upon layers of wool – and with the amount his mother has found time to knit, he thinks he could wander into a field to graze and nobody would be able to tell him apart from the sheep.

Out of all of them, Wren seems to be the one to mind it least, finding the coarse fabric to be rather pleasant. This has made her an anomaly not just amongst their group, but of everyone in the local population below the age of eighteen. With his hands in his pocket flipping over the pennies inside, Gus considers fobbing off some of his most horrible knitwear onto her. It’s not like they could sell them in the Black Market, after all. Even the greediest of their patrons have some reservations, and he’s certain the line would be drawn at woollen winter jumpers.

Speaking of, it seems to be running quite smoothly now. After the enormous pitfall they’d plunged into a few months prior, courtesy of their wonderfully incompetent law enforcement, the strings Edgar had pulled to re-establish their business had not only restored things back to how they were, but had added an extra layer of protection – and after he’d died, a house full of things to flog, which he had gleefully gifted to them in his will.

Though without him to hold the business license, Gus can’t help but wander what will become of them. Nora had gone through the will with a keen eye, but had said nothing on the fate of their market. Still, no news is good news, isn’t it? He hopes so.

The first order of the day, as it is every other day, is acquiring his daily sweet rations. He’d made plans to meet up at Aunt Taffy’s stall, and as he comes ambling down the hill towards the market bustling with fresh produce of the season, he spies just the faces he was hoping to see. Or, rather, a blue hat, a bluer hat, and a mop of curly, dark hair often mistaken for a hat.

Crow perks up just as Aunt Taffy is pushing a paper bag of licorice into his hands, and over the shoulders of Nabby and Louis, he calls, “Alright, Gus? Was wondering where you’d gotten to.”

Gus beams, and the autumn breeze paints his cheeks even rosier than normal. “Aw, I’m not that late, am I? I’ll bet it’s this jumper. It’s alright, but it’s really tight under the,” he rolls his arms for emphasis, “armpits. Here y’go, Aunt Taffy. One bag of sherbet lemons, please!”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Ugh,” Nabby spits, holding a boiled sweet in one bulging cheek. The crease of his frown can just about be seen from under his hat. “Don’t talk to me about bloody jumpers. Mum’s gone on a knittin’ spree – you’d think she was knittin’ for the whole country! And of course, that means I get to wear the worst of it. I swear, she’s makin’ them itchy on purpose, she is.”

“She knitted mine last year, so I think I’m safe for a while yet,” Louis grins, albeit a little pained. “Not quite broken it in, mind. There must be a sale on.”

Crow laughs rather tepidly at this. “Well, I’m in no danger. Nobody out there knittin’ for me, and I’m keen to keep it that way. I’ve got me scarf an’ that’s all I need.”

Aunt Taffy shifts, bristling from behind the shiny lenses of her glasses, and the wrinkles of her chin grow around her downturned expression. “Not this winter, you won’t. They say a cold front will be coming in soon. You’ll be frozen stiff! Tell you what, I think I’ve still got a nice green yarn from those shorts I knitted Vernon in the summer.”

“Oh, so that was you, was it? Those things are dreadful. As if I ever wanted to see his hairy legs!”

“Hush,” she chides with a deft swat of the hand. “I think I should have enough to make you a nice, thick winter ju—”

“Absolutely not,” Crow cuts in with a start, stashing his sweets in his pocket and already turning on his heel. “Green’s never been my colour, and I’m not really partial to wearin’ clothes that can double up as sandpaper. Wren would have it though.”

“And let you wear nothing but that piddling little scarf all winter?”

“Piddling? How dare you – this scarf has seen me through me entire life!”

“I’m well aware!” Taffy pushes her glasses further up her nose, and mutters, “First time you came here, that scarf hung at your feet and trailed several miles down the road. Good lord, the muck that thing has been dragged through. I’ll bet it was white when it started, wasn’t it?”

Crow turns his nose up, pouting but with humour still sparkling in his eyes – or just the one. His health has markedly improved, but his hair still falls the same way out of habit. He tugs at the pool of fabric resting around his shoulders with a defensive huff. “Nope. Yellow – always has been, always will be. I do wash it, y’know! Cor, you make me sound like some grotty little toddler.”

“I s’pose you were one when I met you. So, what will you be wearing this winter? I hope you’ve still got that big coat of yours, because I promise you’re going to need it!”

Crow suddenly sags, and his pout turns rather sullen. “It’s...it’s still drying out from our trip to London,” he mumbles.

“Still?! You went down there back in July!” The sweet Nabby’s been enjoying almost slips from his mouth in surprise.

“I know, I know! But the radiators don’t work, and I haven’t been able to get a fire going at home,” is the quiet reply. It’s shaken off quickly before anyone can deal him any more unwanted questions. “Look, it’s fine! I’m sure I can dust somethin’ off. Save your wool, Taff, if the cold front is as bad as you say it’s gonna be then you’ll need it more than me! As if I’d be seen hasslin’ an old lady out of her yarn.”

“And who are you calling old, son?”

Crow grins in the face of her brisk aura. “The only lady here who’s pushing...what, seventy-five?”

“Seventy-one, you cheeky little devil! Go on, away with you before I take those sweets back!” she barks, replacing her trusty swatting hand with the more punitive umbrella slung over the crook of her elbow. She bats at every boy regardless of their involvement in the slight, and watches them fondly as they all dash away, bidding her a chipper farewell.

Hard to believe it’s only been a few weeks since everything has settled down. The events of the past month has aged her beloved group of urchins by quite a bit, and though they’re still wobbly in their steps towards adulthood, they conduct themselves with a notable wisdom attributed to their experience. Edgar might not be around any more to give them guidance, leaving her as the sole living member of a group that had once roamed the gutters of the market much like they do, but she thinks she’s hardy enough to wrangle them in the right direction.

And, against their knowledge, keep them out of the greedy clutches of the law.

The four boys settle down in a quieter part of the market to enjoy their sweets. To anyone else it might seem like a dirty, sodden little hovel, but to them, it’s a spot they’ve frequented for many years. When one knows the shape of each patch of moss, and can step over every crack in the gutter without looking, it stops feeling mucky and starts feeling like home. Friendly dirt, as Badger might say, who drops in to join them no more than five minutes after they settle in.

Nabby tosses him a couple of boiled sweets, and Badger curls up into the cosy seat beside him, emulating the allegiance of a cat. The treat disappears swiftly into his mouth, and he seems content.

“I’m surprised your mum let you out today,” Nabby grins. “Aren’t you still grounded after she found out you went to London?”

Badger almost chokes, emitting a cough that smells faintly of strawberries, and glumly pulls at the neck of his jumper. His only feeble justification – one that had failed to win his mother’s favour over – is, “How were I s’posed to know I had an aunt livin’ down there? As if she would recognise me, too.”

“Keh, your family resemblance is blinding. She could probably spot you from the Isle of Wight.”

Badger pouts in the face of the other snickering boys, and snatches an extra sweet from Nabby’s bag as recompense. The conversation lulls from there, passing over idle topics such as life at home, what they’ve done with the day, and future projects for the Black Market. All the while, they munch on sweets and skip stones across the alley, one of which catches the ankle of an unhappy-looking Scraps. Nabby is out another sweet when he decides to sit down and chew the fat.

“Ah, so they’ve let you out of solitary, have they, Badge? Didn’t have to tunnel your way out?”

Badger very slyly runs a hand over the concrete to feel for some sort of projectile to launch Scraps’ way. When he finds nothing, he slumps back and lets his distaste be known with a snort. “Oh, do one. Actually, Socket came round and put in a good word for me. Offered to fix up our radio. She weren’t entirely pleased, but I still got off the hook.”

“Result. And where’s he at, anyway? There’s a mountain of work for him to do up at Barde Manor. After Arianna went to all the trouble of getting the things he needed, he’s got some nerve to ditch after agreeing to help patch up the manor.”

Over the shoulder of Scraps’ brutal accusation, Socket’s airy voice comes teasing through the mist, where he shuffles into view with a silly but sheepish smile on his face.

“Yeah, well, I had that lot to do down in the hideout too, didn’t I?” He says, hands firmly in pockets and weight rolling over the balls of his feet. “Cor, I can’t be in two places at once.” He then reaches out to pat the top of Scraps’ head, where the thick wiry mass of hair fights back against his hand. “Not to worry though, I’m sure your wonder student will be able to take over soon enough! Teacher of the century, you are. Tony’ll surpass you in no time, and then what will we do with you?”

“Maybe when he stops being so heavy-handed,” Scraps grunts, picking at the moss on the concrete around his feet. “At this rate, Arianna will do better than him. Come to think of it, she sure is enjoying learning to appraise the stock. Flickin’ through all them books – even Wren wouldn’t sit still for that long.” Scraps then pauses, and nervously peers over his shoulder where Socket is drifting behind him. “Erm. She’s not-- she’s not with you, is she?”

“Nope. She ran off to do summat with Marilyn.”

Scraps noticeably relaxes. “Huh. I don’t see the two of you together as much as I did before that incident with the painting.”

Socket flops down to sit beside him, huffing and unfurling to lie down. He gets back up when he feels the back of his shirt growing wet, and begins to wipe off the damp with a small frown. “Yeah, tell me about it. Summat’s gotten into her, but I couldn’t say what. She’s all over the place. She comes home late too, now, y’know. Course, mum doesn’t mind when it’s her.”

“I didn’t think she was around enough to notice.”

“Well, she wasn’t when she was still working as a cleaner,” Socket murmurs, scratching his chin. “Got let go, one job down, and now she spends evenings at home – and that’s fine, except Wren gets to come home at god-knows-when, and I get bollocked! Just because I’m a little bit younger. Hmph.”

“And, of course, you don’t act like it,” Crow smiles sarcastically, plucking out a bit of licorice from the bag in his pocket. “Woe is you – but, I’ll admit, she does seem...busy. S’like someone lit a fire beneath her.”

“Yells at me more now, too!”

“Spilling juice on her bed is, I think, a yellable offence.”

“Oh...so you heard about that one,” Socket mumbles bashfully. “Well, alright, I s’pose that was fair enough, but it was an accident! Not like her throwing my shoes out the front door into the rain to let them get wet!”

“After you left them in the hallway for her to trip over?”

“Is she just telling you everything I do at home now?”

The next piece of licorice gets thrown at Socket, and Crow cheerfully grins, “Lucky guess. Either way, it’s nothing I can complain about. She’s doin’ enough work for three people down in the market, and we’re sat here slacking.”

And what would there be to complain about when she’s so diligently working towards the comfort of a life he’s not quite ready to abandon just yet? The event with the forged painting had certainly opened his eyes to the inevitability of change. Still, it takes time to get there. It’s nothing he wants ripped from his hands when it’s the culmination of all of his hard work, but the future is unpredictable and that much is forgivable – and if Wren decides she wants to steer them in the direction of something new, he won’t stop her. Maybe it’ll be nice to let someone else spearhead the innovation so he can take a relaxing backseat.

With that thought in his mind, he grazes on his sweets and allows the conversation of his friends to entertain his ears, idle and at peace with the world as it is. If there’s anything he’s learnt over the past month, it’s to savour the moment, and he thinks he’s gotten quite good at it as of late.

Twilight stains the cloudy sky with streaks of deep orange as the sun sets beyond the rows of stacked houses that line the marketplace. One by one, the boys go their separate ways in an idyllic goodbye, and Crow follows a path out of the way of his home to make sure he gets to see each one of them off. When he finally puts himself on the journey back to his own house, he’s accosted by some unexpected company.

Wren seems to have adopted this habit of stepping out of shrubbery with nothing to foretell her presence, and Crow might find that annoying if he didn’t think it were a little cool. Past Aunt Taffy’s stall, sitting motionless and devoid of treats in the evening haze, Wren suddenly materialises beside him. He can tell she’s been practising this to some degree because she’s stopped turning up with leaves and little twigs caught up in her hair.

“You’ll give Taffy a heart attack if you keep that up,” he tells her warningly, but the cheer is still evident on his face. “She’d better name you her successor if that happens. I’ve still got a few years of sweets left in that cart, y’know. I’ll be damned if I get conned out of them.”

“Pfft,” Wren scoffs. “As if I could match up to that. Can barely make cinder toffee… Nope, it’s eggy bread or nuttin’ from me!”

“Some domestic goddess you are.”

They continue lazily down the path, and though he doesn’t ask, he wonders why she’s accompanying him now when her house is in the other direction. Wren gives him a light shove, and flares her nostrils at him. She’s also been practising how to look intimidating without it being marred by her signature sparkle of charm, and it’s...definitely a work in progress.

“Absolutely not! That’s Marilyn’s thing.” She then deflates, and sighs dreamily at the mention of their resident chef. “Oh, y’know, sometimes I wish she could look after me forever. We’ve talked about it, as well. Sometimes, when you lot get to bein’ too much of a pain in the arse, we reckon we’ll do away with the lot of you and live together somewhere nice! I’ll do all the work and she’ll do all the housekeepin’. Don’t that sound lovely?

“You might be the only girl in this town who actively dreams of being a spinster,” he chuckles lowly, trying to hide the twitch on his face when he remembers the horribly awkward kiss she’d clocked him on the cheek with. She never did come back for another one, but it’s not like he’s seen enough of her lately for that.

Not that it matters.

“And what’s so wrong with that?” she sighs, throwing her hands out in irritation. “There’s a lot of freedom in that life. Maybe instead of a little brother I can have a dog!”

“Don’t you already have a dog?”

“Socket won’t be willing to give it up in the, uh...the sibling divorce. It only ever answers to him, anyway, so it wouldn’t work out. I don’t think I’d want a yappy one like that, though. I’d want a huge one I can cuddle up with! A fluffy one!”

“And with all that dog hair…? No thanks. Get a cat, instead.”

Wren careens playfully into his side, chiding, “You always say that! You know cats shed hair too, right? Lord, every time. It’s always ‘get a cat’.”

He nods staunchly. “Yup. That’s my first port of call when I can manage it. Cat. My own cat. Not a neighbours cat, and not one that’ll...die.” He tugs at his scarf momentarily, fussing with the fabric before tossing the longest portion of it over his shoulder. It’s not like it was his fault that kitten died. Without a man who lacks the tolerance for what makes his kid happy breathing over his shoulder, he’ll have the space to do what he likes without swift, unfortunate punishment following it.

Wren nods sombrely, not bothering to recreate the distance between them, and her smile is soft and understanding.

“Hard to believe you’re talking about splitting apart from Socket, though,” Crow begins, dutifully changing the topic to no opposition. “Thought you’d be joined at the hip forever.”

At this, Wren sighs wearily, and folds her arms. She’s starting to grow out of her coat a little, evident by the way her wrists poke out from the sleeves. “Me too. In fact, I really think I might be! I talk all this guff about goin’ off on my own, but I think I’d miss him too much. Even if he does use my toothbrush, or eat my puddin’, or spill juice on my bed…”

“...Or leave his shoes in the hallway for you to trip over.”

“Hey, how’d you know about that?”

He laughs, giving her a cheeky nudge to the shoulder. “Lucky guess.”

Through the faintest bustle of market life, where the vendors begin to lock up their stores and collect their wares ready for tomorrow, their conversation blooms brightly, and though they talk like they’re the only people in the world, nobody around them pays enough attention to realise they’re even there. It’s comforting, to live so freely without the presence to draw the eye.

The streetlamps flicker to life one by one, illuminating the pavements and adding to the fading embers of the sky, where orange begins to sparkle against a backdrop of deep blue. A few sharp turns down thin, cosy alleys puts them opposite Crow’s flat, where their pace begins to slow.

“Erm, thanks,” he says with a gruff, awkward clearing of the throat. “Not like you to walk me home. Surely, it should be the other way around.”

Wren’s cheeks bulge with delight, bursting with a rosy happiness that he can practically feel from a few feet away. She clasps her hands behind her back and begins to roll on the balls of her feet, much like Socket does when he’s being told off.

“Oh, come on, you’ve walked me home tons of times in the past – alright, it was with Socket, but it’s still the same! Nuttin’ wrong with me returnin’ the favour, is there?”

It’s...like she’s striding right past him and into the unknown, and bringing with it a remarkable character. He has a vague suspicion of what lies ahead for them all, but it’s like she’s really carving her own path into it. He doesn’t want to say he’s envious, but he certainly wishes it would come as easily to him as it seems to for her.

He settles for tilting his head, where the drape of his fringe falls over his nose, but doesn’t fall far enough for much more to be seen than a side of his face boldly lit by the streetlamp across the road. “I s’pose not, but I’d worry about you walkin’ home in the dark.”

“You’d best be worrying about whoever has the bright idea of tryin’ it on with me,” she titters, where a flash of a threat crosses her usually amiable features. “I’ll leave it to you to avenge me if anythin’ happens, eh?”

“I’ll do just that,” he agrees with fond exasperation, “but I’d rather you made it home in one piece. I don’t just worry about you, y’know, I worry about the others too! Especially Gus. I know he’s meant to be the brawn, but he’s hardly a scrapper.”

Wren’s smile fades a little as he continues to talk, eyes shifting between the tip of his nose and just over his right shoulder, and when he finally draws to a pause, she murmurs quietly, and somewhat apologetically, “I think...you should be worrying more about the woman who’s standin’ outside your front door.”

“The what?”

He spins on his heel to check, and bugger him, she’s right. It’s not unusual for his house to get surprise guests with faces he’s never seen, but they’re usually burly, six-foot bailiffs looking to repossess a telly. In a tip like his home, they’d be lucky to repossess a toilet, but the unexpected guest isn’t a mashed face with a cauliflower ear and three black eyes. It’s a woman.

His eyes narrow. With a gentle waft of his hand, he begins to shoo Wren away, mumbling, “Go on back home. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dad won’t answer the door, so it’s best I see what she wants. At least then I can find a way to get rid of her. Go on, get home before it gets late or I’ll have Socket complaining about it tomorrow.”

She cracks a dry smile. “So, he’s been rantin’ about that again? Well, alright. G’night, Crow. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“G’night.”

She turns to skip away, and whether or not she pauses to look back at him will go unnoticed by Crow, who is watching his front porch hawkishly, plodding towards the cruddy, steel steps that lead up to his front door, and the thin balcony that wraps around the second floor of the flat. He manages one hand on the railing before he catches the eye of the woman, dressed in clothes far more formal than you’d see in the rural town of Misthallery.

She’s not from around here, that much he can tell.

Chapter Text

Wren tugs at the scruffily hemmed sleeve of her coat as she trips down a narrow, cobbled alley that leads back out onto Great Ely Street. The lamps glow like hazy orbs through the thickening mist, which always occurs around this time of night. It’s as much a help as it is a hindrance – whilst you can’t see other people passing by, they equally cannot see you. She can’t knock Crow for being worried, but she’s hardy enough on her own, and far too spry to get herself caught.

Okay, so the mistake of getting arrested was her own fault, she hadn’t been watching the door when she should’ve been, but she’s learnt from that now! She’s twice as keen, thrice as energetic, but now racked with worry. Things have been going good, but they’re not untouchable, that much has been proven. The only question now is what will be the next catastrophe?

And somewhere in the back of her head, a small anxiety for Crow remains. She’d not been able to get a good look at the woman lurking on his doorstep, but he’d waved her away with his usual charm – something she still manages to get swept up in every now and then. That’s not entirely her fault, she’ll argue, since he does it on purpose, but she has to remember now that he’s still not immune to getting in over his head.

Maybe she should go back…

...Or maybe she should just walk headlong into this person who has seemingly materialised right in front of her – hard to make an excuse for not seeing him since he’s so large that he blots out a good chunk of light from the lamp behind him. The smacking of bubblegum has Wren relaxing before she can break out into a fighting stance.

It’s not like she could deal much damage to Hans anyway, other than a nasty pinch. For someone who doesn’t get into many physical fights himself, he’s surprisingly sturdy, having been proven by Crow, who had taken a cheeky shot at him while he’d been unawares. Crow had called it spontaneous retribution, and Hans, rubbing his swollen jaw, had called it assault, and it had taken Wren and Marilyn’s combined negotiation to work the two to an agreement. Not a friendly agreement, but a civil one.

Wren still has to smile sheepishly about it almost every time they cross paths. It’s starting to become a frequent occurrence, but not an unpleasant one. From the sounds of it, his father has disappeared on business, leaving him and his mother at home. As for how true that is, Wren can’t decide.

“Oh. Evenin’, Hans,” she chirps. “Don’t see you down here often.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets, blithe as ever, and around a wad of bluish bubblegum, he chomps, “Got sent on an errand. Mum made some jam for the wife of the bloke who runs the hat shop. Somethin’ about payment for next year’s Easter bonnet.”

Wren squints. “Eh? Easter? We’re only just comin’ into September! S’a bit early, innit? Oh, but...your mum does get really into that, don’t she?”

He nods grimly. “Yeah. Starts gettin’ a bit Judy Garland about the whole thing. It’s embarrassing, frankly.”

Wren just giggles, but fidgets a little too much with her sleeves for Hans to notice. He eyes her twitching hands with a raised brow, and slants his weight onto one leg, indicating to her with a neat flick of his head.

“Getting small for you, that,” he comments plainly.

“Oh, I know!” she frowns. “S’awful – it’s my favourite coat, and I can’t knit to save me life. Hm. Maybe if I send Socket ‘round to Nabby’s mum to do some work, she’ll knit me a new one.”

“You’ll be able to fit into mine at this rate.”

“Ooh, you cheeky, little--!”

He just laughs at her, and though it sounds more like an unpleasant snarl, she’s come to tolerate it in recent weeks. His heels shift against the thin foliage poking up through the cobblestones, and as he waddles away, Wren jogs to join him.

“Your dad still on business?”

“I dunno, is yours?”

She could kick the back of his knee for that, but it’s a fair jab. If Chief Jakes has landed himself into a new world of trouble, she suspects it’d be more obvious – Hans doesn’t compose himself terribly well when it comes to his family, and if she had to make a guess, his spiritless idea of the circumstances suggests that he knows about as much as she does. Which is nothing.

That puts them both in the shit on the whole paternal front, and she won’t kick him whilst he’s down. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because she’s adopting new standards for herself. Her chat with Marilyn some time ago had bolstered her spirits, and the dashing Professor Layton has become something of a goal in her mind. Alright, so you’d be hard-pressed to call her ladylike, but that doesn’t mean she can’t work on it in ways that suit her.

“Don’t need him,” Wren shrugs with a smug smile. She stretches her arms up, causing her coat to shrink on her frame, before folding her arms comfortably behind her head. “Socket’s man enough to make up for it, even if he is annoyin’ sometimes. He’s workin’ up at Barde Manor, now, y’know! I dunno what he said he was doin’, but Arianna found some work for him.”

“Oh, that’s right. She’s...joined your little scheme, hasn’t she?”

“Don’t know why you hafta say it like that,” Wren pouts. “Last I saw, you were quite taken with the place! We’re back in business, and our little hiatus has made us twice as popular! Cor, y’should see it down there!”

“Course, I’m not allowed, am I?”

Crow would never allow it, but Wren settles for a modest explanation of, “Not if you’re not a payin’ customer. I know they say that time is money, but space is more money than that! Part of the wall came down in the cavern, so we’re a stall down now, too. Can’t have you in there if you’re not buyin’.”

She’s surprised he’s let up on them about the Black Market thing. She’d come to find out that he’d never actually held much of an interest about it, or in the ways of bringing them to a stop, so once the police had backed off, he’d seen no reason to look in further into it. Of course, it doesn’t stop him from asking the odd question once in a while.

“Wouldn’t expect any less from that jammy little git,” he snorts, suspecting Crow’s involvement. “I’ll never wrap my head around how he managed to get himself off the hook. There are master criminals in London who aren’t as slimy as he is.”

He expects Wren to ream him for that comment, prodding so jovially about a dear friend, but her eyes are vacant – she’s not paying attention to him in the slightest. With her pale complexion, every slight twitch to her expression is very visible, and he can spy the gradual downturn of her brows.

“...Oi, are you listening? What’s with the face?”

He can see Wren’s tongue moving indecisively within her mouth by the tentative rolling of her jaw, and she spends a few moments picking at the buttons on her coat before she says, “It’s...it’s nuttin’. I was just hopin’ Crow hasn’t found himself in trouble again.”

“What, after the three days since the last incident?”

“Three weeks, actually-- or summat like that,” Wren grumbles. “And not ‘cos he’s been doin’ silly things. Mostly his dad, innit? He’s a total incompetent, and all that falls onto Crow.”

“Seems to be a theme here,” Hans replies curtly.

“I’m serious,” Wren insists, wondering if she still has time to turn back around. “No bills paid, drinks like a fish, made a mortal enemy out of basically everyone in town – you might’ve even met the fella, but didn’t know he was Crow’s dad. He’s a complete lout! And Crow has to cope with all of that! S’no wonder you have no idea about him.”

Rather sullenly, Hans spits his gum out into a nearby bin – not only is it the biggest gob she’s ever seen, but this is also the first time she’s ever seen him with an empty mouth. His diction sounds unnaturally smooth without something blocking the way.

“Having to cope with the way people treat you just ‘cos of your dad? Yeah, no. Couldn’t possibly tell you what that’s like.”

“Oh, behave,” Wren spits. “You got the good end of that stick as well, once upon a time! Got all the praise and glory just ‘cos your dad was a big shot. Never hesitated to shove it in our faces, did you?”

“I’m just saying,” he grouses. “You don’t need to tell me like I’m some clueless idiot. I know perfectly well, thank you very much. So, what are you worried for? Ain’t Crow your little hero? He got off fine enough when the police were after him. I’d say that’s as dangerous as it gets.”

In his own way, he’s trying to be kind and dispel Wren’s anxieties, but she still hasn’t quite worked out why he’d bother. She accepts his mildly backhanded support with a solemn nod, tucking her chin down against the collar of her coat and habitually picking at the skin around her nails.

“Hm. Maybe you’re right,” she murmurs, albeit uncertainly. “We all got so worried last time, and I have to hope he’s learnt some kind of lesson. It’s just...he never tells me all that much about what happens on the other side – at home, I mean.”

Hans sighs, as if he could be doing Wren the greatest favour in the world just by listening, but his eyes do shift with contemplation. After a few quiet moments of trudging, he quietly says, “Dad’s not here. I can’t get away with everything, but...I dunno, if you wanted to take a look at the guy’s record, I could try it.” He then grins, and rolls his eyes. “Turning myself into a criminal here, but for a bloke like that, I don’t think he deserves the respect.”

“Now, that’s summat we can both agree on,” Wren chitters brightly. “But don’t bother with doin’ any of that. I can’t be goin’ behind Crow’s back, he’d be fuming if he found it! And it’s just not fair.” She throws her hands down with an almighty huff. “Cor, it’s a real head-scratcher. I wanna know ‘cos he’d never tell me if summat was wrong, but on the other hand, I couldn’t bring myself to go and find out.”

“Dad always said that trust is a great gift and a deadly weapon. I s’pose I can see that. Ironic, when the fella behind Barde’s death stabbed him in the back.”

“Which I don’t plan on doin’ to anyone anytime soon! I’m not a grass! Never have been, never will me. I ain’t ever even told on Socket, neither!”

“Even when it’s gotten you in trouble?”

“Well,” she giggles nervously, “sort of. I’d never tell on him for anything mum hadn’t already found out. But if we’re both in it, I might as well push the blame onto him! He’d do that for me, as well.”

Hans just rolls his eyes. “You’ve got a weird idea of a good relationship.”

Wren supposes that to be true and false in equal measure, much in the way the relationship is both complicated and very, very simple. The dynamic of an older sister and a younger brother is a specific one – it doesn’t always work, but when it does, it’s incredibly valuable. It’s times like this that Wren indulges a special thought, a secret shared with her by Aunt Taffy, who had plenty to say on her experience in wrangling her two younger brothers. Between Vernon’s obsession with green, and Clarence’s selective hearing, it seems nothing has really changed between them over the last sixty odd years – and Taffy had been keen to teach Wren everything she knew.

Wren had ended up taking an odd path home, rerouted by her conversation with Hans, which had left them bidding each other goodnight at a fork in the road. The sky is inky black by the time she lets herself into the house, where she can hear their ancient wireless blaring crackly music from the front room. With what little spare time her mother has, her only hobbies seem to be smoking and listening – Wren supposes that’s where she gets her own sharp ears from.

The door to the front room is ajar, where the smell of smoke and oven grease wafts through, and her mother greets her distractedly. Wren pokes her head in to say hello. Their conversation is short, but it’s a nice change from going to bed alone, waiting for her mother to arrive home in the dead of night. They exchange brief pleasantries, Wren is offered some dinner, and a small request is asked of. One which had Wren darting across the hallway to pop a head into the bedroom.

“Socket, mum says take a bath.”

Socket, sitting on the bed with a mangled radio in his lap, looks up with fierce indignance. “What?” he snaps. “Now? Bit late, innit? S’not even Sunday! It’s the middle of the week.” He tacks an extra glower on as well for Wren’s tardiness, which she’s begun to pick up on more and more. She’d argue there’s no point in him getting upset, but will admit that the age gap between them isn’t large enough to give her any special privileges.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” Wren huffs, flicking a hand in his direction. “She said it, not me. She said you stank when you came in today. Come to think of it…”

“Drain’s gone out, an’ all,” Socket glares, nose twitching with the same foul scent Wren’s picking up. “M’not takin’ a bath now, it’s a pain! I’m only gonna get dirty tomorrow.”

“You say that every day,” Wren grunts, shuffling her coat off and tossing it onto their shared dresser, missing half of its drawers. “You’re always gonna get dirty tomorrow, and I don’t wanna share the room with you if you stink!”

Though, looking at him under the flickering lightbulb overhead, he does seem remarkably more mucky than usual. Something about the dirt on his face, less a smudge and more a cake of mud. It’ll never cease to baffle her how he can be so immune to feeling grotty. Their mum said he’ll grow out of it, but Wren’s starting to fear the worst.

“How’d you even get so grubby, anyway? Y’look like you’ve been down a coal mine.”

Socket pauses, taking a moment to finish screwing something into the radio before replying, “Near enough. Arianna asked me some help up at the manor. Y’know that little tower that comes off the main building? The one with that spiral staircase? I’ve been in there.”

Wren strides over and runs a finger over his disgustingly sweaty forehead – it’s cold, so why he’s always sweating she’ll never know – and she holds the black on her finger up for him to see. “Were you lickin’ the floors clean? Yuck.”

“Sort of,” he mumbles non-committally, glancing up at her briefly before returning to his work.

“Never did see inside the tower meself,” she hums, wiping her hand on the back of her trousers. “A spiral staircase? Ain’t that fancy? Where does it go?”

Socket begins to feel around on the bed for a different tool, one that Wren suspects to be the screwdriver tucked behind his ear. She plucks it off of him and hands it out for him to take as he explains, “Oh, it’s a secondary entrance to the house. Not used for anythin’, of course, but ‘cos the tower’s sealed off with a puzzle, y’can’t see where the entrance is from inside the manor.”

“A secret entrance,” Wren says with gleaming eyes. “That’s magic! What d’you reckon they built it for? Crimes?”

“Beats me,” he shrugs with a smile. “Not big enough to carry anythin’ through, the staircase is steep as it is, so...probably just an emergency escape. Fires, floods or all the peasantry the Barde’s pissed off over the years.”

Wren flops down onto her bed, notably much neater than Socket’s and without grease stains and tools stuffed down the side. She begins to kick her boots off, wriggling her toes comfortably. Socket continues to work dutifully, though he seems unusually quiet in Wren’s eyes, and she rolls over to face him.

“Would you take a bath if I heated up the water for you?” she asks kindly.

Socket squints, but doesn’t refuse. “And if you toss it out after, but there’s no point in me takin’ a bath if you’re not havin’ one either.”

“I s’pose I could have one,” Wren ponders, freeing her hair from the bands it’s tied in. “And since we’ve been doing good flogging off all of Edgar’s old tat, it won’t kill us for you to have an extra bath this week. I’m serious, Socket, you look disgusting.”

“That’s ‘cos I’ve been busy,” he says bitterly, but his face dissolves into resignation. “Arianna lets Crow have a wash-up at hers, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me needin’ one, too. Can it wait till tomorrow?”

Wren inhales deeply, unsure of whether or not she wishes to sigh, but her acquiesce has her snorting in his direction with indifference. “Alright. I’ll go put some lavender on the landing for the drain smell. You’ve been workin’ a lot, recently, y’know. Don’t work too hard, will you?”

“Cor, just like you to come home and start tellin’ me off for this, that and the other,” he laughs, tossing the radio beside his bed, scraping all the loose screws off alongside it. A job for tomorrow, it seems. “S’not just me, though. Badger’s been givin’ me a hand here and there. He’s gonna come up to the manor with me tomorrow. What’re you up to?”

“Tomorrow?” Wren begins to sift across the messy floor for her pyjama bottoms. “I...I guess I’ll head to Crow’s first.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve just got some...stuff I gotta check on.”

She’d almost forgotten about him. She could never doubt his talent in getting himself where he wants to be, but maybe it’s just in her nature to worry, carefree as she seems from the outside. She wonders what he could be doing right now, and as she slides into her own bed, she hopes that he’s doing the exact same thing.

Chapter Text

Well, he’d been half-right. The woman doesn’t live here, but she does work here.

Certainly, he’s not used to seeing women turn up at his doorstep that aren’t half-dressed and asking for his father. This one was donned in such crisp office-wear, you’d think she’d ironed her clothes onto her body. He’d assumed, then, that his door would not be darkened by the likes of the usual herd of gorillas looking for back-rent, but he’d been wrong.

Or, half-right. Again.

They hadn’t been bailiffs. They’d been a kind of enforcement that Crow finds himself unfamiliar with.

Against his wishes, and his better judgement, he’d been coaxed away from his home and to the town hall, or a smaller building adjacent to it, with the simple request of asking a few questions. Being this late at night, he’d imagined a scolding or a warning depending on what they were asking for before sweeping him out the door and sending him on his way. He’d kept her chatting on the porch for quite a while, but she didn’t seem to be all too keen on meeting his father. Rather, she seemed far more interested in speaking with him. He’d refused as much as he could, but there was only so much time he could waste before the hulking assistants she’d brought with her had started to grow impatient.

Which lands him in a tiny little office, musty and unpleasant, and still stinking of the leftover cigarette stains from whoever worked here last. Judging by the distinct aroma of twenty-packs a day, he suspects it was an accountant.

He’s forced into a little leather chair, flaunting the frays and tears of age. His toes only scrape the floor beneath him, and he grips the sides of his seat and watches the woman pass behind the desk a few times, dropping papers as she goes. Eventually, she sits down opposite him, and primly nudges her glasses up her nose. She’s got the kind of thin, intelligent face that aggravates him without reason. There’s just something innately smarmy about it, and it put his hackles up long before he’d arrived here.

“So, you are...Crow.”

He eyes her up and down, making sure she can catch him doing so, and mutters, “As I’ve already told you.”

She flashes with a look of alarm, but settles back down into her piles of paperwork, where she clearly seems the most comfortable. She puts a hand to her chest, doing her best to be as visually compelling in her empathy, but failing rather miserably. She introduces herself with, “Well, Crow, I’m Melanie.”

He doesn’t remember asking, but holds his tongue about it. What he’s more interested in is what she wants. If it’s not a telly, and it’s not his father, then what is it? If she’s looking for a landlord, she’d be hard-pressed to find him. Crow suspects he’s been dead for the past three years.

She continues, palming her papers over the desk, and wrapping a finger around the thin chain that secures her glasses around her neck. “And, I’m here to talk to you, actually. A-as I’m sure you’ve already figured out. Your father is...hold on, I have it here. What I don’t have is...a mother. Do you have a mother?”

“I had to have come from somewhere, right?”

She’s a little too flustered to really get angry with him, so she settles for fidgeting with her work and rambling under her breath all the while. “Well, you know I don’t mean it like that, I mean is there a mother in your life? Do you know where she might be?”

“Not a clue. Do you?”

Melanie swallows. “I...can’t say that I do. This, of course, is quite the problem.”

Crow shrugs nonchalantly, and folds his arms, casting his gaze across the other side of the room. He’d been shoved in here by one of the apes she’d been accompanied by to the house, and if the lack of loud, thunderous footsteps are anything to go by, the guy is still planted in front of the door, having not moved an inch. That’s concerning.

“Don’t see why it would be. Lots of kids only got one parent.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not what I’m getting at. Now, your father is incredibly behind on his bills, isn’t he? Did you know anything about that?”

She’s posh, but in that horribly patronising way where she clearly doesn’t know how to communicate with children. Crow raises a thin eyebrow, finding tedium in his teasing of her, and wonders when he’s going to be able to get back to bed. His mattress has been sitting solidly on the floor since the rotting remains of the framework finally gave up, and though it’s still a night of itchy, moth-eaten blankets and spiky mattress springs, it’s still better than here.

“Of course, I did. Who d’you think was chasin’ away the bailiffs?”

A wonky crease grows between her brow, the only evidence of her unease against the stillness of her face, and she politely murmurs, “That’s very concerning. That’s not a task that should fall to a child.”

He sighs monstrously, but he knows if he starts ranting now, he won’t be able to stop, and there’s no promise he’ll be able to drill any sense into what he assumes is her incredibly thick skull. As if she knows anything about the lives of children. The only thing he despises more than being told what he should be doing is being told what he shouldn’t be doing.

“It needed to be done, so it got done,” he says bluntly. “I don’t like brushin’ me teeth either, but I still do it...most days.”

At this, oddly, she brightens. “So, you brush your teeth regularly! That’s good. What about baths, do you take baths often enough?”

He pulls an indescribable face. Somewhere between discomfort and wild surprise, but settles for thickly replying, “I think if I didn’t, you’d probably be able to tell – and even if I didn’t, I’m in the canal often enough that I don’t think it would matter much.”

She laughs, but it’s painfully forced. The shuffling of papers continues, and Crow has half a mind to lean over and rip them right out of her hands – to think he gets chided for not being able to sit still! His face grows cloudier and cloudier until it’s practically brewing a thunderstorm.

“And what about food, do you eat enough?”

“Okay, I don’t-- I don’t like this,” he says flatly, sitting upright in his chair. “I don’t know what you want from me. What I eat and how often I wash has nothin’ to do with you, and the fact I even let you talk me into comin’ here this late at night was obviously not my brightest idea.” He gets out of his chair, where he stands only an inch above her eyeline. “Seriously, ain’t workin’ hours over now? What business have you got pesterin’ me like this?”

He thinks he’s making a decent enough point until her face grows steely. She patiently waits for him to finish talking, but her mouth hangs open in blatant anticipation of cutting him off. She begins with a sigh, one that doesn’t seem to suggest she’s worried on his behalf, and says, “The reason I came to you so late at night is because I’ve been trying to find you all day. This was the only moment I was able to catch you – and I don’t have normal working hours because my work depends entirely on the people I work with. Namely, you.”

“Y’don’t work with me.”

“I do. Whilst I can appreciate that this is unsettling, having me poke around your business, you’ll find it’s quite necessary. And, I’m afraid to say, I can’t let you go home just yet. You must be getting very tired, and if you would like to lie down, there’s a settee over there you can—”

“Stop patronising me!” he suddenly snaps, fists balled as he takes one strong step towards her. “I’m not lyin’ down in the company of a deranged woman who dragged me all the way here from my house! Either tell me what you want, or let me go!”

She slumps back in her chair, but doesn’t spare a single moment to look undignified when she does so. Crow considers it blindingly rude when she pauses to clean the lens of her glasses with her shirt – the audacity to make him wait. He supposes it’s better than hearing the rustling of papers ringing in his ears, but only marginally.

“Now, I know this might be difficult for you, but this is my job. The points of your hygiene and health are only a few pieces that make up the larger issue of what we’ve recorded as evidence of neglect and abuse.”

The one word he truly, above all else, despises hearing, and knowing that his hatred of it comes from a place of familiarity with it, he feels guilty and obstructive when he curtly coughs, “I beg your pardon?”

“There have been new laws rolled out surrounding the practice of child welfare – what we would call the social services – and this extends to you.”

“You didn’t even know my name until I told you – what the hell do you think you know about me?”

She keeps nodding like she’s agreeing with him, but he knows she’s just waiting for an opening to speak. “Actually, I did know. That was solely for clarification – as shambolic as the system has been in recent years, I think our reputation would be irreparably tarnished if we weren’t even able to ascertain the right child amongst everything else.”

“Lady,” Crow spits, “there ain’t a person in town who bothers to meddle in my business, and that’s how I like to keep things. Fine, I get it, you’re doin’ your job out of the kindness of your heart – and I imagine the rent as well – I get that. But I don’t need your help. I’m fine.”

This draws a notable pause from her, and she’s quieter now than she has been over the past ten minutes. He holds a hope in his heart that she’s seriously considering what he’s saying – he’s not some idiotic child, after all. Of course, he can recognise neglect and abuse where it happens, it’s an experience he’s lived with every day of his life, but that doesn’t mean he’s stuck in it. He’s spent so long devising a way to masterfully dance out of its path and live a good life. He’s not going to have that ruined so suddenly by the well-meaning. Often, those with the best intentions wind up being the most dangerous.

“It’s...not fine. It might not be something you realise now, but it’s certainly not acceptable. Your medical record, for one.”

“What medical record?” he replies innocently, sitting back in his chair and hoping to emulate the picture of a perfectly well-behaved young man. Perhaps it’s a bit forced, but he won’t be accused of not trying. Sadly, it garners him no points as Melanie slaps a hand on the table and leans over it. She doesn’t shout, but the firmness in her voice is unpleasant.

“Exactly! All children should have a medical record. They should have a listed surgery, a GP, and proof of visitation. They should have a record of vaccines, if applicable, and at least some evidence of a check-up once in a while! You, on the other hand, have never been registered with a surgery, you’ve never appeared even once on our national health records except for one time earlier this year where you were briefly admitted to hospital for a condition that’s noted to have been left to grow worse due to, rather aptly, neglect!”

Defensively, but with some surprise, he barks, “T-that’s not my fault!”

“That’s exactly right, Crow,” she says, this time pleadingly. “It isn’t your fault, but it is very much the fault of the person who is meant to be responsible for your well-being! But judging by the records we have of your father, he has not paid a bill in the last fifteen years, he’s been arrested no less than fourteen times for drunken misdemeanours – been barred from your local pub six times as well – and has been noted by residents in the area as being utterly unfit to care for a brick, let alone a child!”

Whoever ratted him out to a woman who has no business knowing what he and his father are up to will face repercussions once he finds out who they are. Behind his stony expression, he briefly falls to a flicker of panic at the idea that it could be Aunt Taffy who had admitted such things, or perhaps even Professor Layton, who had kindly accompanied him on his trip to the hospital.

What’s worse is that he’s starting to put the pieces together. It dawns on him with a horribly slow anticipation, like the grim sunrise of a morning execution, and he slumps further and further into his chair against the force of her accusations. Now, if they had been directed at him, he could fight back with all the ferocity in the world, but the fact she’s excluding him purposely from all punishment feels...unnatural.

And, after he’d grown so used to being in trouble all the time. How fitting it is that the trap he falls into is one of not being in trouble at all.

“So, then...now what? So, my dad is a waste of breath. You don’t know where my mum is, and I’m no orphan. Everyone knows me in this town. This place is my home. Even if my dad don’t care for me, there’s lots of other people who do. That’s alright, isn’t it?”

He senses ‘no’ from miles away, but it’s magnified by her blue eyes brimming with reluctance, catching the light of the dingy bulb overhead. For once, it feels like her regret for him isn’t forced. He laughs in the face of real concern, running a hand over his cheek, where it disappears beneath his fringe and tentatively feels for a bruise that has long since healed.

“C-c’mon, I’m sure you’ve got tons of kids who genuinely need your help. Kids who deserve a better home! That’s what you do, right? Don’t waste your time on me, I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years! I got friends. I got...a job. It’s like you were askin’ about – I brush my teeth, I bathe, I eat...mostly alright. I even find myself pocket money for sweets! I bet some kids out there would kill for a life like mine!”

“Crow, I don’t…”

“You’d be doin’ both of us a favour!” he begs, his gesticulations growing wilder with the realisation that he might have gotten caught into a situation he really won’t be able to get out of – and he’d just escaped the threat of jail not too long ago. “Look, I can even show you all of that stuff. It’s not like I’ve got that long left in that house! I could even find somewhere else to stay. That wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”

“The problem would still remain that you are living without a legal guardian, which is a very big problem in the eyes of the law.”

For a second, Crow thinks about throwing out spews of vitriol about the state of the Barde family, and how Arianna and Tony had been made to live alone for years with the poor girl’s health in terminal decline, but quickly decides against it, which forces him to physically bite down on his itching tongue. Just because he’s going down doesn’t mean those two have to come with him. They’ve only just gotten their lives on track – he can’t risk bringing their situation to light and forcing this burden on them as well. Though it does prompt him to wonder what’s been going on behind the scenes on their end of things to keep them away from the eyes of the services.

“But...that doesn’t mean that I can’t—”

“That isn’t to say we can’t find a solution for you! That’s what I’m here for, after all,” Melanie tells him with the most kindness she can manage. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to go back to your home whilst it is in that condition, and certainly not back to your father. However, there are options. Some are...more complicated than others, but we’ll see what we can do.”

Crow opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. How could it? What is he supposed to say to any of this? Every time he throws a little bit of hope out there, it gets ruthlessly shot down by the logic of the law, which is something he’s never really been partial to in the first place. His rage has simmered into a cold, unfeeling affliction, and it sits stonily in his stomach with no intention of moving.

“Crow?”

There’s something bitter, he thinks, about having let Wren march home in her own timely fashion, flaunting a freedom he didn’t think he’d miss just by being born into this world as the person he is. Against all common sense, he doesn’t know if he wants to kiss her or slap her next time he sees her.

In some ways, he’s glad to have savoured the day the way he had, as he has no idea if he’ll ever be able to return to it. The conversation continues from there, the well of dialogue slowly drying up as he’s forced to reckon with a fate he’d not even anticipated. Every swallow is dry, and his ears muffle all sound of Melanie’s attempts to get him to accept the position he’s in.

“I fear you don’t understand the situation you’re in – a-and that’s fine, I appreciate that this is a very tumultuous time for you, but—”

A telephone, mottled with dust and cobwebs, springs to life on the lower landing of Barde Manor. The receiver trembles as it rings, loud and unpleasant, and bothersome to the sluggish footsteps that come down the stairs with the intention of silencing it however possible, whether that be answering it or throwing it clean out of the window.

“Mm,” a yawn is stifled, “Hello? Gosh, it’s the middle of the night. Who is this, and what could you possibly want at this hour?”

“I, erm…”

“Oh, Luke, if this is you prank-calling me…! I gave you my telephone number for good reason, not for you to tease me like this!”

“Arianna, it’s me.”

Arianna blinks, wiping her bleary eyes as if it’d somehow help her to hear better. “Huh? Crow, is that you? What’s the matter?”

The voice on the other end of the line fumbles, stammering in a way that makes it impossible to distinguish it from signal fuzz. “I’m not sure what to...I think I—”

“You think you what?”

“I think...I’m not going to be coming back.”

“Back where? The manor?”

“Town.”

…

…

…

“What...what do that mean? You live here. Crow, this isn’t very funny, whatever it is you’re trying to—”

“Arianna, you’re the only person I can tell because you’re the only person who has a telephone. I got nicked by the social services, and they won’t let me go back home. It’s soundin’ like they won’t even let me stay in Misthallery.”

From the outside, all that can be seen of Arianna is the tight ball she’s curled herself up into, lodged under the telephone table with the curled wire looping over her shoulders. She could be mistaken for furniture if her voice weren’t growing desperate with every word, soon drawing the attention of her little brother, who stands at the top of the stairs with a sleepy, bemused expression.

Chapter Text

Though the sun is becoming an infrequent visitor to town, Marilyn finds herself enjoying the sharp, crisp atmosphere of autumn. It’s a new season, which means a whole new array of produce for her to flaunt and flog. It’s no beginning of spring, but it’s a fresh start, and she’s determined to tackle it with perseverance. She’s had it with all the mopiness and uncertainty. She’s keen to take a leaf from Wren’s book – if she can storm into the start of something new with confidence, then how hard can it be?

She’s gotten taller again – the stall counter-top feels so much lower now, and the coins all far away. There’s a lot to be said of all the compliments she receives, now not for the maturity of her work, but the commendation of her growth – she can’t profess to enjoy it, but she has smiling and nodding away her problems down to an art.

She’s filling a box with a rumbling cascade of apples when the pattering of frantic footsteps skid to a stop behind her. She pays it no mind until the silence piques her curiosity, and she glances over her shoulder. Her usual style of curly hair splayed over her shoulders has been replaced by a rather stylish ponytail, tied up high with the fabric of her red bandana – it sways and obscures Wren’s pale, sweating face for a second.

“Hm?” Marilyn hums, chucking the empty crate to one side, inspecting Wren’s gloomy features with a barely perceptible frown. “Wren, y’alright? You look like my dad when the rent’s gone up.”

It takes some chittering and churning for Wren to finally grit out, “I-it’s Crow.”

That could mean just about anything, and only a small fraction of those things are good. Marilyn braces herself for some bad news, but can’t help narrowing her eyes at the idea of Crow landing himself into trouble yet again. To think he’d have the audacity to try something again after worrying them all half to death last time – she’ll be pelting him with apples next time she catches sight of him.

“I thought Nora said the police wouldn’t be a problem...well, not right now, anyhow.”

“It’s not the police,” Wren burbles fretfully, fussing with the buttons of her jacket. “I-it’s the social services! They picked him up last night and won’t let him go, Arianna was sayin’ about how it’s lookin’ like they won’t even let him come back to Misthallery! They’re takin’ him away, Mari! We don’t know where he’s goin’!”

In any other scenario, Marilyn would be drifting over to her with the composure of an angel, hands gently caressing Wren’s shoulders as she offers her soft words of encouragement, but she just finds herself frozen stiff. Somehow, it’s worse than watching Wren get arrested. Rather than the spike of fire that flickers into a bolt of ice, cooling the stomach with the start of panic, it’s a slow and awful realisation that takes its sweet time, taunting her all the way.

She can’t even erupt into her usual frenzy. It’s just a peaceful, hollow drop of the jaw, and nothing behind the eyes.

Snatched by the only enemy to them greater than the police, and even though she knows Crow has every right to get picked up and put somewhere better, her despondency is palpable. By the time she’s finished shrinking into herself, arms tightly folded to her chest, she looks about half her size.

“You...you can’t be serious.”

Wren nods, wiping away spilled tears with the back of her hands. “And just when we got everythin’ back together again. This ain’t gonna be like last time, neither! Once they get their hands on him, we have no way of gettin’ him back! No bribery in the world would work on those lot.”

The apples are starting to look a lot more dull now, having lost their fresh shimmer, and Marilyn isn’t sure if she has it in her today to hook any good sales. On the other hand, shiny eyes and a wobble of the lip is an equally good lure-- but there’s no time for that right now.

“So, what...what’re we goin’ to do? I can’t leave the stall till three! Did Arianna say where they were takin’ him? Maybe we can go visit!” She balls her fists up, swinging them erratically as she begins to fill herself with a ferocious optimism. “Yeah! So long as we know where they’re shippin’ him off to – and it can’t be that far – we can go see him whenever we like!”

Wren can’t quite bring herself to share Marilyn’s enthusiasm, and she tucks her chin against the neck of her jumper, whispering, “I don’t know. Arianna never said – I don’t think he did either. B-but she did say he’d try to call her back! Whenever that could be.”

Marilyn can’t bear to see Wren so discouraged, and after inspiring her into her own confidence. She doesn’t want to hedge the burden of stability onto her, but if Wren crumbles, she just might follow. Times like this call for Socket, and though he hasn’t proven himself to be the most rational in a crisis, he’s certainly a more comfortable anchor in these times than her.

“Do the boys know? I ain’t seen ‘em all day. Doesn’t Louis’ dad work for the council? Maybe he can help!”

Wren simply scoffs. “Him? I don’t believe it. Not when he’s down in our hideout all day! Tony nipped out to tell everyone, so I imagine word’s gotten out about it. Ugh, what a total nightmare! What’re we gonna do if we never see him again?!”

“C’mon, don’t talk like that,” Marilyn huffs, but with fond eyes. “It won’t get us anywhere – you know what Crow says about sulkin’! I’m sure there’s somethin’ we can do.”

Even with that being the case, Wren doesn’t look too inclined to agree, and who can blame her? The sleeves of her coat are sodden now, green wool stained almost black with tears. She roughly rubs at her eyes once more, and takes a big sniff.

“I’ll go wait up at Barde Manor with Arianna. She ain’t left the phone since last night!”

“She’s a good sort like that,” Marilyn agrees. “I’ll keep an ear to the ground, but I doubt I’ll find anythin’ out. Cor, what a start to the morning – and just when I finally thought I’d hit my stride!”

Marilyn hopes her facetious complaining might light a little fire under Wren to keep her warm, but the usual mockery that keeps them in good spirits on bad days doesn’t seem to be working. If anything, Wren is starting to look worse. Something can be seen in her swimming eyes when she stares hard at the dusty, cobbled ground, but for what it is, Marilyn can’t discern. Not even her all-seeing eyes can bore into Wren’s thickly-guarded skull.

“Are...you alright?”

“I’ll be fine, it’s him I’m worried about,” she says tersely, shoving her hands into her pockets and beginning a slow trudge back the way she came. “I knew I shouldn’t have-- oh, never mind. Come up to the manor when you’re done today. I’m...I’m sure we can figure summat out.”

“We always do,” Marilyn says kindly, but her humourless smile admits that even she doesn’t believe that. Just because they had a close call last time doesn’t guarantee it’ll happen this time. Yet, strangely, she feels serene about the entire thing, and she suspects that it hasn’t quite sunken in yet. Only when she has the undeniable proof that Crow will not be coming back to them will she accept that as fact.

...Perhaps she believes in his unlikely miracles a little more than she thought she did. After all, who can keep a kid like him down when life itself can’t even manage it?

By the time Crow gets to chat with Melanie again, he’s had a fitful nap in a shoddy little bed in a tiny flat across from the town hall. He’d never known what the building had been for, but it seems now that it’s a hostel for the displaced – it’s no wonder they’ve kept it so quiet. He’d been swept in by a barrier of men, the kind of orderlies ripped straight out of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. It’s uncanny, and Crow had felt uneasy going along with them without a physical altercation. At the very least, they should earn his compliance, but he’d not had the energy to fight back, drained as he was by the unbelievable circumstances.

Instead of the dingy, cancerous office from the night before, this area has proper windows, and sits on the ground floor of the town hall next to a small canteen serving endless cups of tea to a cycle of exhausted councilmen. Catching Greppe’s eye as he’d sailed past had been an unpleasant and unnerving surprise, and Crow hadn’t dared to stick around to catch his reaction. Instead, he’d plonked himself firmly in a metal seat at a little café table, knowing that the man unsubtly posted further down the hall will nab him if he tries to make a break for it.

Kindly, Melanie had bought him a cup of tea, and a small plate of biscuits which he decided he wouldn’t touch. When she finally sits down with her own cup of coffee, Crow buries his nose into the steam of his beverage, and watches her over the china rim with owlish eyes. He’d known the first sip would be bland seeing as he likes close to forty sugars in his tea, but he’d tried it anyway. Without tearing his eyes from her, he reaches out a hand to palm around for the grotty glass jar filled with lumps of sugar.

He takes five, tosses them into his sloshing cup, and dares her silently to challenge him for it.

She doesn’t. She eyes him with disapproval, but says nothing. Instead, she shovels into her bag to procure a thick file full of her favourite: more stacks of off-white paper. This one seems a little more organised than yesterday’s hurricane of disorganisation, and each page she flicks through is covered in large, loopy writing.

“If you’d like a sandwich or something,” she begins, trying not to glance at his full plate of biscuits so obviously – likely wondering what child in the world neglects a plate of treats when offered, “the canteen do some nice rolls. They’ve got ham, cheese, egg, tuna—”

She cuts herself off politely when his gaze darkens. A resounding ‘no’. At least she’s bright enough to take the hint.

“We will also make some time in the next few days to return to your home and collect anything that you wish to take with you, but for now, I thought it might put you at ease to discuss your options for the future.”

Commandeered by them, he thinks, but doesn’t say so. He allows her to ramble, and he watches her pluck out a few pages in particular which her beady eyes hurry to scan.

“Obviously, there’s foster care, there are some group homes with vacant spaces ready so that wouldn’t take long. As for when you’d be fostered, that’s...quite a different story. Adoption outright also takes many months of preparation as well. Though you’re not an orphan, there are some places that may still take you – you know, they often take in older children to help balance things out!”

Or takes them in as free labour and babysitting, Crow thinks cynically. He’s not about to be strong-armed into caring for a bunch of little kids. The only small children he has any affinity for are here in his home town, and when the thought hits him, he realises he might not get to see Mimi’s little one grow up. He’s surprised by the wobble in his chest. He didn’t think that would be a thing he’d ever have to miss – what other little moments might pass him by? A sausage roll from Paddy’s, he’d definitely miss. Perhaps Marion will finally discover something huge whilst he’s away! And if losing out on the chance to watch the younger kids find their feet out in town is upsetting, what about the reverse?

What...about Aunt Taffy?

“At your age, though, you might get incredibly lucky and find yourself an apprenticeship,” Melanie continues to chirp, “but those can be very demanding – you’d have to be just the person they’re looking for to get into one of those.”

It’s like she’s dashing every hope he has in one fell swoop. Well, the dull silver lining there is at least Socket would get by in his situation. Any tradesmen in the country would be lucky to have him. He’s got nobody to bounce his insincere internal dialogue off of – Nabby’s normally the one who caters to that – so when he starts to hear his voice in his own head applying this consistent commentary, he starts to feel a bit sick. How lonely. It puts into perspective how many gaps are filled by the presence of his friends.

“Oh, and then there are the grammar schools. They don’t tend to take in boys close to leaving age, but I think you’ll just about scrape through. We’d have to find a spot for you though, and these grammar schools require exams, but that’s up to you if you wish to take them. I’ve heard you’re quite a bright young lad.”

“Who in the world would you have heard that from?” he asks flatly.

She doesn’t answer. She just sort of flutters awkwardly and returns to her nattering, but she does pass him over some papers with prospective homes on them. He’s shocked he’s even getting the chance to choose. Most children he’s heard about just get shipped off to the closest place, but he doesn’t know how close the nearest home could be. If it were just in the next town over then perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. The bus fare wouldn’t be too steep – maybe his friends can come to visit!

Without reading the papers, he inquires, “Where’s closest, then?”

“Oh, erm, well, the closest home with any availability at the moment would be...Southampton.”

“What? Southampton?! That’s bloody miles away!” he yelps, knees jerking up to hit the table, where his tea wobbles and spills a dribble of its contents. A few bypassing councilmen start, and eye him wildly over their shoulders, shuffling off to get back to work. Even the round-faced lady running the canteen is watching them with a curious scrunch to her nose.

“It isn’t so far – and it’s a lovely place! Dockside, so you’ll have a nice view of the sea. Have you ever been to the seaside?”

“Missus, you just got done last night tellin’ me my dad has never paid a bill in his life – d’you really think I’ve ever seen the coast?” he spits petulantly, folding his arms and hunching over his tea, pausing to neck a good half of it in one, thick, sweet gulp.

“W-well, quite. If you really want to be closer, though, I would recommend the schooling option. Boys boarding, of course, but there are quite a few in London – that’s only down the road! Have you ever been to school?”

He could be just as biting as he was a second ago, but the question hits him a little oddly. He chews his lip for a moment, before quietly admitting, “No. Never.”

Melanie seems to look delighted by the answer, and she begins to energetically sort through her magically endless stack of papers, throwing out pages at random. “Well, that could be quite the experience for you! Then let’s make our two goals for this week to get your belongings, and to sit you for some exams. That’ll broaden your horizons a bit when being accepted. I think a boy like you will thrive in a schooling environment, and you’ll have lots of opportunities to make friends.”

Somehow, he’s not so sure. A chance to learn brand new things that’ll give him an edge in life is always a win, but what else can he learn that he hasn’t taught himself at the library? He never did go to those lessons they held, but he’s been through every book at least once – if not to learn, then for something to do. However, the idea of lots of new faces and the authority of teachers – one thing he’s never quite gotten the hang of yielding to other people – puts him ill at ease.

He already gets picked on by the rich lot up in Highyard Hill, what’s it going to be like starting from the bottom all over again? Boys boarding schools almost always mean posh pricks, and in Misthallery at least he’s being bullied at home. Hell, he’d pay Hans to come and throw snide remarks at him every day if it means he could stay here.

He shakes his head listlessly. Watching the way she lays his future out before him in small, controllable steps leaves him fatigued and weary in his chair. He wants to get angry, but he’s far too tired. One sleep in a room not guarded by a burly zoo escapee will get him fired right up again – enough to fight back properly this time, that much he’s sure of.

He...he just has to bide his time! That’s all. He can let this poor woman do what she pleases, maybe suck up a little to look well-behaved, and once he finds an opening, he’ll be on the road right back home. Hell, if he gets put somewhere in London, he might even be able to wangle a bit of help from the professor! It’s just a matter of waiting for the right moment.

He tentatively pulls one of the pieces of paper closer, looking over it idly, but not really taking anything in.

“I...s’pose. London’s a good place for this sort of thing, right?”

Her trust in his complacency is naïve, but that’s hardly a problem for him. She nods so rapidly her glasses begin to slip down her nose, and she amiably agrees, “Y-yes, I would think so! But they also do say that success lies with the student, not the school. Supposedly, students who wish to do well will do well regardless of their surroundings – where there’s a will there’s way, as they say.”

That’s a very polite way of telling him he might just get thrown in borstal, and he, equally politely, tries not to look so utterly contemptuous. Well, it doesn’t matter. Wherever he gets put, he’s not planning on staying there for long. They’d need steel bars, concrete walls and six-foot trenches to keep him in place!

…

With the image of barbed wire in his mind, he starts to sweat at the idea of what schools in London could really be like.

Nabby finds Arianna tucked under the telephone table like a shy little ghost. Only her bare feet are visible when he walks through the door, and Tony, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, throws him a glum look. Nabby dismisses him with a flick of his head, as if to tell him to go and take a break, and Tony begins to reluctantly slump away to find something to do.

No point worrying him about all of this more than he has to, and to be brutally honest, he’s more self-conscious about his own mood than he is concerned about Tony. Getting himself up here had been a testament to how fast he can really be when he wants to be – the fact he’d been running at top speed had put incredulous stares on the faces of everyone he’d passed by. Nosy as they are, he’s sure he’ll have to owe them some kind of fabricated explanation to keep them at bay.

He almost trips on a small, white saucer, covered in crumbs of what it once served. It’s a delicate match to Arianna’s own white nightgown, which she still hasn’t taken off. She’s curled up with her arms around her knees, lips pouting and pressed into the reddened flesh, and eyes glassy and faraway.

Nabby collapses into a sitting position next to her, causing an eruption of dust from the carpet that fades into the dim light cast across the floor by the window behind them.

He’d like to say she looks how he feels, but he’s not really sure how she looks at the moment, and is twice as clueless about how he feels. The news had come to his own doorstep as he’d stood there, blank and sleepy with porridge stains still covering the front of his pyjama shirt. The only reason he’d bothered to get dressed to come here is because two steps towards the front door had his mother sternly reaching for the rolling pin. If he’d taken the time to explain things to her, he’s certain she’d understand, but he’d not been able to find the words.

And he still hasn’t, sat here next to the wordless Arianna, who seems to be giving him a run for his money for the diligence of being immovable. He cracks a very small small, and reaches out to give her shoulder a poke.

“Oi, you been sittin’ here all this time? That’s my thing – I’ll be out of a job at this rate.”

Arianna tries to smile back, she really does, but all that happens is her lips purse, and the corners wobble indecisively. She’s starting to look that familiar shade of grey from a few years ago, when she’d been ill. Finally, she gives up, and a very irate frown begins to pull at her brow.

“You’re making jokes now of all times…? Aren’t you supposed to be Crow’s best friend?”

She has every right to say that as sourly as she does, but Nabby doesn’t balk. He doesn’t even look the tiniest bit sheepish about his apathy, but he does oblige her by looking thoughtful about his answer. The truth is, he’s thought about all of this before.

“I’m gutted, really,” he says quietly, “but you’ve got to know, this ain’t a surprise to me. The Black Market is one thing, when we’re together as a group, we can at least pull each other out of trouble, but the way he lives is the one thing we can’t...do anything about.”

Arianna looks appalled, and she squeaks, “But you haven’t even tried! Wasn’t there something you could’ve done before? If you knew it was going to happen someday—”

“I didn’t know it was going to happen. I…thought Crow would have a better handle on it,” he rebuts, but feels pathetic in doing so. It’s one thing to expect his poor mate to slog through domestic life that should reasonably have the police involved, but to expect him to keep it hidden enough just for the luxury of friendship? There’s something to be said about relying on him for the collective freedom of the Black Ravens.

“Are you even worried?”

Nabby bites the inside of his cheek, and mutters against his own wishes, “A little. I’m not worried about Crow, he’s always been good at survivin’ on his own, but...I don’t know where he’ll end up. Oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s not that I don’t care! It’s just...it was always a possibility. D’you have any idea how long this has been on my mind?”

Arianna childishly buries her face into her knees until it’s completely hidden, which is enough of an admission of understanding for him. She doesn’t have to be happy about it, but that’s the way things are.

“You’re awfully calm about this,” she mumbles lowly.

He opens his mouth to say something, but finally settles for shrugging inanely. He can’t always have the answers, can he? And besides, he came here to comfort Arianna, not to get lectured by her! If he wanted to spend the day getting told off, he’d just hang around at home. In the hopes of changing the topic, he clears his throat, and carefully reaches to swipe a fiery lock of her hair back into place.

“Look, you know I’m no good at this stuff,” he says with an uneasy laugh. “And I didn’t come here to worry about Crow – I think the others will be doin’ a good enough job of that on their own! Why don’t you, I dunno, go back to bed or somethin’. I’ll stay here and keep an ear out for the phone.”

A glimmer of blue eyes can just about be seen peering darkly over the girls knees, but she says nothing. What else can she say that she hasn’t already said? She’ll be talking in circles at this rate, but just to emphasise her disappointment, she doesn’t readily agree to his offer.

He sighs. “Hey, I’m second-in-command for a reason, aren’t I? You need someone to keep you all together, ‘fore you start runnin’ around like a bunch of headless chickens.”

“What, like last time?”

“Yeah, exactly like last time,” he scoffs, giving her a pat on the shoulder that doesn’t feel all too personable. “Except now we’ve got a better idea of what to do – and last time, it was all of our necks on the line, not just his! Now we’re stuck here without him.”

Arianna still doesn’t feel satisfied by his answer, but is put at some ease by the unusual responsibility he’s showing. Between those two considerations, what comes out is a bit of an icy jab. “So, I suppose that makes you first-in-command now, doesn’t it?”

To her curiosity, dismay crosses his face, and he tugs at the brim of his hat until it’s almost covering his eyes. Gruffly, he hacks out, “Psh. Now who’s bein’ insensitive? I don’t have any intention of bein’ the leader. Second-best is all I need. You’re talkin’ like Crow’s never comin’ back.”

“So, you think he will? Is that why you’re so calm?”

Nabby can only stammer in response, which fuels Arianna’s ire further.

“You didn’t hear how devastated he sounded on the phone!” she snaps, though it’s muffled by brimming tears. “It was as if even he didn’t believe he would make it back! You can claim he’s a survivor till the cows come home, but he needs us! I’m certain of it.”

Nabby just huffs, but says nothing more. Whether or not that’s his assent is a mystery to her.

“So, if you won’t be in charge,” she asks carefully, “then who will be? What’s the point of you being second-in-command…?”

Suddenly, all the tension disappears from his face, as if an epiphany has struck and removed all doubt from his resolve, but there’s no sting of enlightenment to follow. He just grows still, seemingly unbothered by what goes on around him, and his voice turns plain.

“Go to bed, Arianna.”

She seriously considers kicking him, but being raised the way she did prevents her from giving into the urge. Instead, she stamps her bare foot onto the carpet hard enough to bruise the heel before stalking away towards the stairs. With balled fists and a pout so ferocious it could put a hole through a wall, Arianna has Tony turning on his heel and running back to his bedroom the moment he catches sight of her. She storms back to her own room so loudly that Nabby can track the route by sound alone. Only when the dust pouring from the ceiling has settled, and the noise has subsided, does he finally emit a long, weary sigh.

Chapter Text

“So, this is...obviously a really bad situation.”

This is why Nabby never leads these group meetings – he’s bloody awful at it. He feels standing on the stage is a little too much power for him, so he perches on the edge of it whilst the others swarm around him with grey, gloomy faces. Arianna stands front and centre, and he’s not really liking the intensity in her eyes. She must still be unhappy with him.

“You can say that again,” Scraps groans, scratching the back of his head. “I never thought they’d come pokin’ around here for Crow. I s’pose he’s a grand catch to them.”

“What are we going to do?” Gus cries. “We’ve got no idea where he is! Without him to run the Black Market…”

“Shush,” Marilyn hisses, giving him a swat on the arm, to which he wibbles at. “What kind of business would we be if we crumbled to pieces just because Crow’s gone? I-I’m sure he won’t be gone forever. We just have to...we just have to take the reins on this for a while!”

“Do him proud,” Louis agrees with a small smile. “He’d like that. I think rather than us fallin’ to bits, he’d much prefer comin’ back one day to see we’re still goin’ at it.”

Socket eyes Wren nervously, hoping that she’ll say something, but she continues to bite her nails silently, staring wide into the middle distance. He gives her a gentle nudge, but it doesn’t register.

“S’much more than we can handle, too,” Nabby sighs, his face practically melting into the hand propping up his chin. If he relaxes any harder, it looks like he might become a puddle. “The local law is one thing, but this is a national organisation. No connin’ our way through it – not unless Crow’s got some bright idea down his end.”

“And he still hasn’t phoned back,” Arianna says testily, a brief reminder to everyone that someone should be manning the telephone in case he tries to contact them. “But what are we going to do about the market? If everything stops now, just as Crow’s gone, don’t you think the town will start to suspect he’s behind it?”

“And with our mum down a job, we could really use the extra income,” Socket adds. “Best not to let on about the market situation, especially ‘cos everyone in town will know about Crow by now. Word travels fast.”

“Exactly,” Nabby agrees, pulling himself up with the grumble of an old man. “As far as I see it, work continues. We just gotta keep doin’ what we’ve always done. As for a leader, I’m really not all that keen to take the position meself, so...how about a vote?”

There are some cautious glances thrown around the room, and none of them competitive. Rather, all are fearful for who’s going to dare to take Crow’s almighty spot as the formal leader of the Black Ravens. Naturally, it’ll have to take someone cunning, someone who can match his intelligence, and someone who can emulate his ability to work on the fly if something goes wrong.

Sensing the hesitance, Nabby clears his throat. “I know it’s a bit unfair to just push someone out into the spotlight like this, but if you asked for my opinion, I’d say...Wren should do it.”

Socket gapes, but Wren doesn’t, and he wonders if perhaps she’d been expecting this. She seems a little paler than usual, but doesn’t fight the suggestion. However, she does mumble, “I was goin’ to suggest Marilyn, actually. I know she don’t wear the costume with the rest of us and stays topside, but she runs a real business on top of helpin’ with this one.”

Marilyn almost looks hurt. She doesn’t imagine this as Wren pushing the responsibility onto her, but it does feel like she’s betraying herself somehow, and for whose benefit? She’s already shaking her head.

“No, no, c’mon, you’re much better at that gaff. I can run a business, sure, but one that’s got my face stuck to it! You know as well as I do that I make most of my sales off charm alone.”

“S’not about the charm, Mari,” Louis aids kindly. “You’ve got the best eye for what gets sold and how to sell it. You’re always settin’ up the stall just right to draw people in and keep them hooked. Our market ain’t that different.”

“Yeah, but…!”

“It’s a tough one,” Scraps whistles. “Wren’s smart enough to give Crow a run for his money for sure, but Marilyn sure is reliable when it comes to the business end of things. Though, with that, we lose a spy in Wren. You’d have a lot more work to do when it comes to the ledgers.”

Marilyn isn’t wholly at ease with being pitted against Wren for a position like this. She doesn’t expect it to spark envy because that simply isn’t the relationship they have, but something just feels so off about it all. That is, until Wren catches her eye with a devastatingly cool grace. One that would belie every adoring facet of her personality that Marilyn has come to know so far.

“Let’s both do it,” Wren nods. “We can team up. Nobody said it had to just be one person, and the spy we lose in me we can make up for with Arianna and Tony. Don’t forget, we’re still up a member even with Crow gone, now that we got the Bardes with us.”

Nabby chuckles, dry but sincere. “And that’s why I’d feel alright with you in charge.”

Wren can definitely see the perks, and she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been preparing for this moment the second she heard about Crow. Someone would’ve had to take up the position, and Nabby would never have done it. He’s dutiful, but wouldn’t put more work on his plate than he can handle, though it looks like laziness from the outside. On top of that, with Marilyn on one hand, Socket on the other, and her unusual tie to the police hidden away up her sleeve, she feels confident that she can steer them away from trouble long enough for Crow to return. It’s a confidence that brings unbearable jitters, which she tries valiantly to stifle under her coat.

Marilyn seems more sceptical about the idea, but eventually agrees. “I can’t stay away from the stall for too long, but consider me on board with managing our stock.” She then flashes a sweet smile, if only to instil Wren with a little more ease than her round, sweating face seems to be admitting. “If Crow can manage it on his own, I don’t see why the two of us can’t do it.”

The chorus of assent is a delightful one, though Nabby feels the situation to be a bit grim. It doesn’t escape his attention that things seem a bit more muted this time around. In the face of a new catastrophe, it seems their previous one has equipped them with a little more courage. He can’t say he hates it, but it does make things feel very different. After all, with Socket hard at work, and Wren taking up the position of leadership, seeing Arianna and Tony adopt the tag-team sibling role is melancholic. Like saying goodbye to something he didn’t think he’d ever miss.

However, Wren and Socket look to be in two different states of shock. Wren’s taking her new role with her usual dopey grin, but her forehead glistens with beads of sweat. Socket radiates his uncertainty vividly with the way he shuffles his feet together, but he’s managing to keep the emotion out of his face. Hard to tell what they’re both really thinking, but he supposes that’s always a problem he’s had with Crow, too.

Now that he’s staunchly second-in-command again, perhaps it’s time for him to get back to manning his post. This time not in the market, but up at the manor.

He’s got to give it to Melanie, she’s certainly speedy when it comes to paperwork.

Crow’s left to bide his time in the library – of course, not without a chaperone – for a large part of the day. It’s not really comforting seeing as he’s already read all the books, and milling around here just reminds him of the peaceful daily life he’s missing out on. Even the chaperone looks a bit perplexed when Crow takes a seat and sits with his chin on his hands for an hour. At some point, the man starts flicking through a magazine, and pauses every now and then to glance over the top of the paper to check on the boy.

He knows what’s coming next. Sitting a test will be no problem to him, but it’s returning home that bothers him. Not because he wants to, but because he doesn’t want to.

If you asked him, he’d proclaim loudly that he wishes to return back to shoddy, old flat because, yes, that is technically true, but when he thinks about it...why would he want that? Of course, he doesn’t want to go back home. He’s manufactured his entire life around staying out of that disgusting hovel, having gone so far as to test out a few nights on various benches across town, but to no real difference. No, where he wants to return to is his real home, and that home is where his friends are.

But how does he explain that he wants to return to a home that has no location?

There’s a bargaining aspect to it all which he normally prides himself on, but now it feels a bit like self-betrayal. Maybe, he considers, that being away won’t be so bad if he can still maintain his friendships. He doesn’t want to get forgotten about, but they’re sure to call once in a while, right? And it won’t be terribly long until he’s old enough to venture out on his own. Whenever the weight of the circumstances grows unbearably heavy, this placation comes back around to soothe him – only to get shoved right back down again by his own righteous indignation.

Why should he have to leave? Misthallery is his home, not just one house of it, but all of it. He’s worked an ungodly amount to make the life he lives a reality, and now he’s expected to just leave it all behind? It prods at his arrogant streak hard enough that it bites back, and assures him that he has every right to be defiant. Misthallery is his town, and he won’t be torn away from it. Just like he serves it with his enigmatic reputation, it serves him as the only thing that’s made his short, miserable life bearable.

It sounds petulantly specific, but he’s stuck with one condition that he feels he cannot break: he won’t return to speak to anyone until he’s there to stay for good. He can’t stand sappy goodbyes, which is the reason he never stuck around to see Luke off after the events of the spectre. He can’t stand unspoken tension, which is why he much prefers the company of his rowdy friends over adults who try and tiptoe around the point. Above all else, he despises pity. He won’t be made to face the pity of the people he’s being made to leave behind. Not his friends, not Aunt Taffy…

...and certainly not Olga, who is hovering behind the counter with her nose in a book, but makes tepid glances towards Crow whenever she thinks he’s not looking. It makes sense that the word would be out. Chief Jakes must be having a right old laugh at him now. One less rat in the gutter to him, and the thought puts a thunderous expression on his face when he gets up – far moodier than he has any right to be towards poor Olga.

She’s already recoiling, though still prim in the way she attempts to hide her entire body behind her glasses. “Crow, I—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you’ve heard. Don’t look at me like that, okay? I’m not Arianna,” he grouses, shoving his hands into his pockets. Then, because he remembers that he likes Olga, and that his anger is entirely misplaced, he flashes her a cool smile. “I’m not dyin’. I’ve just got some stuff to deal with. I’ll be back in no time.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but not by his lack of ability. The book she’s reading, a copy of a Virginia Woolf novel, is gingerly placed face-down onto the counter. Olga pushes her glasses up with her knuckle, and manages a shy returning smile.

“I know it’s not my place to say, but I do think the world outside of Misthallery could do with a bit of your wit,” she tells him encouragingly. “I thought the same about little Luke, too – it’s nice to hear from Arianna how well he’s doing. I think you’ll do just fine as well, but I do hope you’re not going too far away.”

Crow laughs, eyes trained on the marks in the herringbone floor as he scuffs it with the tip of his shoe. “Luke ain’t so little any more, I’ll tell you that. Nah, I...I appreciate it, Olga. It’s not like I couldn’t find my way around, I’m...I’m sure I could manage something. I just think it’s a bit unfair to drag me out of my home and ship me off somewhere across the country in the name of safety.”

“It is quite concerning,” Olga agrees with a furrowed brow. “Did they say where they were going to put you?”

“The closest home they said was in Southampton, so bugger that. I think the lady’s got it in her head that I’m gonna wind up at some sort of fancy grammar school. Can’t say I’m thrilled about it, but it’s not like anythin’ in this situation thrills me to begin with.”

“A grammar school?” Olga chirps brightly. “Well, that’ll be marvellous! That’s not an opportunity just any young boy can have. Why, if you could find a suitable placement, there are some excellent schools in London. You’ll learn so much – you might even get to sit some exams and get some qualifications! That’ll put you a notch above the rest!”

Wryly, Crow thinks he’s already many notches above the rest if he’s able to command the weight of a reputable business at his age, but he can’t deny that it’ll help. The world outside of his bubble is one that’s fuelled by pointless bureaucracy, something he can’t abide by, so if the needless paperwork will make that aspect of his life much easier, then it’s fair enough.

“Though, I do recall,” Olga adds quietly, “you never turned up even once to the lessons held here, nor did you sign up for the Eleven-Plus. I s’pose it’s a bit late now, but I hope that doesn’t dash your chances of finding a good school.”

Crow feels a bit guilty on that front, if only because Olga puts in a lot of work helping host these classes, and he’d hate to see it go to waste. That’s part of the reason he’d never discouraged his friends from attending, even if it did put them down a member for the better part of the day. Envisioning his life revolving around the ceaseless growth of his market, he’d never suspected that the lack of tests would put him at a disadvantage. Surely, that kind of intelligence is proven on the go, right?

“Well, the social worker they put me with said she’d organise a bunch of tests for me to sit. I guess some of those schools have entrance exams, so...maybe it doesn’t matter all too much.”

The sparkly look in Olga’s eye returns swiftly. “Oh, they’re doing that much for you? How wonderful. Take as many as you can! Then, if you get accepted for all of them, you’ll have a great selection to choose whatever you like!” She then breaks out into a wispy laugh. “Ha ha, this is reminding me of my days in university. I know moving can be very difficult, but starting fresh in a new place can be very fun, too. Knowing you, you’ll make friends in no time, I’m sure.”

He’s starting to hear that sentiment a lot, and the more he hears it, the less he believes it. From Olga, however, he receives it graciously.

“So, when will you be taking the tests? If you need a quiet place to do them, you’re more than welcome to sit them here,” she offers kindly, which only makes Crow feel even more despondent about missing Misthallery.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it in mind. From the sounds of it, that social worker’s tearin’ down rainforests to get it all together. Can’t fault her, she’s quick, alright. I imagine I’ll get to do them sometime in the next few days.”

After all, today, he’s got other business to attend to. He briefly wonders if his father knows where he’s going, and then promptly decides that he doesn’t care. He wouldn’t call this a blessing in disguise so much as a burden with a faint silver lining, but he’s got no time to sit on his backside and think about the man who put him in this godawful situation in the first place. At the very least, he thinks he’s made his decision about what to do with his things.

“Y’got a paper and pen I can borrow?”

Olga hands him a biro, and feels around for a scrap of notebook paper she can pass over the counter to him. He pulls it close, and hunches over it so nobody can see what’s being written. All that can be heard is faint scribbling, and Olga waits patiently for him to be done. He tosses the pen back over to her when he’s done, and neatly folds the paper into a little square. Then, to Olga’s surprise, he passes it back over the counter towards her with a pleading expression.

“Can’t do me a favour, can you, Olga? Give that to whoever comes past here first. It’ll probably be Gus or Tony.”

Olga nods soberly, and slips the piece of paper safely into her book, a gesture that exudes the utmost sincerity. He can hear the thudding of dull footsteps behind him, likely the chaperone having finished with his magazine and realising the time, and he bids Olga the quickest goodbye he can muster. It never sounds natural, so he settles for telling her he’ll be back.

His chaperone this time seems like the runt of the litter compared to the men who keep a keen eye on the hostel. He’s about as oafish as one could expect for a job that pays for brawn not brain, but he sounds remarkably less ape-like when he speaks.

“Mel’s wantin’ you to stop by yer house one last time for all yer belongings,” he tells Crow. “Don’t you worry none, yer dad’s not there at the moment. Just a quick in-and-out to get what you like.”

Crow would love nothing but to thickly bite back that he’s well aware of his own father’s idle routine, but takes pity on him, if only because he doesn’t want to cause a scene in front of Olga. Rather, he gives a cool shrug, as if being bothered by nothing but the bad weather.

“No need. Don’t need nothin’ from that place.”

The chaperone raises an inch-thick eyebrow. “Y’sure? Kid, we’re not gonna be comin’ back here. It’s now or never. I know it’s awful hard, but—”

“No, it isn’t. Really, I have nothing I need,” Crow insists before grinning with a nasty kind of self-deprecation. “C’mon, that can’t be surprising, can it? Picked up ‘cos of neglect, and you don’t believe I haven’t got a single thing worth the time it takes to walk all the way back there?”

“Alright, alright, if you’re sure,” the chaperone coughs awkwardly. “Just makin’ it clear. Plenty of kids refuse to go back out of spite then regret it later down the line. Can’t fault a man for doin’ his job.”

Crow has to admit, the guy is almost growing on him. The nod they share is amicable, and Crow silently notes to spare this guy in the chaos of his upcoming escape. Curious to hear, however, of children spitefully leaving their things behind. It might’ve cast some doubt on Crow’s decision had he not already secured the measures to take care of it.

And, truly, the less time spent in this town as a temporary visitor, the better. One day, not too far into the future, he’ll be back and he’ll be back for good.

The chaperone holds the door for him as they leave, oddly well-mannered for a man with stitches on his knuckles, and offers Crow the idea of a sandwich for lunch somewhere where they can both sit down. Though Crow glances derisively at the suggestion, he politely accepts, and wonders if he should’ve spent his time in the library revising for whatever tests will be thrown his way. Of course, he’s less keen on finding a reputable school, and more keen on finding a school with an unreliable lock on the back door.

The telephone at Barde Manor finally rings at around seven o’clock in the evening, causing Nabby to jump and hit his head on the underside of the table. Somewhere across the manor, something slips from Arianna’s hands and lands loudly on the floor. Tony’s shadow can be seen lingering at the top of the stairs.

Nabby grabs the receiver – awkwardly, as he doesn’t use these things all that often – and puts it to his ear. He doesn’t even get to say hello before the receiver is snatched out of his hands by a vulturous Arianna who skids across the carpet expertly.

“Hello? Crow, tell me that’s you!”

“Oh, you picked up. That’s...a relief.”

“Of course, I did! W-well,” she taps at Nabby with her foot, as if he’s supposed to get up for some reason, “we’ve all been waiting. Is everything okay?”

“About as okay as it can be, I s’pose. S’just a matter of seeing where I go. Sorry, I don’t...have a lot to tell you. To be honest, I called ‘cos this’ll probably be the last time I get to call you for a while.”

“I keep getting worried that I’ll miss the phone,” Arianna tells him, glum and restless. “You know the address to the manor though. Send us as many letters as you like! After all, we’ve got to find a way to get you back home again.”

“That’s...ha ha. That’s sweet of you. Don’t worry, I’m makin’ plans as we speak. Oh, though I did wonder, what are you lot doing about the market? I trust you to run it just fine without me for the time being, but…”

“Oh, that,” Arianna chirrups, winding a finger cheerfully around the telephone wire as if she could be talking to a neighbour. “Of course, we’re taking care of it! You have no need to worry! We did a vote earlier today to see who would take your place as the leader! O-only temporarily, mind you!”

“I figured Nabby wouldn’t do it. Alright, so who did you pick?”

“It seemed to be a bit of a split vote,” she tells him. “So, Wren and Marilyn are both working together as the, uh...boss. I hope that’s alright.”

“I can’t say it’s up to me right now, but I don’t think you could’ve chosen any better. Even Wren on her own would have this in hand, even if she thinks she’ll muck it up.”

Arianna breathes a sigh of relief. “Well, I’m glad you agree. We’ll all do our best here. You just...focus on finding a way back. Please, though, send us a letter or something. It’d be nice to know where you go – I hope they don’t put you on the other side of the country!”

“They won’t if I can help it. Oh, that...reminds me. Arianna, I want...I want you to be a bit careful from now on. Does Beth still come up to the manor?”

“Beth? Well, she’s busy at the moment helping clean up the mayoral household for Greppe. What with the little one, they’re practically paying her double to stick around. She does come up to see us once in a while though. What...am I supposed to be careful about, here?”

“It’s against the law not to have a legal guardian – sayin’ it out loud makes it sound pretty obvious. I got picked up ‘cos mine was as good as nothing, but you don’t have anyone, do you? So, watch out! It seems ‘cos of some new reforms that they’re crackin’ down hard on child welfare cases. You and Tony would be a top catch for them.”

“I feel like I read something about that in the paper,” Arianna replies dryly, glancing at Tony. “I suppose I can understand why. How difficult – I can’t say it’s nice living without a parent, but I couldn’t bear to leave here.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, but right now, I can’t be havin’ both of us snatched, so you stay where you are and keep it that way!”

“Beth would hate to lie on our behalf…”

“...But she’d probably hate to see you go even more. I can’t really help you out, but you should take another look at your father’s will. Get Louis to help you, he’s good with that gaff.”

“Oh, Crow,” Arianna whines. “After everything that’s happened, and now it’s all getting so complicated again. A-alright, I’ll do that. Thank you...for the warning. And don’t forget about the letters!”

“…”

“Crow?”

“I won’t forget. Thanks for stickin’ around and waitin’ for me. I promise I’ll see you soon.”

Arianna waits until the ring tone is buzzing in her ear before she sets the receiver down again. Nabby, still sitting on the floor, watches her silently. He’d gleaned most of the conversation just from this end, but he can’t say it was a huge amount of information to go on – and on top of that, the worry of meeting the same fate is now put on Arianna’s mind.

Before she can voice any concern, he tells her, “Don’t worry. Let’s get someone on that, the quicker the better. I’m sure your dad left some kind of plan for you. Did nobody say anything after he died?”

Arianna kneels next to him, slinking into a cross-legged position and staring hard at the dusty floor. “No. By the time it came to discussing the will, the spectre was doing so much damage across the town that it just went forgotten. The only thing the police really cared about was what Chief Jakes altered, and not much else. I didn’t even get to read it myself.”

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me. They didn’t even discuss it with you?!”

“No. The only matter they needed to settle was ownership of the house, which went to Mr Triton. All the issues with money sorted themselves, which I think my father planned for. I think because Tony was posing as Seamus, everyone thought Tony and I were still well-cared for.”

Nabby pulls a face like a lightbulb just went off in his head. He’s not much in the business of asking kids what goes on at home, but the Barde children are a particularly peculiar case. “That explains why nobody’s been askin’ about you. Do people think Seamus is still around, d’you reckon?”

“I...I’m not sure. I don’t see why not,” Arianna replies somewhat hopefully, but still anxious by the way she wrings her fingers. “Though Tony hasn’t been out as Seamus for a while now. If nobody thinks to ask, then surely that would mean we’re safe enough. After all, how is it that Crow was found out?”

“That’s...a good question. I don’t think he ever mentioned it.”

It spells more trouble for them if they don’t find out, Nabby decides. After all, the standard of child welfare will be whatever the social services decides, and if they’re out to get mean, somebody else might get swept up. Bitterly, he thinks they’ve picked some time to roll all this lark out, having left children to fend for themselves so often in recent past. Now, they’re just expected to let themselves get snatched up and carried away? That’s the sort of stuff they warn about in storybooks, isn’t it?

He’s never had the greatest trust for any national institution, arbitrary as their methodology often turns out to be. If the police are full of cons willing to bend and break every rule to get their way, who’s to say these people aren’t the same? Sure, they’ve certainly helped out a kid in need once in a while, but what’s to be said for the ones they displace with no support on the back?

He feels simultaneously too young and too old to have to figure this out on his own. Youthful in stride but withered in soul, as his mother might say, but even he feels spurred into action now. After all, Crow might be stranded where he is, but Arianna and Tony are still here.

Hopefully, things will stay that way.

Chapter Text

“Cor, it’s...well grotty in here.”

Badger peers up at the unevenly-bricked walls of Barde Manor’s external staircase, covered in thick quilts of moss and black grime. It comes inches off of the wall, and seems to smear whatever even so much breathes on it, as Socket has been here for all of five minutes and already has dirt on his cheeks. It’s remarkably tempting to just reach out and wipe it off since the lad can never seem to manage it himself.

“Ain’t half. Arianna said we can wash up in the manor if we need to though,” Socket grins. “Cheers for comin’ to help out. Nightmare getting the gardenin’ tools out of that shed though.”

Badger nods amiably, but his lack of expression stifles his confusion. Socket’s a pretty general handyman; from cars to appliances, there’s not much he can’t fix without the right tools. However, in such a thin, dank space, there’s barely enough room to walk around let alone store objects here.

“What exactly are you workin’ on?” Badger tilts his head, watching Socket pull his goggles over his eyes as he leans down to inspect a patch of mud on the floor. “Is it...is it even safe to be here? Wren’ll go spare if anythin’ happens to you.”

“That’s rich comin’ from you,” Socket teases jovially. “Runnin’ about on them roofs all day, and after breakin’ your leg that one time! Nah, this place will be alright. The bricks are huge and the cement’s pretty intact. We’ll be fine.”

Badger still doesn’t want to be held responsible if something goes wrong – or, more specifically, he doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of Wren’s wrath. Or Marilyn’s. Actually, now that they’re in charge, it adds an extra layer of jeopardy to things. Crow was strict about what needs to get done, but the girls are worse when it comes to having things done properly. He supposes it’s a good thing for the market...probably.

“So, what are you workin’ on? Does Arianna even use this place?” Badger kneels down to join him, wondering what’s so interesting about this patch of floor in particular that Socket feels the need to keep patting it.

“Well, it’s a bit of a secret, y’know,” Socket says with a hush before rummaging around his back pocket for a small, folded square of paper. It unfolds to be roughly the size of a newspaper, and it’s covered in thickly-smudged ink lines. Guess it hadn’t survived in transit – Socket squints at it with some frustration. “Oh, well, I think I can work with this. Here, y’ever been down a mineshaft before?”

Badger eyes him wildly, which goes unseen through the thick mop of hair over his face. “Um. Can’t say I have. I come from a mining family though.”

“Ooh, so it’s in your blood! That’s nifty.”

“Not the skill, but whatever granddad caught whilst he was down there probably did,” he replies with a quiet cough. “Hold on, ain’t this a bit much? We’re not actually mining, are we?”

“Nah,” Socket laughs, patting Badger’s shoulder with a kind of charisma Badger thinks he’s picked up from his work on building sites. “But it’ll be summat a bit like that. Listen, though, ‘cos this is a request from Arianna! So, you absolutely have to keep mum about this.”

He then pats a spot on the brickwork in front of him, and the excitement on his face just reads as deranged. Badger sighs, not because he knows what this entails, but because he’d agreed to come out today despite knowing it.

“Hope you’re not afraid to get a bit dirty.”

Melanie had politely taken up Olga’s offer of allowing Crow to sit his tests in the library – he sits at the table farthest from the entrance at a bracing 7 o’clock in the morning, teeth gently nipping at his scarf as he tries to rub the goosebumps from his arms. With the library closed for the day, and a stack of papers in front of him, he can already predict the next few hours to be deeply boring.

But, he’s never sat a test before, so he can’t help but feel a little excited.

Melanie had told him they would cover all manner of topics, from maths to history, and a little general knowledge on the side. She’d also muttered something about the need to submit a personal report alongside it, but said she’d take care of that herself. That just leaves him with a glorious amount of questions to sit and work through whilst Melanie sits opposite him with a coffee and some choice paperwork.

As she announces that he can start, and that she will monitor him to fulfil the test conditions, he idly notes that he’s never seen her eat anything before. Does she even need to eat, or does her work provide her with some kind of nutrient to keep her going? Coffee and paper don’t seem like the most balanced of diets.

He realises he’s not paying attention when Melanie stares rather intensely at him, having hoped he’d hop right to it. He flashes her an apologetic half-smile, and picks up his pen, but pauses to eye it suspiciously.

“Erm. Y’got a different pen I can use?” Crow whispers, even though there’s nobody else in the room to disturb. “Like a biro or something?”

Melanie shakes her head, eyes hidden behind the rim of her glasses as she looks up at him. “Sorry, but for these tests you must use a proper pen. No blue ink, and no pencil. Those are the rules.”

Some rules, he thinks, lips slowly upturning into a grimace. What a nightmare. He only ever uses pencils on his ledgers, and the odd biro if he’s here or at the grocers and needs to do a bit of quick maths. Having never practised with one, he finds fountain pens to be notoriously difficult to use. Somehow – and he doesn’t know how – he always winds up either blotting the paper, breaking the nib or engaging in some other pen-related catastrophe. What’s so wrong with using a pencil?

Melanie briefly looks concerned, but he doesn’t want to admit to her that he can’t use a fountain pen properly. He just flips the page and starts to read, fingers itching in anticipation. Let’s see here. Oh, brilliant, the very first thing he has to do is write his name. Okay, well, he can skip that one for now and look over some of the more challenging demands.

First question is, in his own words, a piece of piss.

It’s just a simple addition question using money. Perhaps a bit complicated to the mathematically-challenged of his age, but to him, it’s nothing. He calculates far greater sums than this in his head when he’s working, which is a fact that puts a smug grin on his face. That is, until he realises now he has to write his answer down.

He opens the pen cap like he’s handling a bomb, inspecting the shining nib as if it might be sharp enough to cut. Olga eyes him worriedly from the other side of the room, but is in no position to lend him any aid.

It’s alright. All he’s got to write down is 5/2. That’s it. Surely, he can get out three silly little symbols with this ridiculous pen. He grips it tightly and ever-so-slowly presses the nib to the paper where the answer is meant to be written.

…

Well, it looks like a five, if only a bit on the thick side. He got nervous and wrote the slash the wrong way – a mistake he’s literally never made before in his entire life – and the two is wobbly with a big splodge of ink on the end.

He’d say so far so good, but that might be jinxing it.

He methodically works through each question, and does his best to do as much calculation in his head as he can, but a few of the larger questions require him to show his working out. It’s dreaded, but he gives it a shot, and winds up with the side of his hand covered in ink, and a smear over the page that bears his fingerprints. When Melanie looks up and spies the black all over his hands, about halfway through the first test by this point, he grins sheepishly and holds the pen out.

“I think my pen is leaking.”

Melanie silently pulls a tissue from her purse, reaches out to take the pen, and swipes the tissue roughly over the handle. After a few contemplative seconds, she holds it out back out to him and says with an offensive amount of neutrality to her tone, “No, it isn’t.”

Crow hangs his head quietly, and vows not to look up at her for the rest of the day. He speeds through the rest of the questions on every test as quick as his cack-handed writing ability will let him. None of it is as hard as he’d feared, but there’s no telling what his score will be until the results get back to him. Regardless, by the end, he considers his finished papers with a look of pride, indifferent to the stains of ink over his hands and sleeves, and across the desk.

Rather sadly, however, a drop of ink has stained the edge of his beloved scarf, which he only notices as he’s taking it off for the bed later that night.

Truthfully, the worst part about Crow being gone is that...nothing’s really changed.

Sure, Wren’s one half of the leader now, and with that comes a lot of responsibility, but the change is deathly slow. Crow’s preparation doesn’t leave her in the shit when it comes to their work, and for that she’s thankful, but the lack of immediacy to everything hits harder than if the world as she knew it crumbled and reformed around her.

She’s munching on a deliciously shiny apple, perched on an empty produce crate round the back of Marilyn’s stand, waiting for her friend to return and sit with her a while. The sky is slowly growing dark, heralding the end to their first day in the lead, and honestly, it’s pretty underwhelming. Perhaps that’s a good thing, but her stomach churns like it’s slighted by the idea that she could be sitting here so idly.

Crow had phoned again, she heard. Arianna had relayed his last call with a frighteningly accurate diction, but she can’t bring herself to feel soothed by it. Not when his usual response come all the danger in the world is ‘I’ll be fine’. The cheek of it, after what he’d put her through last time. She’s got half a mind to track him down and drag him back by the scruff of his neck.

“You’re thinkin’ about Crow,” Marilyn whispers into her ear, having crept up without being heard.

Wren jumps in her seat, almost choking on a bit of apple. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, cursing her own transparency. “So what?” she bites. “Everyone is. You are too, right?”

Marilyn laughs humourlessly, having found herself a large, ripe orange to dig into. “I s’pose so. It’s hard not to. He was the one who got us all together, and he left such a huge role to fill...”

“Don’t say that like he’s never comin’ back! D’you know how hard it is to pretend to be him? I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do when it comes to the auctions. Cripes, I hope people don’t notice...”

A sweet, citrus smell begins to drift between them as Marilyn starts to tear thick scraps of peel from the fruit. It’s a little hard with her shaking fingers. She’s been trembling all day. “I-I’m sure it’ll be alright. I’ve seen you practisin’ down by the canal!”

Wren blanches. “Y...you have? Ugh, Mari! Don’t just stand around and watch me like that, it’s embarrassin’! Oh, no. Really, though, what am I gonna do?” The core of Wren’s apple gets tossed into the grass as she buries her face in her hands. She’d held it together so well up until now – or, at least she thought so.

Marilyn, eyeing her from the side, tries not to frown. They’ve only just started, they can’t be getting discouraged now! Even though Crow is gone, the auctions need to be held, the stock needs to be checked, refurbished, priced, cleaned, stored, flogged, replaced…

And so the cycle continues, but now with extra paperwork. How the hell did Crow manage so well? They’ve been planning the clean split of chores between the two of them, but she doesn’t want to see Wren collapse. Marilyn shoves a thick slice of orange into her mouth, and gives Wren a pat with a juice-stained hand.

“The more I think about it,” Wren moans, “the more I realise that it’s...less that I can’t do it, and more that Crow is a complete lunatic for being able to do it in the first place.”

“At least it’s just not us. We have the whole group to help! Crow only knows what to do because he’s spent years doing it!” Marilyn’s voice grows brighter as she speaks, then beaming, “Come on, we’ve only just started. If anyone could lead us, it’s you. Weren’t we just talkin’ about making this place bigger and better a little while ago?”

Wren smiles dryly, and murmurs, “Yeah, when it was still an idea for the future. Bit different now that it’s all...dumped in our laps. Don’t mean I’m not gonna try though.”

She has to admit, the idea of this being the start of what they’d both discussed as a dream is heartening. Where else could they start? The circumstances are grim, but the market need not suffer for it! And who knows, maybe this is a good way for her to show off to Crow if he comes back.

When. When he comes back, not if. She keeps having to correct herself on that one.

“I don’t plan to leave the market, but...I keep thinkin’ about what it would be like to do what the professor does. Solvin’ mysteries an’ all that lark,” Wren says dreamily, face now squished between her hands, where her words come out muffled. “Not like we can do that in the market. Not unless we’re solvin’ who’s havin’ an affair with the milkman.”

“You seem to be right fond of him as of late,” Marilyn comments somewhat warily. “The professor, I mean.”

“I-I do…? Oh, erm. Well, it’s...you know, he’s awfully nice, ain’t he?” Wren begins to fidget. “And even though he ain’t here, I keep thinkin’ how nice it could be to be a bit like him. How lucky is Luke? Can’t imagine how hard it would be to become the apprentice of a man like that.”

“But it was you who said that we should work together to make our market the best it can be.”

She really doesn’t mean for that to sound like such a jab, and Wren can sense that, and stifles the uncertain crease of her brow. Marilyn tosses the juice-stained orange peel out into the grass where the birds and bugs can get to it.

“Oh, shush. I can do both!” Wren finally settles on saying. “You’ve changed your tune an’ all! You were so mopey before about stickin’ around and workin’ the stall.”

“Well, y-yeah, but that was--!”

Wren is already dismissing her with a wave of her hand. “S’alright. We’re holdin’ on till Crow gets back, right? We can do that much. I...I think.”

Marilyn watches her for a few seconds. She’s turned into a very odd mixture of confident and fearful, and it comes in alternating ripples. It’s much easier to talk about these things as a possibility compared to when you’re really faced with it – Marilyn sets a hand on Wren’s shoulder and gives it a loving shake.

“If y’can do both, then I’ll be well impressed. Just...don’t up and vanish to London like Luke did, okay?”

Wren pulls a face like she’s taking it as a challenge, but sombrely nods. There’s nothing she can say to make her feelings any less complicated – to both Marilyn and herself – but the conversation is deemed over when the dull thumping of footsteps comes trudging through the damp grass. The shadow backlit by the light coming off of the plaza across the canal is large, and Hans’ face soon ebbs into view. Marilyn instinctively jumps off of the crate, but has no need to do anything. She busies herself with kicking her orange peel towards the thicker patches of greenery.

All Hans can say to Wren’s solemn face is, “Wow.”

Wren shimmies on her backside to face him, hands pressed into her lap as she idly kicks her legs. “So, you heard, did you? About Crow…”

“Just about everyone has,” he says with raised brows. “Some luck that is, and right after you got out of that last scrape.”

“Oh, stop it. I don’t need to hear that now,” she pouts. “And I hope you’re not here to gloat. Just ‘cos Crow ain’t here to thump you don’t mean I won’t!”

He raises his hands defensively, but doesn’t look worried. “Oi, calm down, I’m not here for that. Jeez. To be honest, I...well, I wondered what you were gonna do. What with the, uh...market.”

Wren eyes him carefully before pulling herself to her feet. She plants her hands on her hips and informs him haughtily, “Actually, I got put in charge. Marilyn, too. The market’s not shuttin’ down just ‘cos Crow’s gone AWOL. He’ll be back soon, too, mark my words!”

“Hmph.” Hans’ cheeks bulge around his bubblegum as he speaks. “S’pose that’s for the best. If he disappears and the market collapses, everyone an’ their mum will figure out he had somethin’ to do with it.”

Wren’s bravado disappears quite quickly at the mention of Crow, which puts her back into a reclusive demeanour. “Yeah, we figured that. S’awful, innit? We don’t know what we’re gonna do to get him back. W-we’ll manage it though! I’m sure we will.”

Hans just shrugs. “Not much I can do to help you. Social services only work with the police to bang up the scum who can’t look after their kids right. Speakin’ of, I wonder how his dad is getting on. Not heard anything about him. Wonder if he’s disappeared.”

“So, the police know about it. Did...did anyone make a report to you? About him? I-I mean, people report the police for this sort of thing, right? A-and then you go and inform the other authorities.”

Hans pauses to scratch his chin before murmuring, “Actually, no. No report. Trust me, I had a look for that one. Can’t say I like the guy, but I was pretty surprised to hear they nabbed him like that. Nope. Seems the services got their own info from somewhere else. Even had Greppe talkin’ about it.”

“Greppe?”

“Sure. Overheard him outside the pub. Said he knew Crow’s dad was a piece, but didn’t know how much. Was all surprised ‘cos them social services reports land on his desk days before they do anything about it, but he got nothing.”

Wren swallows anxiously. “So, what does that mean?”

“Uh. I s’pose it means the report wasn’t filed here in Misthallery. Sounds like wherever they got the idea from, it came from outside of town. Say, didn’t you lot go off to London recently?”

Wren chews her lip. She didn’t, but Crow definitely did. She can’t imagine Crow would admit anything of that sort to Professor Layton, nor does she think the professor would make such a wild judgement with only a hint of contextual information to extrapolate on – but, seeing as she wasn’t there, she can’t even begin to speculate. That is, until Marilyn butts in.

“It might be the trip he took with the professor,” Marilyn mumbles quietly from behind them. “He got his botched eye seen to. I saw it back then, too. All red and awful lookin’, but now it seems like it’s botherin’ him less.”

“Ah, that’ll explain it,” Hans huffs with a bit more pride than is appropriate for the circumstances. “Once folks at the hospital get a whiff of the idea that you’re getting beaten, they won’t let it go. Cor, that’s some luck. Always knew he was hidin’ something there.”

Wren tries not to let the misery show on her face. He’d not even told her about that, but it seems like everyone else knows already. She’d never risked asking him what the problem had been, but had always suspected deep down. After all the time it took for him to take the plunge to get it fixed, it’s put him even deeper in it. Reasonably, there’s nothing she could’ve done to prevent this, and yet she can’t help wondering if perhaps…

She shakes her head roughly, hoping that Hans won’t prod her on why her face looks so sad and ashen, but she catches his eye at the very last second. He says nothing, but it’s not like he needs to.

Chapter Text

“Are you absolutely sure? I-I know you said that you didn’t wish to collect anything more from your house, but…”

Melanie hovers over Crow like a fly that he just can’t seem to bat away. A few mornings after he’d filled out the gauntlet of tests, Melanie had flown into his room in the little hostel with an armload of papers and the unrestrained fizz of energy on her face. He’d barely managed to get his scarf around his neck before he’d been dragged out with a cup of tea pushed into his hands. Currently, she’s laying all the papers out on the table around them, prodding him with questions of readiness. Judging by all the excitement, it seems like he’s finally about to go somewhere.

“I already said,” he grumbles moodily into his tea, “I don’t need anythin’ from that house.”

“So I’ve been told,” Melanie murmurs, adjusting her glasses, “but I just wanted to make sure. After all, I’ve had all of your exam results back! I’m sure you must be very excited. We’re very fortunate that it was such a quick affair.”

Excited is a very strong word, but Melanie looks so over the moon that Crow can’t bring himself to express disdain. It’s almost like she’s happier for him than he is for himself. He takes a sip of his tea, pulling a face about the lack of sugar, and watches her expectantly in the hopes she’ll enlighten him.

“I must say, I’m really quite pleased,” she titters. “I had high hopes for you – that nice young lady from the library seemed to feel the same as well – and it looks like you’ve done spectacularly. On your answers, that is.”

He raises a thin brow. What is it exactly that he’s not doing so spectacularly at…? The question clearly passes over his face, but when he opens his mouth to ask, he realises the answer. He’s nodding long before Melanie starts explaining it to him.

“Your, um...unique handwriting is a bit-- well, there was one school that found it hard to, erm...ignore. I wouldn’t worry about that though, that school is an incredibly reputable academy with an enormous entry fee. Of course, that would’ve been covered for you had you been accepted, but even with the financial aid, acceptance is tricky if you’re not...quite…”

He’s far from a posh London socialite. He doesn’t need her to tell him that.

“Other than that,” she continues, “your tests were very well-received! You got very high marks all across the board, and it seems a number of boys schools are willing to have you. There’s a nice one in Whitechapel that I’ve heard good things about. Oh, and this one—”

As she’s pulling a pamphlet out from her folder, Crow cuts her off by plainly asking, “Which one is closest to Gressenheller University?”

“G...Gressenheller? My,” she coos, “you certainly are thinking ahead. Well, if you really want to attend the school closest to the university, that would be...Brackenridge! Just on the edge of Battersea. Here, I’m sure I had a leaflet for it somewhere. Ah, there you go.”

She fumbles around for a moment before forking over a thin, yellowed leaflet folded into thirds, the front third of which is illustrated with what he assumes to be the school building itself. He can’t force any amount of joy in reading it, but he does give the front cover a curious skim. Best to keep the address in mind. He’ll need it if he wants to send letters to Arianna.

“Actually, I think this place will be quite ideal for you. I’m...aware that the boys in a lot of these big London schools might find you to be...different,” she begins to stammer, dancing a little too carelessly around the point she’s trying to make for Crow’s liking. She can just come out and say he’s a pleb and they’re a bunch of toffs. It’s hardly the world’s most controversial statement.

“I see,” is all he says.

“B-but, this place will be a little more familiar to you, I hope. The boys there I think will have more in common with you. Most of them are local children as well, so you might learn a little about where you’ll be living. You’ve been to London before, haven’t you?”

“Erm. Yeah. Once.”

Melanie begins to sweep up the remaining papers, and the smile on her face is frankly silly as she says, “Good. Won’t be too much of a culture shock to you. You know, despite being within driving distance of London, I must say, I was rather surprised by Misthallery. It’s so peaceful here, you’d think we were thousands of miles from the nearest city!”

“Well, we are technically in the country.” Though only barely.

“Rather a well-kept secret, this place, don’t you think?”

Crow sets his teacup down, and for once, he feels he’s looking at Melanie with a bit of fondness as opposed to the usual glower he’s keen on subjecting her to. It’s always talk about the town that gets him in a good mood.

“Not as much as you’d think,” Crow replies with a small smile, which grows as he continues to talk. “We actually get a lot of tourists here, but mostly up in the north of town. All this fresh air and no cars means people love comin’ here to get away from it all. What’s nice is that it’s the perfect place to keep the rabble out! Most folk, especially those with kids, much prefer headin’ out eastwards towards the seaside, but the quieter lot often end up here instead. Means we usually get the best of the tourists, and all throughout the year rather than just at the summertime.”

Melanie blinks with wide-eyed surprise at the sudden speech, but her eyes shine with interest. She waits until he stops talking before she quietly sets her folder down. She’s got an odd kind of smile that wrinkles her thin nose, but it doesn’t age her.

“I see,” she says kindly. “You know, I had no idea. For a tourist destination, I would imagine this place to be heaving, but perhaps not.”

“Nah. The weather drives people away. Most people only ever want to leave their houses to go and see the sun. I reckon that’s a bit superficial. That’s how we only ever really get the tourists that like the town. Most of ‘em are pretty wealthy as well.”

“You seem to know a great deal about Misthallery.”

Crow’s face falls bit by bit. His brows drop, his eyes grow glassy, and his lips very gradually droop into their neutral downturn. It gives him a perpetual look of displeasure. A face he’s never quite been able to shake.

“Of course, I do,” he replies quietly. “It’s...it’s my home. I know everything about Misthallery. I know everyone in Misthallery. Th...there ain’t a thing I don’t know about this place.”

And that’s true – to such an extent he can’t begin to explain it to her. There really isn’t a thing he doesn’t know about this gorgeous little town. He knows the people and the places. He knows the fish and the fruit. He knows the waterways, and the underground tunnelling routes from years of wading through boredom and water. He knows the forests and hills, having hiked up every one on lonely days with nothing to do. He knows the price of every one of Bucky’s routes up the canals. He knows the cost of every sweetie from Aunt Taffy’s cart. He knows the esteemed Barde children, living in the historic, picturesque manor on the hill. He knows the Golden Garden, one of the town’s most mythical secrets, kept under wraps even now from the public and the press.

And, most of all, he knows Misthallery’s greatest mystery, which is him.

Now, despite everything he’s learnt, he’s leaving.

…

His tea spends the rest of the morning growing cold, with his equally cold face reflected upon the surface. Melanie’s rambling doesn’t register, even when she’s chattering on the phone in order to finalise the preparations. Talk of uniforms and dormitories – it all goes over his head. It’s only when the very faint sound of droplets hitting the liquid in his teacup catches her ear does she pause, and finally notice him.

It’s mistier than ever. So misty that the sun has no hope of shining through, leaving Misthallery bathed in a dim, lifeless light. The cold front is finally beginning to roll in, signalling the bitter approach of winter as it mingles with the warm colours of autumn. Soon, the leaves will disappear for good, disintegrated underfoot, ready to be replaced by snow.

Much like everything else she learns, it’s overheard in passing at the market. An innocent comment, spoken like it doesn’t really matter, but it has her bubbling with anxiety. She abandons her post without a word, knowing it was going to happen, but ignorant to how soon that would be. The bridge creaks under her weight, and her legs carry her speedily down the road. There’s barely time to breathe, and she gets about as far as the hill that brings the street down towards the bridge to town.

She never was very good at running. She slips on an uneven cobblestone, and tumbles over. A skinned knee is no real worry, but it’s been a very long time since she had one. With one hand pressed over the bleeding, she scans the outline of trees, breaching the mist only barely, but spies nothing. All her glasses can allow her to see is the thick tyre tracks pushed into the mud, where the damp weather has rendered it soft. That, and the flicker of green in her periphery.

“Taff?”

Taffy grumbles under her breath, planting a hand beneath her in the hopes of getting herself upright. The basket she’d been carrying is somewhere on the floor, with its sweet contents strewn across the path. Vernon, leaning over her with concern, puts an arm around her to try and help, only for her to swat at him insistently.

“Well, that’s one way to know you’re alright,” he says gruffly, pocketing a hand, but holding the other one out in case she decides to take it. “You’re too old to be having falls like that. Anything broken?”

She gives up trying to get to her feet, and decides to take a moment to get her breath back instead, pulling herself around until she’s sitting primly with her legs folded beneath her. The skinned knee smarts, but to her, it’s just another stocking that’ll need darning tomorrow.

“Only the candy canes,” she replies blithely, not sparing him a glance.

“What in the world were you doing? Your house is the other way, you silly old bird. Dementia finally getting to you, is it?” Vernon tugs up the ankles of his trousers, and manages to take an awkward seat next to his sister. They’re far too long in the tooth to be sitting around on the pavement like this, but it is rather nostalgic, he finds, when he follows her gaze out to the endless sprawl of treetops surrounding them. The glorious colour of green.

“Oh, be quiet,” she snaps, but not nearly as harshly as he’s used to. Lips pursed into a stony frown, she pointedly looks in the other direction, where only a flicker of her profile becomes visible to him. He inspects it for all its worth. He can’t say he’s ever been any good at it – he couldn’t hold a candle to Taffy’s astute observational skills – but he likes to think he knows enough about her to make good judgement. That is, until he misses the mark and gets swatted over the head with an umbrella.

“What’s wrong, then?”

She doesn’t reply. In his mind, there’s only three things she cares about. First comes her finely honed art of making confectionery. Second comes the darling little children of this town, who she serves with a sweetness she doesn’t bother to reserve for adults. Third is, he hopes, him and his brother, but he can never be too sure.

With that in mind, there’s only one conclusion he can draw. It’s hardly a puzzle.

“It’s Crow, isn’t it? You’re worried about that poor boy.”

She sags immediately, head hanging so low that her glasses almost slip from the bridge of her nose. He must say, it’s really quite unnerving to see his boisterous, dear sister looking so blue, but he can’t blame her. He’s heard things here and there about the boy’s circumstances, all of which are deeply unpleasant. Knowing her, she’s probably had it on her mind for a very long time, but offered her support from a distance, hoping not to disrupt a very volatile situation.

“I think I missed him,” she says lowly, folding her hands in her lap. “I haven’t caught sight of the boy all week, and he certainly never came back to me for his usual sweets. Then, all of a sudden, I hear that he’s leaving today. Just like that.”

If there’s one thing he’s learnt to do well, it’s keeping his mouth shut and listening. He does so kindly, and observes the delightful smattering of trees that have refused to give into the autumnal colours of the season. Winter will certainly be bleak.

“Just once, I wanted to catch him before he went. I-I don’t know what else to do. The poor mite is being ripped from his very home.”

“Yes, but his home was hardly a home, was it? I’ve only ever seen the state of that house from the outside, but it was positively—”

“I mean Misthallery, you idiot. His home was never in that awful, bloody hovel – it was in the town with us! With his friends! You should see their poor faces, you’ve never seen children so sad. None of them have come to buy from me. Gus only managed a few lollies, and all the while he was on the verge of tears!”

“I know that. I know that, Taff. Really, I do,” he sighs. “But that house was what he went back home to every night, and that’s the kicker. You can hardly complain that the twits down in London are finally doing their jobs right.”

She scoffs, scornfully gritting out, “I bally well can. Oh, Vern, he’d worked so hard here, and for what? I-I know I should’ve tried a bit harder, but...lord, what could I have done? I tried asking about him at the council, but they wouldn’t tell me a thing. Surely, there must’ve been something here in Misthallery for him!”

Vernon thinks about it for a moment, finger idly strumming the bristles of his beard, before he sets a reassuring hand on Taffy’s shoulder.

“You know, there still might be.”

“I think it’s awfully nice that they were ready to take you in so quickly. Now that it’s September, it’s the start of the school year, so I imagine they’re not too keen for you to miss your first days. Of course, we’re...what, a few days in by now? But I’m sure that’s alright.”

This is the second time in his entire life that Crow has been in a car, but he doesn’t say so. The first time had been the professor’s – what Luke had warningly dubbed the ‘Layton-mobile’ – and the reason for the journey had been equally sober.

“Your uniform is all sorted as well, but I realise you’ve only got the one set of clothes. I should be able to get you some more soon.”

The sky is dim, not quite dark, but it feels infinitely darker within the confines of this little car, sporting a shoddy, black leather interior. The domesticated ape from the library is driving, and thankfully he’s doing it far more competently than the professor. Crow can’t profess to know much about driving, but he’s sure you shouldn’t be skimming the kerb on every turn.

“We’ll get you there tonight, and tomorrow they’ll show you around the building, give you a bit of an induction – they might even assign you a friend! Oh, and all the things you’ll need for school we’ll supply in the coming week. For now, you might just have to ask your neighbour if you can borrow a pencil, heh heh.”

“S’an awful lot of money you’re wastin’ on one kid.”

Melanie looks over at Crow for the first time since they set off. His face is gloomy, shadowed by the brim of his hat, and seeing as the bottom of the window stops at his eyeline, the light from outside can only manage to cast a ray over the top of his head. Somehow, for a relatively tall kid, he looks very small.

“What makes you think it’s a waste?”

The car rumbles as it’s heft over a speed-bump, and the bounciness of the suspension throws Crow’s fringe further over his face. He spends a moment brushing it back to normal before answering.

“You’re spendin’ how much on getting me kitted up for a new school? And when you could’ve just thrown me into a foster home and had done with me. S’not like you put the effort in with all the kids that came before me.”

Melanie’s face grows still, and Crow wonders how many times she has to hear questions like this from the children she works with. Her hands sit neatly in her lap, laid over a new folder, thinner than the last dozen, with paperwork now solely dedicated to his schooling.

“I daresay there are some social workers out there that might do that,” she tells him honestly. “But I didn’t apply to this job to sift through neglected children like newspaper. Had you not passed any of these exams, your choices would certainly become more limited, but I would still let you choose where it is you wish to go.”

Crow scoffs cynically. “S’pose you need to weed out the smart ones if you want more social workers in the future.”

“This might come as a surprise to you, Crow, but despite the reforms, I often get reprimanded for wasting time on the job. Of course, wasting time to them is, to me, doing my job properly,” she tells him firmly. “Trust me, they do not make it easy, but I’m quite determined. You are a very bright young man, and nothing would make me happier than finding a place perfect for you – or one that is as close as we can get. That’s...why I think it’s very much worth the money.”

Crow doesn’t look convinced, but over the course of about a minute, his glare grows into intrigue, and finally innocent curiosity.

“Is...this normal?”

“Is what normal?”

“Spendin’ money on kids. The government, I mean.”

Melanie throws up a brow, but not with any condescension. “Why, yes. Your father, for one, was receiving Family Allowance on top of his unemployment benefits – that would’ve been eight shillings a week. That allowance is per child and for the support of families.”

Crow shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, muttering, “Well, I knew that, but it’s not like it actually gets spent on us, right?”

This draws a very alarmed look from Melanie, which she hurries to stifle in the presence of Crow, but he can already sense what she’s going to say next. Maybe that one had slipped him by. Perhaps the pessimism that’s grown from his home life isn’t quite the reflection of common decency he’d thought it was.

“I think you’ll find, in most cases, the money is spent appropriately,” Melanie tells him, and with a disgustingly glum air about her. Don’t social workers stop feeling sorry for the children after three cases? She doesn’t have to keep up this abhorrent display of sympathy. Crow’s expression of interest fades back into a dour stare.

“There’s probably more to it than that,” is all he can bring himself to say.

Melanie opens her mouth to say something, but doesn’t seem to be able to decide on what to start with. After a few moments of stammering, she asks, “Do you read the newspaper at all? There’s been a lot of movement recently about the state of child welfare. Though, I suppose it must be quite boring to a boy of your ag—”

“The newsagent stopped lettin’ me read the papers ‘cos I kept getting angry about Vietnam.”

…

“I see.”

The car rolls off of the motorway, and down into a forested area that shields the suburbs of east London from the desolate stretch of concrete. It rumbles over a badly damaged bit of road, jostling its two passengers, but Crow is too busy staring out of the window to really notice. London seems just as grey as Misthallery, but with less mist to cover it all up.

Hard to believe he’ll be able to say he’s living here. Hard to believe by the end of the night he’ll be tucked up in a bed in his new school. A school he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future – or at least until he can find a way to escape. He can’t see how it solves the problem of an absent guardian, but it does prompt a question.

“Erm. Kids normally spend their summers at home, don’t they? What...what am I gonna do? Where am I go if I can’t stay here?”

Melanie pulls out a black, leather wallet from her handbag, and sifts through its contents before producing a small piece of card that she holds up for Crow to take.

“That reminds me, I forgot to give you this. That’s my telephone number and the address for the home my office is located in – it’s not terribly far from here. It’s just in case you need to contact me. As for the holidays, we’ll have to sort that out closer to the time. Most school holidays you can spend in the school with the faculty who live there, or, if you like, you can spend it with a friend providing they fill out the paperwork. I’m not sure if this school holds students over the summer for other activities, but that’s also an option.”

How dreary. It’s like a prison. However, the option of spending it with a friend does put a bit of a sparkle in his eyes. He won’t return to Misthallery until he’s there to stay, just as he’d promised, but perhaps Luke might not mind a bit of company over the holiday period if he’s not busy. Come to think of it, he’s overdue for a chat with the professor as well. Guess that’s another round of letters he’ll be committed to writing.

All of his energy he’d hope to funnel into escaping this place seems to have disappeared. He’s not even arrived yet, and the fatigue is eating away at him in a way he’s never felt before. He’s gone hungry, he’s gone sleepless, but never has he felt so utterly exhausted. The last image of Misthallery through the back windscreen is still burnt into his retinas, and he worries that if he blinks, he’ll lose that sight forever.

He can’t even cry about it. He just allows his head to loll back against the ageing leather headrest, and the soothing reverberation of the car engine puts him into a trance-like state of serenity.

Chapter Text

Crow doesn’t remember getting into bed last night.

He must’ve moved on his own because it’s quite a way from the road outside to the courtyard which this building is hiding in. He remembers nothing of taking his scarf off, of climbing into the sheets, or of his head hitting the pillow. However, when he wakes up, the comfort and stability of the bed compared to his usual nest immediately puts him on edge. He recognises before he’s even opened his eyes that he’s somewhere new.

It’s a small room on ground floor level, but it’s hardly comfortable. It’s like a poky little church vestry, black wooden beams overhead sapping what little light can bore through the dull green bush blocking the only window. The chattering of cars is very distant, coming through a faint crack where the window has been jammed open, and Crow stares at it blearily for a while. No wonder it’s so cold in here.

He makes short work of getting himself ready, but throws a cautious gaze towards the door every moment he gets. He’d joked about the place feeling like a prison, but this is ridiculous. The room is tiny, and the only thing aside from a bed in here is a low table and a pot which he reckons is for peeing in, but doesn’t want to assume. He supposes it’s better than having to pee outside all the time.

After tossing his scarf over his shoulder, still blemished with a spot of ink from his exams, he makes it about halfway to opening the window with the idea that he could climb out before the door behind him opens. It clatters loudly against the wall, foreboding in its echo, and Crow flinches, shutting the window as quickly as he’d tried to open it.

It’s not Melanie this time, which he’d sort of been hoping for. Instead, it’s a man who looks on the younger end of the spectrum of middle age, with faint wisps of gingery hair, and a rather liberal-looking attempt at a beard. He seems to present himself as relatable kind of man, casual in his clothes, which has Crow edging away from him already. This feels like a trap.

“Ah, hello,” he says jovially, albeit with an unmistakable touch of anxiety to his overeager posture. “It’s Crow, isn’t it? Good morning! I’d heard last night you were so tired you simply rolled into bed without a word. Was the drive here bad?”

He’s trying, but Crow can’t decide if that’s worse than not trying at all. His face remains plaintive and suspicious, and he perches himself awkwardly on the end of the bed. He doesn’t break eye contact for a second. Much like Melanie, the man seems a little flustered by the lack of manners, but ultimately far more used to tackling this behaviour. He dismisses himself with a wave.

“Well, that doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’m a part of pastoral support here at the school, so you and I will likely be seeing a lot of each other as you’re settling in for your first year. Very exciting, isn’t it? Must be a little bit scary, too.”

Crow can’t quite bring himself to respond. It’s too much cheer for such a bleak time in his life, but the sliver of blue sky that catches his eye through the window puts him in an odd mood. He doesn’t get to see the sky like that all too often in the near-permanently overcast Misthallery. It’s almost pleasant.

The man steps back a bit, observing Crow with kind, patient eyes. After a moment, he tugs at the neck of his thick, knitted jumper, and says, “I understand. It’s all very new and uncomfortable. Well, I’m here to take on you a quick tour of the school, if that would put you more at ease? Getting a feel for where things are will help you settle down.”

Crow figures it’s a start, and he silently nods. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected himself to clam up like this, but there’s something about being trapped in such a foreign place that has him at a total loss for words. He fusses with the fabric of his scarf anxiously, and his steps are tentative. The door is held open as he leaves, and Crow shuffles into an outdoors corridor that’s sheltered from above, but flashes the yellowed grass of an empty courtyard opposite. It’s so...light. No mist, no rain, no nothing. Just peaceful, temperate autumn weather.

Glancing to his right, the corridor stops short against solid brick, which leads into what looks like a stuffy little office – he assumes the formal exit is somewhere in that direction, but he can’t imagine he’ll be allowed to waltz right past. Instead, he’s forced to trudge behind the chipper step of a man who finally introduces himself to Crow.

“You can just call me Mr B, by the way! I’m no good at all the formalities, ha ha.”

Crow nastily decides that that’s something they share, seeing as he doesn’t plan to stick around long enough to learn any names. To him, this man, and every other teacher for that matter, will simply be ‘sir’ or ‘miss’. He’s only partially listening as the guy begins to rattle off various bits of information, until the clap of his large hands stuns him into attention.

“Alrighty! Where to begin? Welcome to our school, first of all – you know, I heard your test scores for the entrance exam were fantastic! A near perfect score! Just...just a few points deducted here and there for...was it forgetting to write your name on the test?”

Crow flushes bright red. Ah. He’d forgotten about that.

Mr B laughs softly. “Ah, it’s alright. Happens to the best of us, but you still managed to get in, so good on you! Now, uh, this,” he pauses to gesture to the open courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by brick buildings, “this is where most of the staff live and work. My office is through that door over there. To be honest, there’s not much reason for you to be here unless you’ve been summoned by a teacher. Hopefully, we’ll keep that to a minimum.”

He jokes, but Crow is willing to make that a challenge.

On the far side of the courtyard, a perfect diagonal opposite to the room Crow had been sleeping in, is a green, wooden gate that opens with an iron latch, held open for him once more to walk through. The grass stops abruptly, shifting into a sea of stones that crunch uncomfortably under his shoes. This portion of the campus is much bigger, but the walls that cordon the area off from the bustle of surrounding London are undeniably more overbearing here – a horizon of pure concrete.

The schoolhouse towers over all – a large square building with old fashioned windowsills and frames. It stands out brazenly against the bright blue sky behind it, and though it’s a grey, uninspired-looking building, it’s not unpleasant to look at. On the other side of the walled rectangle that makes up the school grounds are four smaller buildings laid in quadrants. The roofs are nicely tiled, though positively ancient, and shrouded by more greenery than he’d been expecting. Rows of neatly trimmed hedges rope off what he thinks might be the dormitories. When Mr B catches him staring, his suspicions are confirmed.

“Ah, those are the boarding houses. That’s where you’ll be sleeping! Not bad, are they? Now, they don’t go by age, they go by house, so you’ll be mixed up with boys from all years.”

Crow winces. It’s starting to seem more and more like the contents of an Enid Blyton book, and he can only wonder with disgust what the posher schools must look like. This place is pretty small – Melanie had been right about that – and though he doesn’t want to be here, the size of the campus is welcoming. It’s cosy enough, and that’s bearable, but he’s disappointed by the lack of ways he’s seeing to scale the almighty school walls. No windows near enough to make the leap either. He’s going to have to be more sneaky about things.

“And that big building over there is, I’m sure you’ve already guessed, the main schoolhouse. You can’t see it from here, but the building extends a bit further back, and that’s where you’ve got your woodworking sheds and gym fields. All your lessons will happen roughly,” he gestures with cupped hands, “in this part of the school grounds, so there won’t be a huge amount of walking all over the place.”

That’s a shame, Crow thinks. He rather likes walking.

“And uh, as for your lessons, well, we’ll—”

“Barker! There you are.”

The poor guy’s explanation is blasted out of the air by a loud and horribly sudden voice calling his name, very much as if he were the student in this scenario. Barker, as Crow comes to know now, jumps almost a foot in the air, and goes very pale in the face of a teacher who strides across the grounds towards them at the pace of an Olympic sprinter. Crow would never admit to cowering in the face of an adult – there isn’t a grown-up alive who could strike fear into him – but he does take one cautious step behind a man who has been respectfully upgraded from passing nuisance to human shield.

This teacher draws immediate hostility, and that’s because Crow can tell on a fundamental levelthey will never get on. He’s about six-foot with a face as appealing as cement – a thick, bent nose and deeply furrowed grey brows that sit over his eyes like caterpillars – and he towers over poor Barker like he’s about to beat the man with his own bare hands. As per the fantasy of a real school, Crow enjoys the sting of novelty of seeing the teacher dressed in very formal teaching wear. It’s not something he can imagine seeing Professor Layton marching around in.

“Ah,” Barker stutters, unsure of what to do with his hands. He winds up shoving them under his armpits in an informal, folded posture that is far too stiff to be confident. The teacher, who Crow thinks could blend into the impassable walls around them, doesn’t look happy in the slightest, and he looks even less so when he spies Crow.

He’s...he’s not scared. He’d never be scared of an adult! He wasn’t even scared of his own father, and that man was a cruel and atrocious human being. What can this guy do that he hasn’t already experienced?

Crow swallows, but it won’t go down. He takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders, bracing himself for impact.

The teacher clicks his tongue, and even that alone is deafeningly loud. “This the new boy? The one who neglected to write his name on his own test paper?”

Oh, so he’s going to be known for that, is he? Brilliant.

“A-ah, yeah. Yes. Sir. This is Crow. He’s a very intelligent young man, and he’s been brought here by the—”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite aware of his enrolment,” the teacher cuts him off gruffly, leaning in to peer at Crow’s face. Just when Crow thinks the man can’t frown any more, his face contorts with levels of disdain he didn’t think were possible. Once again, all the energy he’s saving for his escape is starting to bleed out of him. Come on, he can’t fall at the first hurdle!

Crow doesn’t say anything, which prompts the teacher to comment, “So, he’s one of those types, is he? Very well. He starts tomorrow, so make sure he’s in uniform by then.” He then clicks his fingers as if Barker should hop to it that very second, and Crow is starting to feel for the guy. “He’ll be in the third year – get him to the office to choose his options as quick as you can. He’s late enough starting as it is, but if his academic work is as good as that of his test…bar not being able to write his own name...then we should have no problems.”

Crow blinks, eyes flitting between the two teachers as he wonders what in the world they’re talking about. His confusion must be evident because Barker takes a bit of pity on him, and kindly speaks on his behalf.

“Actually, sir, this...young Crow here has actually never attended school before. He did his Eleven-Plus right alongside the test we offered just last week.”

The teacher stops. One brow is raised, and the disbelief is palpable as it starts to set in through the thick lines on his face. “I beg your pardon? Do you mean to tell me this boy has never even so much as attended a lesson in his life?”

“N-no, Misthallery doesn’t have a formal school. I’m to believe they offer lessons locally, but his, erm, care worker informed me he never attended any of them. It’s remarkable, isn’t it? That’s...part of the reason we accepted him as a student. He’s stunningly bright.”

Crow tries not to look so bashful under the praise – it’s really quite warming to hear how highly he’s regarded. However, it’s hard to feel that way for very long when the teacher looks so unimpressed. He feels like he’s chosen the wrong school just by the presence of this teacher alone. Crow wonders what lessons he leads, and whether he’ll be cursed with having to attend them.

“So, the boy’s bright, is he? Despite never making an effort to attend his lessons? Sounds far too tricky for my liking. Well, we’ll see. I don’t abide laziness, so if he can’t keep up, he’ll be in trouble.”

With that, he begins to stride away, and Crow knows it’s a bad idea, and he knows he can do better than this, but the weight and the haste of the past few days simply falls upon him like a sack of bricks, and the words are out of his mouth before he can cram them back in.

“Who’re you callin’ lazy?”

Barker looks mortified, ready to sink through the floor, which is the first hint that Crow’s made a terrible mistake. The second would be the deathly pause that hangs in the air, and the speed at which the teacher spins on his heel to glare at him. Crow fears it’s all about to erupt into yelling, but it never comes. Just a horrid, calm assessment.

“That daft woman from the services did mention something about unruly behaviour, and intelligence means very little if one cannot follow the rules. If you’re able to land a detention before even your first day as a student, I can’t say I have very high hopes for you.”

…

So, not a great start. Crow might find himself regretful if his veins weren’t boiling with this sudden rush of adrenaline – something is rising, trying to escape and make itself known, but on his face it simply reads as blind, blank rage. He stands with his lips tightly pressed together, daring himself to keep quiet, but keeps his eyes on the teacher until he’s well out of sight. Somehow, the fact that the man never looks back once irritates him.

He’s not staying here.

“C-Crow, I-- alright, mate, I understand that you’re very...tired. You’re in a state, it’s been a very tough transition, but that—”

“Oh, save it,” Crow scoffs, but not derisively. “I know what I’m about. I know how to deal with consequences. Just let me get on with it.”

Barker sighs, and it’s easy to see why he’s unsettled. Who wouldn’t be when the first thing out of a new student’s mouth is that? “I...I understand. I promise things will be much easier if you’re able to keep your head down and do what you’re told. Personally, I think you’ll do well here! We’ll get things sorted in no time.”

Crow folds his arms, perhaps a bit more petulantly than he’d like, and eyes Barker with tinge of thoughtfulness to his eyes. It doesn’t pay to cause a ruckus and get himself kicked out and relocated this early – and who knows? Maybe this guy might be helpful to him in the future. He’s got to be clever about this. It’s all about snagging every advantage he can.

“Alright then,” Crow finally shrugs. At last, his usual, sly demeanour settles comfortably onto his face. “Lay it all out for me. I start tomorrow, don’t I? What do I need to know?”

Barker is frozen for a second, having not expected to be put on the spot so suddenly, and Crow enjoys the way he’s able to shake adults with his pragmatism. A small win. He bites back a smarmy smile.

“O-oh! Oh, well, erm...yes! You’ll-- as he said, you’ll be in third year. The classes aren’t huge, it’s a very small school – I imagine you’ll make friends in no time!”

Crow silently tries to hurry him up with a circling motion of his hand. It only serves to make the poor man sweat.

“A-and...right, your uniform. It should be at the office. You’re required to keep it clean and mended. Failure to do so may garner a bit of...punishment. All your other school rules apply as well – no fighting, misbehaving, vandalism, stealing. Basically, just...just behave yourself. Oh, and the options as well!”

“What’re those?”

“Well, in these grammar schools, if you decide to stay on, you can do your O-levels, so this will be helping you pick out the subjects best for you. Since you did so well on your tests, I think you could reasonably take whatever lessons you like. Here, I’ll get you a list when we reach the office.”

How...weird. Crow’s never considered what things would be like if he ever decided to stay here. He’d always assumed he’d make his living in Misthallery, thus academics would never matter to him. Truthfully, he doesn’t think they’d matter to him terribly since he has no inclination to pursue higher education, but the image of Professor Layton does flash briefly in his mind. Attending a university always seemed so far out of the realm of possibility for a scruffy little urchin like him, and yet…

Well, of course, he could do it if he decides he wants to! He just...doesn’t want to.

…

This all feels so wrong. Being introduced to so much so quickly has pushed almost every memory of Misthallery from his mind, and it’s awful. Now that he’s really here, it’s starting to feel like he might never return. How is he supposed to write a letter to Arianna? Come to think of it…

“D-do you let students send letters? Y’must do, right?” he asks, suddenly rather nervous.

“Letters? Of course! We don’t do phone-calls, but letters are absolutely fine. Just make sure you get them ready by the deadline to be sent off, or you’ll have to wait for the next delivery!”

Crow nods silently, relieved, allowing Barker to sweep him back in the direction of the courtyard towards a small roofed office that sits on the border of the fence. It’s so tiny that Crow hadn’t even noticed it. It almost looks like a guard station. There’s no barbed wire to be seen anywhere, but Crow gets the uncanny feeling that all eyes are on him, even when there might not be anyone around.

Just to check, he throws a glance over his shoulder, and the whistling in his ear sounds like the wind is laughing at him. Well, it can keep laughing. If he’s been taught anything in his life, it’s that it pays to be paranoid.

“So, that’s your uniform, a few bits for you to read through about your options, and your timetable! Honestly, if you follow the other boys your age, you won’t have much trouble getting around. I’m sure they’ll help you out with your routines in the dormitories as well!”

Crow finds himself with an armful of fabric – coarse black, and with hints of white and red as the school colours – and a pocketful of crumpled papers that denotes a list of subjects that piqued even his staunch curiosity. He won’t profess to them mattering all that much to him, but the appearance of a business studies course had most certainly caught his eye. He’d be a fool to deny it.

He has to watch his footing over the stones until they hit solid paving slabs, where Barker leads him out to the quadrant of dormitories. As he briefly relishes the relief of flat footing against the aching soles of his feet, Barker glances down.

“Ah, your...your shoes are rather tatty, aren’t they?”

“Your beard’s tatty too, but you don’t see me sayin’ that to your face, do you?”

Barker blinks. Offence doesn’t quite make it onto his features, so he settles for clearing his throat. “W-what I meant to say was,” (Crow really has to commend him for his patience), “that perhaps you could do with a new pair. I’ll see if I can get in touch with Mel about it.”

Crow doesn’t reply. He doesn’t care, and he’s far too preoccupied with enjoying the sight of lush green hedges lining the perimeter, teeming with ladybirds and butterflies. It’s the tiniest sliver of home in a stony prison. In the light of the overhead sun, the fluttering bugs sparkle like gems – it’s a marvellous sight for his sore, tired eyes. Reminds him a little of Marilyn, too. She’s got a soft spot for insects, and he fondly envisions the times he’s seen her gently chiding the worms that have found themselves in the apple crates.

She deserves a letter as well. In fact, all his friends deserve a letter because there’s so much he wishes to say to each one – most of it is of little importance, but it’s that mundaneness that brings him right back home. Normalcy. It’s just what he needs, and seems to be nothing he can find out here in London. Everything is so busy and sincere here, and that’s not such a bad environment for him, but there’s not a lick of whimsy to be found. Nothing that Barker’s not forcing, anyhow.

Barker allows him to dawdle all the way to the dormitory – his being the one closest to the schoolhouse – and once more, he holds the door open for him. There’s a faint fuzz of warmth that comes through the open doorway, and it sinks through his clothes the same way his feet sink into the plush, red carpet. He’s spellbound for just a moment by how...different it feels.

“Welcome to Rutledge House – named after the researcher, don’t you know? This is the house you’ll be a part of for the rest of your school life.”

This doesn’t seem like a place people would live. Perhaps a work building, but not a dormitory. He has to admit, it’s nice inside, albeit a bit dark. The same black beams from the room he’d slept in last night line the ceilings, but the walls are made up of nice, panelled wood and off-white plaster. It’s clearly an old building, having not yet been yanked into the future of modern architecture and the gaudy shade of salmon that seems to be becoming popular in public spaces, but it’s comfortable enough. Of course, genuine comfort to him feels itchy and unnatural.

“It all goes in age order, bottom to top – first years on the bottom and sixth years on the top. You’re third year, so you’re smack bang in the middle. Come on, I’ll take you up the stairs and show you what room you’re in. Let’s see, you’re in class A, so…”

Barker rambles on, and continues to do so under his breath even whilst they’re climbing the stairs. Crow considers this a feat for a man he’d maliciously assume to be closer to fifty than he really is. Still, the stairs are an...odd touch. It reminds him of scaling the stairs outside of his flat every day, and he’s unsure if that’s a good thing or not.

After two flights of stairs, Crow is herded down a corridor of identical doors, all with brass-lined nameplates on them. It’s now that he starts getting glimpses of other students skittering down the halls, and the kind of teenage wildlife living around these parts. Some of them are still in uniform, shirts and ties hanging awkwardly on gangly frames. He can’t knock the desire to look smart when he tries to accomplish that in what little ways he can day-to-day – after all, it helps him to blend into a polite sort of society and keep himself out of trouble – but it feels so blank and soulless to see it with his own eyes. Even in his arms, the uniform itches.

Watching a pair of students size him up from the other end of the corridor, disappearing around the corner with hushed whispers, Crow pays no mind to whatever Barker says to him, and thinks very little of being pushed into the room. Arms full of clothes and pockets full of paper, he sets eyes on his dormitory mates for the very first time. It’s not thrilling, but for the two boys milling around the four-bedroom room, the first impression is not so far from what he knows to be comfortable. It’s almost like he can feel Scraps’ intellect and Gus’ blithe attitude radiating outwards.

The one boy on the left has a mess of dark hair that frames an enormous smattering of freckles, and a haughty turn-up of the nose that’s offset by a glimmer of honesty in his eyes. The other is short, with hair neatly combed into place – aided by a clear film of grease – and a pair of glasses perched on the stubby bridge of his nose. Both look unassuming, both look indifferent to his appearance, but most importantly, they both look like they have no interest in spoiling for a scrap.

“Ah, what good timing, boys. I was hoping you’d be here,” Barker chirrups, giving Crow an overly encouraging shove towards them. “I told you before about the new boy joining you this year. Allow me to introduce you to Crow!”

Crow says nothing. He just flattens his gaze. The preliminary warning shot.

Chapter Text

“Here, I found it. It’s only a copy, not the original document, but that shouldn’t matter.”

Arianna sits primly upon a settee in the largest downstairs parlour of Barde Manor. The grief on her face makes her look like a widow, and a foreigner in her own home. She dabs at the inner corner of her eye furtively – it’s hard to tell if she’s really crying or not. Above everything, she looks tired. Even Tony, who had uncharacteristically volunteered to sweep the floors upstairs, is lacking his usual, boundless energy. Somehow, Louis feels incredibly unwelcome here, as if he might be heralding devastation.

He takes a seat opposite here, pushing a few papers across the table that he’d had neatly folded in his pocket, and offers a kind smile. It’s never been his strongest suit.

“I didn’t say anythin’ to my dad ‘cos I can’t guarantee he’d keep his gob shut, but I reckon I know enough to help you sort things out,” he tells her, shuffling his knees together so he can lean comfortably over the coffee table between them. “Thinkin’ back on it, I actually remember my dad talkin’ about your old man’s will after he died. Wish I’d known back then it was passing through Jakes’ hands.”

Arianna sniffs. “Is that...the real one?”

“No. Technically, there was no real one,” Louis replies, discomfort evident in his shifting eyes. “This never got to the solicitors until after the police had had a look at it, and since it became evidence, whatever he actually wrote down never made it back to us. I s’pose that’s the police for you. Having the town torn up is a pretty big distraction, but you’d think a big-shot like your dad would’ve discussed it with someone else. That was the real surprise.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles, though it’s incredibly ghostlike on her pace face. “Wren thought that might be the case, so she dropped this off yesterday.” She fumbles under the table for a large, manila folder containing only a few sheets of off-white paper. Judging by the poor quality of the ink, it’s been photocopied. Louis’ squint is suspicious.

“Just like Wren to think ahead, but,” he pauses to leaf through the papers, eyeing the sigil printed on the top left of each one, “these are police documents. Where did she get these?”

Arianna can only shrug. If Louis has learnt one thing about his line of work, it’s that you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and you certainly don’t ask where the horse even came from.

“I see,” he murmurs with intrigue as he begins to skim the scrawled writing. “Evidence files. We might not have the will your father left behind in writing, but they had to determine what bits Jakes altered after the fact. She’s a clever one, alright.”

“All I remember after my father died was being told to remain in the manor,” Arianna tells him with a glum downturn of the lips. “Especially since I was ill, they didn’t want to move me. Since it was looking like I wasn’t going to live for very long…”

“They didn’t think they’d have to bother relocating you,” Louis finishes with a nod of understanding. “No point wasting the money to put you in the care of the state if you were going to drop dead anyway. Not to mention, you had Tony posing as Seamus to keep everyone away. Since Jakes was on your case, there was no reason for him to muck anything up there if it served him well in the future.”

At this, Arianna smiles a little wider, and tells him, “You are very good at this. Your father works at the council – are you going to work there too one day?”

Louis just scoffs, but not unkindly. “Hope not,” he grunts. “I’ve seen dad bring his work home with him. Let’s just say it’s no surprise why he spends so much time down in the market. Hm, you didn’t have any other relatives, really, did you?”

“No,” Arianna replies in a small voice. “None. None that I know of.”

“I hate to say it,” he sighs, “but your father didn’t actually put anything here about where you’d go. I don’t know if he simply...didn’t expect he’d die whilst you were still a kid or if he’d assumed someone in town would take you in. Bit of a leap of faith on his part, to be honest. The biggest faults here are Jakes changing the inheritor of the estate from you to Clark Triton, but you got that sorted already, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” is Arianna’s uncertain reply. “Mr Triton said he put it in a trust so that when I turned eighteen I would then take full ownership of it – or, at least I think that’s how that’s supposed to work.”

“And since this is your home, and he’s not the kind of monster who would turf you out, he left his mayoral position knowing you’d still be living here.”

“Yes, since he had Beth come and look after us instead of being his housekeeper, but that changed when Greppe became mayor. Gosh, this is already very confusing. It...are you sure it doesn’t say anything about where my father would’ve wanted me to go?”

“Nope,” Louis sighs. “Nothing. Normally, that means you’d be under guardianship of the state, which is what Crow is going through now. Triton did you a favour, but I s’pose he couldn’t do much more than that if he could only ever be involved in matters of your estate.”

Arianna swallows thickly, and the silence rings throughout the room. Just beyond the closed window, she can hear the faintest chirping of birds.

“So...what does that mean?”

“It means if you get swiped by the authorities for living alone, there’s nothing we can really do about it,” he groans, swaying backwards to lean into the settee. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and an unsettled sort of pout works its way onto his lips. “All we can do right now is preventative. I s’pose so long as we can keep the act with Seamus up, then we’re okay. Tony can manage that, right?”

Arianna doesn’t look placated by the idea, but nods anyway. “I...I don’t see why not.” She begins to nervously rub at the hem of her skirt. It’s a new one she’d found stashed away in a wardrobe full of clothes that had been bought a few years in advance for her. Her father had been very liberal with the phrase ‘you’ll grow into it’ whilst he’d been alive. It serves her well now, but not in the way she’d been hoping.

“Oi, don’t look so down,” Louis tells her, though his encouragement is hardly uplifting. “We’re in an alright position here. Nobody’s asking questions, everyone’s been assuming Seamus has been here taking responsibility for you and Tony. We just need to keep on our toes a little in case those boffs from the government come snooping.”

Arianna says nothing. She remains stony, and her expression is so pale that the redness of her cheeks make her entire face look bloodshot. Louis has seen this kind of tentative silence before, and if there’s anything he’s got down over everyone else, it’s being able to sniff out the first signs of trouble.

“Arianna,” he murmurs cautiously, “is there something else botherin’ you?”

Arianna opens her mouth to reply, but there’s a long pause before anything comes out. In that time, her eyes skirt over the documents on the table.

“I...I don’t know,” she says truthfully. “It’s...I’m not sure what to do.”

“What to do about what?”

Arianna fidgets. The soles of her feet bristle the carpet, and she finally dissolves with a pleading whine. “A-alright, I’ll show you, but please keep quiet about it. Here, I think they’re in the office upstairs. Come with me.”

As Louis gets up, the nasty bubbling of suspicion burning away at him, a loud, shrill kind of thud racks the house. It sounds a bit like stone being split in two, rattling the window panes, but the house doesn’t stir any further than that. He stumbles into the settee, throwing Arianna a wild look.

“Wh…what was that? S’not your house comin’ down, is it?”

Arianna just shakes her head.

Badger thinks he’s a bit too tall for this kind of work, even if he had been the one to offer. Being small and kind of stubby (though Badger wouldn’t say that to his face), Socket fits himself easily into the dank hole they’ve spent the day chipping away at. The damp of the tower seeps through the stone and into the dirt, turning their work into a pit of blackened mud. If he’d thought Socket was dirty earlier, he’s positively filthy now. With the dark smears over both cheeks and his forehead, and totally covering his hands, he looks like he’s been up a chimney.

Badger can just about squeeze himself beside the other boy, knees up to his chin, and hands trembling under the exertion of hard work. Every now and then, Socket will lean forwards to peer into the dirt, and his necklace will fall into his face. He’s ditched his hat, and it sits safely on the steps behind them.

“It’s wetter than I thought it would be,” Socket mumbles, wiping a hand over his face. It only smudges the dirt further. Badger isn’t sure he wants to stick around to catch Wren’s reaction if he turns up home like that. It’s a good thing Arianna is so generous with her facilities.

“Smells like mould,” Badger adds, to feel relevant. “I didn’t think it would be so mucky in here.”

“It’s not like the Barde’s actually use this area, so I s’pose it was bound to happen. Shame, to be honest. If I had one o’ these tacked to the side of my flat, I’d be in here all day.” Socket flashes him a wide grin, flipping a thin, crowbar-like instrument between his fingers. “Wren don’t like me fillin’ our room with bits and bobs.”

“I wouldn’t either if I kept steppin’ on your screws,” Badger snickers. “She’s brilliant, though, ain’t she? I’m not surprised Nabby voted her to be the new leader. She’s proper clever.”

Socket simply hums in response. It’s not his usual style of overbearing confidence, the keen way he would normally boast about his sister’s endeavours. In fact, he’s looked a bit plain around the face for a while now. Badger wouldn’t usually go out of way to say anything, but…

“Are you-- d’you think it’s—”

“I’m happy for her. Of course, she should get the spot! Marilyn, too, they’re both right clever-clogs. I just…” He pauses, reaching back to itch a spot at the back of his neck. “I’m a bit worried, I think, but...I dunno what I’ve got to be worried about! It don’t feel right with Crow being away.”

“Complicated,” Badger murmurs assuredly. “It is. We’ll be fine. H-hey, if Marilyn’s finally out of her mood, then I think we got nowt to worry about.” He’s aware that it makes him appear overly optimistic, but someone has to be.

“I think...I dunno,” Socket repeats. “I really don’t know. How naff is that? Feelin’ worried for no good reason.” He then reaches down into the dirt and pulls out an enormous stone. A worm clinging on for dear life is plucked off and thrown across the room. “Least I got summat to keep me busy – and you, too! S’nice little set-up here.”

Badger runs a hand over his face, pressing his mouth into his knees as he patiently watches Socket shift an armload of pebbles out of the ditch. He doesn’t say it, but he agrees. There is something relaxing about it. He’s a boy who much prefers the open air of the rooftops, but a calm little hovel like this with a mate is nice too. Maybe later he’ll sate his urge to move, and have a jaunt over the top of the market.

“Sorry,” Socket tells him with a small laugh. “I know it’s crap work. We’re gettin’ somewhere though. Once we get the dirt out from under that bit of wall, we can head back and find the beams. That’ll be a job for tomorrow.” He pauses to shimmy upright, knees planted firmly in the muck as he hikes his trousers up a bit from the back.

Badger isn’t really sure what the purpose of their work is yet, even though Socket had thrown him Arianna’s request, but he thinks he’d rather sit back and watch it unfold for himself.

“I’m not a great help here, am I?” Badger asks, an amused tinge of disappointment to his voice.

“You’re keepin’ me company, and that’s good enough,” Socket beams. “That, and I’ll need you to help me lug all the beams from the market up here. If my planning is correct...this really might not take too long.”

Badger winces. Socket is pretty adept at the physics involved in building and support, but once in a while he’ll totally miss the mark, if only due to his mathematical ineptitude. Maybe it’ll be a good idea to get Wren to stop by and approve his ideas.

“Well, if it doesn’t, it’ll only be Arianna’s entire house comin’ down.”

“Hah, y’think she’d forgive me for that?”

“Only if you planned on rebuilding it after.”

“I think I’d be alright, if I had you here with me.”

Badger goes quiet, wringing his spindly fingers together as he watches Socket work. Even covered in cobwebs and up to their knees in mud, he thinks that sounds nice. Distracted, when he doesn’t respond, Socket stammers quietly.

“I didn’t-- was that...weird? I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s...it’s not weird.”

“...alright.”

Chapter Text

Crow stands in the doorway of his new lodging at the height of bewilderment, meeting two other boys his age with uncertainty. With a bundle of uniforms to hide behind, he casts a watchful gaze over at them, and the small, dingy bedroom he’s set to sleep in for as long as it takes for him to leave this place.

“This,” Barker tells Crow, gesturing to the bespectacled boy, “is Albert. Much like you, he’s from a town just down the road. And this,” he gestures to the other boy, “is...oh, let me remember. Dylan? No, Duncan! That’s it. Yes, yes, these two will be your dorm mates here, along with...oh, well, he isn’t here now, but I’m sure you’ll meet the other one sooner or later.”

“Not likely, teach,” Duncan scoffs, swiping a thumb under his nose. “Parks is off for good, now! I heard his parents are sending him somewhere else. Dunno why, but it’s just us two left.”

“Oh,” Barker deflates a little. “Well, that’s no matter. A bit more peace in here than you’d normally get, then. Now, you two, you’d be doing me a massive favour if you could share your pencils and books with Crow here while I find him his own. Shouldn’t be more than a day. That’s easy enough, right?”

The agreement is unenthusiastic but there. Barker seems satisfied, and he throws a look between the three boys before clapping Crow a little too hard on the shoulder and making for the door.

“He’s got his timetable, he’s got his uniform – I’ll get you all your toiletries, toothbrush and such, after dinner. You didn’t come with very much, did you? Ah, well, it’s nothing we can’t sort. That should be about it from me, so I’ll let you get settled.”

Crow can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when the man finally stops talking and disappears. He supposes he should be thankful for the appearance of a teacher who seems to genuinely care about his wellbeing, especially with the likes of that stern teacher from earlier rattling around the place, but it’s not in his nature to get attached to adults with any amount of authority. He considers it unwise to put faith in the people who can take everything from him, and this entire experience is just proof of the extent it can happen to.

There’s even less point doing that here, and he reminds himself that his stint in this joint will only be temporary. He’ll find his way out soon enough. For now, he’ll bide his time. It’s best that his first escape attempt should be his only, lest the people around him wise up to his antics and crack down on his opportunities. Carelessly, he throws the bundle of clothes on one of the pristinely-made beds by the window, unclaimed by personal belongings.

“Not even a toothbrush?” Albert echoes curiously, sidling up to the end of the bed and fiddling with one of the knobs. “You really have turned up with nothing. I thought Mr. Barker might’ve been joking when he said that!”

Crow flops onto the bed, feeling the springs creak beneath his weight. It reminds him of Nabby’s bed – a place he sometimes frequents during the winter when the weather is cold, and when his battleaxe of a mother has cooked up a good stew. A warm, safe haven for the bitter season. He’d spent some time there too after Nabby’s dad has disappeared, providing quiet, idle company.

Almost everything seems to remind him of some sort of snippet of home, but it never quite matches up to the original. Every sight he sees, every sense he experiences, he knows it’ll all come back to home when it’s the only place he’s ever known, but does it have to be so...invasive? He doesn’t expect he’ll cry about it, but just to be sure, he swipes the heel of his hand over his eyes. He might not have ever attended school before, but he knows that palming a variety of people into one sullen pit will always breed the same combative social atmosphere. If he cries here on his first day, it’s over.

“I brought nothin’ ‘cos I had nothin’,” Crow tells him forcefully, folding his arms and staring out of the window in front of him. “It’s not anythin’ to be surprised about. Lots of kids have nothin’.”

At this, Albert awkwardly pulls at the frame of his glasses, and Crow pointedly tries to ignore any similarities he sees to Louis. The boy clears his throat, but before he can say anything else, Duncan strides into the conversation with a bit of good humour.

“Well, you ain’t borrowin’ mine. You can have my pencils though,” he snickers, but it’s a bit too pitchy and hyena-like for Crow’s liking. “Did he say you’re only from up the road? Are you from the same place as Albert?”

Albert is already primly shaking his head, wringing his hands with a calm but on-edge demeanour. He has such a strange air about him. He looks uptight, but his face is so calm and kind. “No, no, not at all. I’d definitely know if he was a resident of Dropstone.”

“Right,” Duncan sighs, rolling his eyes. “Town expert an’ all that.”

“Actually,” Crow pipes up quietly, “I’m from Misthallery.”

“Misthallery?” Duncan taps his chin considerately, but shrugs far too quickly to suggest real thought. “Never been there, but...I get a feelin’ like I’ve heard of it before. Is it by the seaside?”

Albert is clearly a precocious kind of kid, and he and Crow will get along fairly well if he can keep the pedantry to a minimum. It’s not like he was looking forward to the endless repeating of his circumstances to every new face to come his way, so if these two can sort it out amongst themselves, they can have at it. Crow sits back on the bed and realises that listening to the conversation between these two is not unlike what he normally makes an effort to listen to within the streets of Misthallery. Perhaps his nosy habit will serve him well here in gathering information.

“Where Dropstone is south-east from London, Misthallery is north-east. I don’t know as much about Misthallery as I do about Dropstone, but I’ve certainly read about in the papers. You might remember it from a recent incident in which they were plagued by...a spectre…”

Albert trails off, realising what he’s saying as he’s saying it, and Duncan’s jaw drops. Crow hadn’t anticipated it, but to the ears of other children, a spectre terrorising his home must be an unbelievable story. If it gains him more popularity and steers him away from being picked on, he’s got no complaints, but it’ll do him no favours in trying to blend in. What to do about that…?

“A spectre? Like...like a big monster?!” Duncan reels back, inspecting Crow with widened eyes like he’s some sort of apparition himself. “I did hear about that! Didn’t that...didn’t that all turn out to be a load of crap though?” He seems the sweat at the idea that Crow might’ve brought something dangerous with him.

“It did, to a degree,” Crow tells him coolly, “but the damage it did to our town was real. No, it wasn’t a monster. Turns out, it was just someone trying to excavate our town to look for...for...well, who knows? Me and the professor got rid of him before he had a chance to, erm, explain what he was after. It’s...for the better, really.”

Best not to let on about the secret of the Golden Garden. It might’ve reached the ears of prominent researchers in the field, but it’s still private land and closed to the public.

“You and the professor? Professor Layton?” Albert repeats, eyes shimmering through the thick lenses of his glasses. “So, you really helped protect your town from a villain? I’ll admit, it sounds far-fetched, but it’s marvellous if it’s true!”

“I want to say it’s,” Duncan makes a growling noise to replace whatever foul word he’d been thinking of, “but I kind of want to believe it. Especially if you got to meet that professor, I hear he’s a proper big shot in London. C’mon, you must have proof, right? You’d get a right beating from the others if you didn’t.”

Crow just rolls his eyes, which garners a small sparkle of respect from Duncan’s staunch face. He wafts the boys’ excitement out of the air with a wave of his hand, and in a hushed tone tells them, “Yeah, don’t go tellin’ other people. I don’t mind one or two, but a whole school? That’s just askin’ for trouble. And, if I didn’t have the mind to bring a toothbrush with me, you think I’d bring proof of a story like that? Don’t need it. Believe it or don’t.”

Though, speaking of the professor, he still has to give him a phone-call. After all, it’s one of his potential routes out of this place.

The two boys look a tad disappointed by his refusal, but don’t prod him for it. Albert seems acceptant, and Duncan simply shrugs, flopping down onto the bed beside Crow with a bit too much familiarity.

“How come you didn’t bring anything? Did your parents send you here?”

Feeling his temper spike rather suddenly, bolstered by the how out of his hands the entire set of circumstances have come to be, a frown works its way onto Crow’s usually clear face. “No. I’m...I’m an orphan. I did a test to get in, and they accepted me. That’s all.”

He can’t see any benefits of letting on the kind of monster his father was.

“Oh,” Duncan sighs, falling back onto the bed. “Y’sound like you don’t really want to be here. Me neither, to be honest. After the year is up, though, I’m off! My parents want to move away somewhere, so it’s a bit rubbish we’ll only know each other a year.”

“This place wasn’t my first choice either,” Albert adds, politely perching on Crow’s other side, leading the boy to wonder if being overly invasive is a key trait of the students in this school. “I wanted to continue going to school in Dropstone, but the school is there is small, and they don’t do all the subjects I could do here. I wouldn’t have come if my old teacher hadn’t encouraged me to go.”

“Brilliant,” Crow replies stonily. “Not to sound hard done by, but I don’t really see the problem with any of that.”

“I suppose not,” Albert laughs nervously. “An orphan from a torn-up town, why, it sounds like a wartime novel. It’s very Oliver Twist.”

“Don’t call me that,” Crow snaps suddenly, having had the unfortunate likeness be pointed out consistently throughout his entire life. He folds his arms, feeling the tension brew a headache in the back of his skull. “And don’t call me Dodger, either. If you do, I’ll have both your toothbrushes, and your pencils, and your wallets.”

Somehow, he’d managed to kick up a cloud of dust in his irritation, and he’s forced to sit and silently watch it dissipate into the stuffy air of the room. It’s a bit too memorable a start to his time here, and he has the two boys either side of him inching away from his outburst. Albert tries not to flinch up onto his feet, Crow can tell by the twitching of his knees, and Duncan flips onto his side to squint up at him like he’d just said something incredibly stupid. To try and show it’s no real harm done, Crow waves a blasé hand.

“Okay, I...look, it’s been a rough week. I’m not here to pick a fight.”

“I don’t think you need to,” Albert coughs, eyes flitting everywhere but Crow. “I suppose it’s nice to know you won’t need my help if you get into a scrap, but really, I’d advise against it. If not for some of the students, then the teachers.”

“Yeah, you do not want to get on Gaffer’s bad side. You’ll get a ruler to the head, hands and arse. Trust me when I say that stings. I watched him clock a kid in the face with a chalkboard eraser from ten feet the other day!”

Crow’s expression grows grey and forlorn. Another aspect of the idyllic school-time novels he’d forgotten about – punishments. A detention he can handle, but he’s not been in a position to fear anything more than a clip round the ear from the local shopkeeper for hanging around the door. At least, not from anyone that wasn’t his father. The separation of pain between home and the outside world is great chasm that he hasn’t bridged. In his mind, home had been danger, and everywhere had been safe, so what does that spell for him now?

Well, he’s not a bad kid, he does try his best, so maybe there’s nothing to worry about.

“So long as you follow the rules, I’m sure you’ll be alright.”

…

Perhaps not.

Crow gets up to very little between arriving at the dormitory and dinnertime. His first day in the school building is an easygoing one. Despite feeling the itch to get up and go, there’s simply nowhere to be. It’s fortunate that Albert and Duncan are interesting enough to alleviate his boredom, and though they’re nothing like the friends he misses back home, they’re solid enough people in their own right.

Albert seems entirely obsessed with his own home-town, vowing to train as a teacher and return to his old schoolhouse. He’s a bit too one-track about his interests to care much about things outside of his scope, but it doesn’t stop him from being roundly intelligent. Crow finds himself learning the smaller details of life in this world from him, which will lend him the boost he needs to blend in with everybody else.

Duncan isn’t as sharp in intellect, but he’s got a fierce sort of tongue, and apparently a great interest in toy cars. Crow had spied one peeking out of the suitcase crammed under his bed, which had flustered his housemate enough to prompt him to push it out of sight. However, assuring him that it didn’t paint him in a bad light had Duncan a bit more relaxed, and had revealed a glimpse of his soft nature. Crow doesn’t want to praise himself for being able to win people over, but he’s on a good streak here. What’s better is that it’s a big gain for him with no need to reveal the details of his own life, which is how he likes it. When he leaves, it’ll be like nobody even knew he was here.

Their conversations had spanned the rest of the day, interspersed with a small tour around the building where Crow could check out the toilets, showers, and common room (not that he’d ever profess to be excited by the place, but an indoor toilet is something of a luxury for him). He’d not been keen to poke his head in whilst there had been a group of boys occupying a table with a board game, so they’d returned quickly. Albert had given him a rousing idea of what to expect for his options, which Crow hadn’t the heart to ignore so blatantly, but as he’d been listening, Duncan had decided to snatch the timetable from his pocket to inspect.

He holds the crumpled paper out to peer at it, and Crow emits a cry of protest.

“Oi, gimme that back! That’s mine.”

Duncan shrugs, holding it out for them both to see. “I just wanted to see if we’ve got the same lessons. You’re in our class, alright. Tomorrow’s not a bad start, we’ll have English. It’s a bit boring, but the teacher’s nice enough. Hm? What’s this one here?”

He taps at the rustling paper over a spot at the end of the three major lesson blocks of the day. It’s a blank box on Tuesday and Fridays, but the rest of the week has something scheduled with the enigmatic letters ‘HW’. Crow squints at it, realising Barker hadn’t brought it up.

“Isn’t that just...homework?” he asks. “You lot get homework, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Duncan sniffs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “but we do that after dinner, not before. Oi, Albert, what’s this for? HW?”

“Orientation?” Crow offers lamely, but Albert shakes his head rather solemnly. The half-smile he flashes seems apologetic, and Crow can’t imagine why until the letters make the connection in his head. He can’t scramble to hide the timetable quick enough, but there’s little point when Albert will cast the matter out with next to no tact.

“It’s for handwriting. They’re catch-up lessons for people with poor handwriting,” Albert explains, pushing the bridge of his glasses further over his nose. “Tough luck having to do all that on your first year. Did you not get taught that at your last place?”

Crow pales, and mumbles, “Um. N-no. Not at all.” As he stammers, he folds the loose fabric of his scarf so that the ink blot on it can’t be seen. He can’t bring himself to explain that he can write quite coherently, he’s just a menace with a fountain pen.

“Cripes,” Duncan chortles. “That’s unlucky. They really get on you if you can’t find your way around a pen at the very least. Ah, it’s no matter, you’ll manage. Are you a smart kid? I’m sure you’ll be done with them in no time. Just don’t let the others know you’re still doing handwriting lessons in third year, you’ll get reamed.”

Crow doesn’t think smarts have anything to do with the physical capability to use a pen, but he’s not about to make that pointless argument. He just pulls the hem of his scarf over his chin, expression sour, as he grumbles, “I got a few points off a perfect score on the entrance exam. Who cares about handwriting?”

“Did you really?” Albert’s eyes light up with surprise. “That’s amazing! We might just have a new class swot on our hands.”

“Ugh, don’t say that,” Crow whines, face becoming obscured inch-by-inch as the urge to hide himself entirely within his scarf pervades. “I only learn what I need to know, so as far as I’m concerned, all this school guff is nothin’ to do with me. I don’t plan on stayin’ here longer than I have to.”

Duncan emits a long, whistling sigh, and offers a nonchalant hike of the shoulders. “We’ll keep the handwriting thing mum, don’t you worry. S’bad enough you’re new, we can’t have your head down a toilet over anything else.”

As he says this, and as Crow is about to make an incredibly detailed description of strangling any would-be attackers with his scarf, a bell begins to ring. It sends a brief jolt of panic up Crow’s spine, and he begins to pick at the tasselled bits of scarf with furrowed brows. How loud – it sounds like the bell on this floor is right outside in the hallway. It’s not going to be that much of a racket every time, is it?

“Oh, that’s the dinner bell. Have you seen the dining hall yet? We’ll show you the way.”

“Scran’s on! Let’s get down there before all the good stuff goes!”

Albert’s kind offer is pushed aside by Duncan’s haste, and he has them both dragged down the stairs alongside the throngs of students also residing in Rutledge House. A few boys his size catch his eye with various looks of interest on their glazed-over faces, all round, stodgy and plain. He’s so used to seeing children with familiar faces that it’s jarring to see so many identities fading into the background. One of the taller boys from a year above him looks strikingly like Badger when he swipes the hair out of his face, and Crow winds up following close behind him as a part of the larger huddle that bustles out from the dormitory to the dining hall.

The dining hall is behind the square of dormitories – a small, brown building with a bell clock hanging overhead. Even though the smell of food is usually quick to light a fire beneath him, the thick stench of too many carbs just makes him feel queasy. This is...this is normal to these children. This is what these kids see every day. A normal routine that, to him, feels like he’s wandering through foreign territory. He could even be on another planet for all he knows.

Duncan catches him by the elbow of his sleeve, tugging insistently through the dense clumps of foot traffic, and compared to the taller boys of the three years above him, Crow feels like he could be swallowed up by the crowd. Eyes all peering down at him, making up a sea of greasy, spotty faces. It’s warm. Stifling, even. The only coherency he can make of himself is the silent, internal plea that he’s not a city kid, he’s a kid of mud and fresh air. He needs to be outside.

He holds his breath, and swallows the sharp, raw feeling that seems to be slowly rising up his throat, just long enough for Duncan and Albert to herd him to their year’s table. It’s an enormously long, polished stretch of wood that seems to sail on for miles down the room. As people begin to sit down and provide Crow with better view of the hall around him, he starts making out roughly what goes where. Tables seem to be set by years, with a table for teachers at the very head of the room. Off on the opposite side, an open window that separates the hall from the next room over shows the working lives of the staff in the kitchen.

“You stay here,” Duncan tells him, gesturing to his spot with a flick of his fingers, “and Al and I will nip off and get us some dinner. Looks like sausages tonight, y’don’t mind that, do you?”

Crow can barely shake his head, his reactions numb and without purpose.

He’d...thought he’d have this a little more in hand, truth be told. He’d hoped he’d be able to tackle this behemoth of a challenge with his usual spryness, but it’s just an endless torrent of...he can’t even find the words for it. It’s impossible to pick it apart in his mind, especially with this kind of noise. He can only stare down at the wood-grain of the table in front of him, hoping the soothing circles will bring him some peace and familiarity in these dire times.

Something is yelled somewhere behind him, and he’s suddenly shoved forwards by a force against his shoulder. A peal of laughter echoes further down the hall as it moves away from him, but he doesn’t dare look up. He’s being clocked as an unfamiliar face, and now, when he’s got no backup to rely on. He thinks if Duncan and Albert don’t hurry up, he might spew over the table. Half as an involuntary action, and half as an excuse to get himself out of the hall.

There’s no point getting worked up. He sighs, and runs a clammy hand over his face. It’ll be fine. By some miracle, he’s managed to make two acquaintances that aren’t yearning to make his life a misery, so that should count for something. If he can work his way outwards in the coming days to establish himself as something not worth bothering with, he can focus on getting home rather than dodging whatever social pitfalls come his way.

Right now, he just has to breathe. He huffs, wheezing with uneasiness, and wonders what his friends are up to. What Wren’s up to. What Nabby could be up to – it’s dinnertime, and that’s about the only appointment he’s ever on time for. Maybe he’s having sausages for dinner, too.

He doesn’t realise he’d shut his eyes until a plate is loudly plonked down onto the table in front of him. It stirs him from his daydreaming, and Albert nudges his shoulder lightly in the same spot he’d been pushed earlier.

His voice is wispy and quiet when he tells Crow, “Gotta get up before we can eat. Listen to whatever the deputy headmaster has to say.”

Duncan groans, and grumbles something unintelligible about the hassle of it all. He’s somehow managed to wangle a bigger pile of mash in exchange for only one sausage, where most of the other plates are evenly distributed. Crow watches the steam swirling through the air between them, and clamps a hand on the edge of the table as he gets up. When he finds himself on his feet, he can’t quite seem to will his hand to let go.

The deputy headmaster speaks. He speaks for quite a while, and rolls off into a droning tangent that has many boys around the room casting ridiculous faces at one another and mouthing obscenities. Crow can’t even see the teachers from where he’s standing, and he’s certainly in no mind to pay attention to what’s being said. The voice simply fades in and out of audibility until the room finally erupts into the clattering and clashing of dinner. Being one of the last to stand up, Crow finds himself one of the last to get sat down as well.

He does his best to eat. Surrounded by a minefield of foreign faces all tearing into their food, he has the grace to pretend like he’s hungry in order to fit in. He manages a sausage and a half and two-thirds of his mash, which is more than he’d been expecting to stomach. He refuses pudding, something he’s never done in his life, because it only makes him homesick for Aunt Taffy’s unparalleled confections. He simply sits in his spot, feeling the world tune out around him, and waits for what feels like hours for everyone around him to finish.

It’s dark by the time they’re dismissed. The orderliness going in is not the same orderliness coming out, and the mixture of juvenile figures – long, lanky, short and stout – suddenly scatter into the night, illuminated only by the lights of windows around them. The night is overcast, but the sky swims with life, and the buildings of London forms its own constellations around the school grounds.

He keeps up with Duncan and Albert up until they’re a few feet from the dormitory, by which point he has to duck away behind a hedge and vomit.

Chapter Text

This is it. The first auction night since Crow’s departure.

Even without his hawkish eyes over their shoulders, the stage is neatly swept, the carpets cleaned, the finery polished – all is ready for their first big leap into independence. There’s none of Crow’s charisma or intelligence to fall back on now. Marilyn and Wren make up those traits for the group, and though their leadership goes unquestioned, Wren finds herself shivering under her costume. After all that time spent practising her best impression of the original, it’s finally time to put it to use, but there’s not a lick of confidence to her stride. Marilyn diligently dusts off the cloak, tugging at the fabric so it sits as seamlessly on Wren’s shoulders as it can.

“You’re sweating bullets, Wren!” she laughs, but her own anxiety is unmistakable at the edge of her twitching lips. “At this rate, you’ll sweat right through the costume. Come on, you’ve got it all in hand, haven’t you?”

“Have I?” Wren burbles incredulously, rubbing the film of sweat from her forehead, and wiping it crudely on the closest surface. These jitters are ridiculous. They’re incomparable to the adrenaline she feels jumping rooftop to rooftop during their trials. Even with the mask, she can’t help but feel as if the crowd will be able to see right through her. Her posture, her mannerisms…just how recognisable is she?

“It’s just a stage. You’ve been on stage before! D’you remember when we were younger, and the hall put on that play, the – what was it? Was it Mary Poppins? Or, was it the Wizard of Oz? I remember wearing a blue dress…”

“You wore the blue dress during that Nativity we did in ‘59. The play I was in was the Pied Piper. I was a rat, and I wet myself on stage!” It was many years ago now, but the shame is still fresh. Socket had also been a rat, but had escaped the stage relatively dry, save for the wet shoulder he’d sustained after Wren had cried all over him. Her theatrical debut had not been an easy one, and now she has to go back out there…!

“Oh, that was you. See, I though that was Gus—”

“No, Gus was sick when...what was it, some kind of fable we did? Whatever it was, they painted him green, and the paint gave him an allergic reaction. Or, so he says. I still think it was because he ate so much sherbet beforehand. The hives were just coincidental…”

“See? It could be so much worse! But, we’re not paintin’ you, we’re not shovin’ you in a rat costume, and you have plenty of time to go for a wee before we start! You have nothing to worry about!”

“Comin’ from the perfect Miss Virgin Mary, never-wet-my-pants-on-stage,” Wren huffs, slighted by how angelic Marilyn has always appeared on stage. “But, I s’pose you’ve never done me wrong, have you?”

“If I have, you’d never know!” Marilyn beams. “I think you’re all set. How do you feel?”

“Wet.”

“You’ve not—”

“Sweaty-wet! I am so, so sweaty, my hands are like soap and my armpits are all squelchy. I bet I stink, too. Ugh. I wasn’t even this sweaty when I kissed—”

Marilyn blinks audibly, eyes locked with the precision of a sniper. Sweat output increases on Wren’s part, and she begins to wring the sleeves of her costume, wondering if it’ll wrench the damp out. When she resolves to say nothing further, Marilyn bridges the gap.

“Don’t...tell me you were going to say Hans.”

“No!” Wren balks, hoping the audience beyond the curtain hadn’t just heard her. “Absolutely not! He’s my informant, and nuttin’ more! You don’t kiss your staff, that’s weird!”

“I’ll be telling that to Crow then, shall I?” Marilyn mutters.

“….It was on the cheek, so it doesn’t count. You kissed him on the cheek once, too!”

“Yeah, for a birthday present! Not because I felt like it! He managed to get me a Troll doll when they were all sold out! Not just anyone can do that. Besides, I’m not the one who likes him…!”

The room quickly fades into silence. Not an awkward one, their relationship is far too comfortable for that, but a sobering one. Their lovable banter keeps the stage fright at bay, but now that the murmur of people from the gallery is becoming audible, it’s a shocking reminder that the deed has yet to be done, and the boy in question won’t be around to help them. It’s going to be fine. She can’t mess it up so bad that the entire business collapses, can she?

But, what if she does? Then Crow will have nothing to come back to...that is if he ever makes it back. Will she see him again whilst they’re still children? Or, will he finally stumble down the road into town years from now with a new face and an entirely different life? Unrecognisable isn’t as far away as she’d like.

Her trembling is held firmly in place by Marilyn’s hands on her shoulders – harder than one would expect from such a docile-looking girl – who tells her firmly, “Snap out of it! You’ll be fine! If something goes wrong, we dim the lights and get you out of there! And, if the auctions don’t work, we can...we can settle for stall management for now. Crow will be back, I just know it. You don’t seriously think he’d settle for this, do you? You don’t think he’s out there right now tryin’ to find a way back home?”

Wren smiles softly. “How is it you always know what’s botherin’ me? If I were anyone else, I think I’d find it a bit scary, y’know.”

“Because, I’m good at what I do,” Marilyn grins. “And, I only got that way through practise, and the only way you’re going to get through this is the very same thing! So, go out there, and...break a leg!”

“I’ll just sweat myself to death, shall I?”

“I’ll have the mop on standby. Go get ‘em!”

Wren is pushed out onto the stage, tumbling in a flashy swish of black fabric, and it begins to soak the heat from the spotlights almost immediately. They bear down upon her, highlighting the unmistakable silhouette of the enigmatic Black Raven, and the attention of the audience all melds into one place; her.

It’s too silent for even the crickets, but the buzzing of the lights offer a vaguely insect-like alternative, and the temperature is stifling. What’s nice is that the harsh light obscures any notable features of the people she’ll be entertaining, but the acute knowledge that it’s illuminating every inch of her sends the hairs on her arms on end. Sweat dribbling becomes pouring, already staining the underarms of her shirt, and the denim stuck to the backs of her knees. It’s not like she has to move around very much, but speaking feels near-impossible under these conditions. All her prior practise goes out the window, and she tries to swallow down the enormous lump in her throat.

“T-Thank you...for coming this evening.” That’s the kind of thing Crow says, right? “And, welcome to the Black Market. W-we have some fine...items for sale tonight, and as usual, the value will increase as...the night goes on.”

There’s no need to be charismatic just yet. Just state the facts. Don’t add too much flourish. Get the act down, then add the decorations later. If she looks too stiff, perhaps the audience can chalk that up to a bad day on her part. After all, it’s only a person under the costume – they must know that. None of these deviations have to mean anything. She just needs to relax, stop hiking her shoulders up so high, and…

“W-we’ll start the night off with...a collection of tobacco tins.” These are actually a great find compared the usual garbage they’re flogging. Scraps had found them in a bin outside a house doing a deep-clean, the contents likely attributed to the elderly owners, so there had been some old, near-collectable, little trinkets. To most people, it’s still junk, but these things have adoring fans. “A...around the 1920’s, we have...Old Holborn and Capstan, amongst...others. Good...good statement pieces.” No, they’re not. “Or, for...set-dressing? We’ll start the bidding at…”

It went for the bare minimum. Not even enough cash to split between the group without sawing the coins in half.

“And, for the next item we have a tea-set, which…”

This goes on miserably for about ten more minutes, and thankfully, the audience haven’t cottoned on much to the fact that their host has changed, but the air lacks the usual, mysterious excitement that Crow brings to his performances. He really makes it look so easy. There’s never a hair out of place when he takes the costume off, and sure, that could pertain to the fact that his hair is always pretty greasy, but in this heat, it’s a miracle he doesn’t dissolve against the cold air! She dreads to think the state she’ll look after this is done. She’s only gotten through three items, and there’s still about twenty left to go!

And, now that the heat is properly soaking into her cloak, her sweat is no longer cold and clammy, but burningly hot, making her feel queasy and faint. How ridiculous. She’s never warm! Her horrible circulation keeps her bundled up in her coat even in the summer months. The polar opposite to the warm-blooded Marilyn, who sports her relaxingly bohemian dress in every weather but the snow.

With her colleague suddenly on her mind, she glances pleadingly at the twitching curtain. It’s getting to be too much. She needs help. If she faints, then what? That’ll set the rumour mill off at full speed, knitting speculation and story, and the only thing Crow hates more than uncontrollable rumours is knitwear! It’ll be a publicity disaster! But, she can feel the creeping of tunnel-vision setting in, the growing blankness in her periphery, and realises that if she can’t get off stage now, she’ll wake up on the floor.

“Ex...cuse me, I think...there’s...a problem with one of our items…”

She makes it as far as the curtain, and that’s about it.

The ceiling is an oddly comforting sight, blinding as it is by the dim, eye-straining bulb flickering in Wren’s eyeline. She squints, feeling against the cold floor, wondering why her coat is lying on top of her rather than being worn. Hang on. Her coat…? She took her coat off to get into the costume, so she could go on stage and…

Ah. She is...no longer on stage, which may or may not be a good thing. She feels down her front, still feeling the damp of sweat seeped into her clothing, and her bleary blinking attracts the attention of the other person in the stock room. One responsible tonight for moving items to and fro.

“You okay? Lucky you got out of there when you did, or you would’ve keeled over right in front of everyone,” Louis murmurs worriedly, leaning in to wave a hand in front of Wren’s face. “Don’t worry, you didn’t mess it up. Marilyn’s jumped in to save the day. Just lie back and take it easy. Blimey, you really scared me. I’ve never seen you faint like that before.”

“Me...neither,” Wren churns out, torn between being too hot and too cold – the oppressive warmth of the coat on top, and the freezing chill of the concrete against her back. “Don’t...tell Socket.”

“I won’t,” he smiles. “He’s busy up at Barde Manor anyway, he won’t hear about it.”

“What about Marilyn? Is she okay? She’s not—” Wren suddenly sits up, a bit too violently for her delicate head, and winces at the shift in vertigo. “Ugh. I...I’m sorry. I really am, I didn’t think I’d—”

“Don’t even worry about it. Really,” Louis tells her somewhat warningly, “you should come and see this.” He beckons her towards the edge of the curtain, where he’s peering out onto the stage at the ongoing auction. Wren crawls over pathetically, palming damp hair out of her eyes, and manages to curl herself up at the curtain’s hem and peek through.

“Our next item, esteemed guests, is a stunning, compartmentalised box dating from the turn of the century! Use it for jewellery, paperwork, or keeping your pennies! And, you’ll want to hold onto your coins when decimalisation hits! Who knows what they’ll go for thirty, forty years down the line~!”

She’s stunning. The audience is captivated, laughing along with all her witticisms, and cooing appropriately when she offers up an item with a sly, knowing air. They’re charmed by her, and so enamoured that Wren is worried she’ll blow her own cover by being as good as she is – Marilyn is ever-known in town as a most adoring saleswoman, and if she lets slip a few of her usual techniques, it might catch some recognition…

“She’s amazing at this,” Louis whispers. “Seriously, I think she might even be better than Crow. I know she’s got the sales pitch down, but this is ridiculous. Usually, half the small-time collectors have cleared out by now since they never bring the cash to bid on our valuables, but the gallery is packed.”

Wren feels like she should be jealous, but she simply cannot bring herself to be. How can she? Marilyn has swept in and filled the role she’s failed with a devastating grace and resilience. Where Wren falls, Marilyn will pick up the slack, and Wren is certain when Marilyn falls, she will be there to catch her, even if the fervent desire to even out the responsibilities is the fiercest drive. This is...working! Their team is working! She doesn’t have to do all the stage-work if Marilyn can! She can sit in tonight and do all the ledgers instead! In an instant, she’s as caught as the audience, and cannot peel her eyes from the stage.

“Ooh, what a fantastic bid! You’re all very eager tonight! Well, I’m happy to hear it, because this next item is a little bit fascinating! A porcelain piece – now, I know what you’re thinking! You’re going to tell me, this plate is cracked! And, it is! But, therein lies the value! In the form of an old Japanese art, the piecing together of broken pieces with gold and lacquer, to render the original item even more beautiful, and valuable in its imperfection. Isn’t that just delightful?”

“I’ll have to hand it to Scraps,” Louis chuckles, “I didn’t think that idea would work since it’s glue and gold paint. That, and our bunch in town aren’t the most adventurous type, but...it’s being really well-received. It’s a niche sell though, so we could probably only get the most out of it a few times a year.”

“He did follow that Japanese tourist around a while back. Fake gold or not, he did a great job. It looks beautiful. I would buy it myself if mum wouldn’t hit the roof when she finds out I spent my pocket money on something that’s already broken.”

“Ah, but therein lies the value—”

“If you can’t eat off it, or can’t use it as an ashtray, she really doesn’t care.”

“Hardly an artist.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Harder to believe the audience can’t hear the difference between her and Crow. I mean I know he hides the cockney on stage, but the voice…?”

“That voice is about the best he’s going to get out of puberty, I think. To adults, we all sound the same. They’d never bother to tell us apart. At least, that’s what my mum says about me and my brother...who puberty is also not being kind to.”

“You’re goin’ to slag him off when he’s not even here? That’s cold.”

“As is my sisterly duty.”

“Ah, we’re onto the final item now. How’s she going to sell this…?”

Marilyn, or the Black Raven, formally known, begins to pace the stage with an elegant stride. The way she bends and leans, peering in at the audience makes it feel like some kind of illusion, or a theatrical piece. She brings this incredible tension, the idea that she could stun the room with just about anything, whether it be a great sale or a feat no less than magic. The very last item is a painting, and one of the few things leftover from Edgar’s house. The last of his will, and what he’d left to them with the strict instructions to milk it for all it’s bloody worth. And, from the looks of it, she plans to. The item could not be in greater hands.

“Now, this...this is a special piece for me. I know, it’s surprising, isn’t it? The Black Raven, as you see here, deeply appreciative of your patronage, and thrilled by your presences. But, even I have a fondness. Even I have a love for the treasures that pass through my market, which makes it both a tragedy and a pleasure to share it with you. A painting I hold incredibly dear, gifted to me...personally. It’s owner is long gone, and now...it searches for a new one. Tell me, will you be the one to claim it?”

The starting bid is countered by something utterly obscene. Far too much money for a starting bid, but it does little to blow the competition out of the water. If anything, the sultry tone in which Marilyn delivers the bid turns the auction into a mad scramble. Bidders casting out wild numbers, a flurry of consumerist carnage, until finally the well begins to dry, and the bids ease off into the final price. A price they certainly don’t see every day. A price that would make them truly minted if Marilyn were to flog every item off as brilliantly as that every week.

“I don’t believe it,” Louis mumbles. “That much? This wasn’t even a proper made-up list! We just shoved together every little odd and end that needed clearing out before our next stock fill.”

“She’s amazing…! If this all goes through, we’ll be laughing! I can’t wait to tell Socket. He’s been wanting a new toy car to paint up for weeks now!” Wren, still lying on the floor and seized by her sudden frailness, claps furiously for her co-leader. This is wonderful. This would be worth writing a letter about. Crow would be thrilled to hear what happened, but...there’s still no telling where he’s gone yet.

Well, the night isn’t over. There’s still time for her to pull her weight. She shuffles defiantly across the floor and begins to scrape together all the pencils, erasers and notebooks ready to start tallying up all the gains. As she’s sifting through the ledger, Crow’s handwriting a sober instance she didn’t think she’d ever have to miss, Marilyn sweeps in from the stage breathlessly. When she pulls her mask off, she’s wearing an incredible expression. Elation, but glazed over. Excitement muted by the limits of her own exhausted body. She looks to be in a terrific daze.

“Are you alright? You...you did brilliant!”

“I...I just…”

“Here, sit down, you look exhausted! Don’t worry, I’ll take care of all the bills,” Wren chirps with newly-restored vigour, tugging the cloak from Marilyn’s shoulders and forcing her into a seat. This is fantastic. All Wren has to do now is pick up the slack from the admin end, and they’re all set! There’ll be no blind spots, auctions can carry on as normal, and with Marilyn’s special touch, they might even sell twice as well! Then, it’ll be like…

...it’ll be like Crow was never even here.

Chapter Text

Huddled up in a ball, Crow breathes in the faint nighttime breeze that winds its way through the hedge he’s hiding behind. To keep his head from spinning, all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and press his face into his knees. He doesn’t keep track of the time as it passes, only knowing that it’s been quite a while since anybody walked by, which means most boys are likely settled in their dorms for the night. He tells himself that when he feels a bit better, he’ll get up and head back to his room, but that moment of relief never comes. As he starts to ask himself if that peace is unattainable here, he’s disturbed by an apologetic murmur.

“Crow. Albert told me you were out here.”

It’s Barker, thankfully, and not the grumpy old git from earlier. Crow can hear the stones crunching beneath his shoes as he kneels down beside him, and there’s a tentative shuffle around a puddle of sick that glistens disgustingly in the faint light of the building behind them.

“You must be feeling very under the weather. I’m not surprised. You arrived here so suddenly, and from the sounds of it...you were taken from your previous life rather suddenly as well.”

He doesn’t offer that a lick of response. He can’t. He can barely listen.

Barker sighs in that sympathetic, well-meaning way that adults often do with children, but it only makes Crow want to vomit again. This isn’t him. This stupid ball of wobbling and whining and not being able to breathe is not him, and he can’t have people seeing him that way. Barker is too nice to believe in the kind of kid he really is, and that’s not his fault, but it can’t be made his problem.

“If you feel like you’re poorly with something, we can go and find the matron. Or, if it’s just nerves...perhaps we can stop by the kitchen and get you something small to eat. It’ll do you no good going to bed after you’ve brought up all your dinner.”

Too many choices, and all of them are presented to him in a way that feels inescapable. He hasn’t the space to make his own decisions here. All set within the walls of this school, the path ahead, he can tell, is already laid out for him. What kind of life is it for him to simply sit and do what he’s told? He’s never done it before, and he won’t start now.

Finally, spurred by the desperate need to take control of just a little part of his situation, he lifts his head. His face is pale, eyes tired and sunken, but his mind hasn’t stopped. It reels like winding cogs, restless and repetitive, and he’s able to churn out a bare response, though it sounds more like a plea.

“Can I...can I make a phone-call?”

Barker’s expression shifts – he’s already anticipating saying no, and Crow remembers hearing something to that effect earlier – but before he can seal the deal, Crow wobbles forward and looks up at him with wide, ghoulish eyes. If there was ever a moment in his life that the pitiful orphan act must work, it has to be this one. He’s got nothing else.

“P-please. Just one. Just one, and no more,” he whispers. “It’ll be...it’ll be minutes! I-I don’t have any family, you know that, but there is one person I just...I just want to talk to. Please, sir.”

Barker sighs, running a hand through the long, wispy portions of the hair on his chin. Crow will swallow all this pity if it means he can get where he needs to be. It’s humiliating, but he can take the hit for just one opportunity. The pause as the man mulls the idea over is torturous, and he’s half-tempted to just yell at in this idiot’s face – make up your damn mind!

Eventually, he nods. Small and somewhat reluctant, but caring. He nods, and he holds a hand out for Crow to take in order to get him on his feet. “Alright. Since this is your very first day, and you’ve been swept all over the place, I’ll permit it just once. No more after this, though. If not for the phone bill, then the other children. You aren’t the only child in care in this school, you know.”

Crow briefly wonders just who else in this place is in the same sinking boat as him, but there’s no time for that. It’s every man for himself. He gets one shot at this, and one shot only. He slowly pulls himself upright, groaning all the way, and decides that something must really be wrong with him if this golden moment isn’t enough to ignite even a little bit of energy.

Woozy from having been curled up for long, he bypasses the splatter of sick on the stones, and hopes that he doesn’t track any discernable footprints of it over the path. Barker leads him back to the admin block, where the grass is still as lush as it is in the daytime, and into a new building opposite the reception. Even with the lights on, the corridors are eerily dark, and Crow keeps his eyes glued to his feet until he’s brought to a halt. Shining like a beacon in a dark storm, a small room with a little desk and telephone glows a soothing honey colour. The door is held open to him, and he takes it.

It’s warm in here. Warmer than anywhere else in the school, and above all, quiet. Completely peaceful. There’s no crunching footsteps to be heard in the background, nor the chattering of boisterous children fading in and out of earshot. The phone sits in pristine condition, almost as if it doesn’t wish to be touched. As if it’s telling Crow to turn around and leave, lest he disturb the tranquillity of what little he has left.

He picks up the receiver gingerly. He knows the number. It’s one of the most important things he’s ever had to remember, and when he’d been given it, he’d spent that night in bed reciting it over and over and over again. He doesn’t like to lean on people, he rarely leans on his friends in ways that matter, but this one is just a little different.

The rotor trills as he puts the number in, and the monotonous whirr of the dial tone has his heart racing, only for it to drop out of his chest when the line is picked up. His voice crackles, and comes out as a mere hiss into the receiver.

“Prof...professor? Professor Layton?”

There’s a pause.

“Crow…? Is that you, my boy? I wasn’t expecting you to call. Not at this time of night. Is everything quite alright?”

What does he even say? He feels he could shout and scream, swear down the receiver, or just burst into floods of tears, but none of those feel like they could ever bring him real satisfaction. If he tries, the disappointment will only mount higher. He manages a sigh, just to assert that the professor had been heard.

“I don’t...erm. It’s...it’s all a bit complicated. It, it all went a bit...wrong, y’know?” Crow finds himself laughing of all things, and palms his sweating face with trembling lips. Now that he’s made to bring everything out into the open, it all feels so...ridiculous. “Where do I even begin?”

“Is this about the black market…?”

“No. No, this is about...this is about me. Just me. Professor, I-- I’m in London. Right now, actually,” Crow tells him softly. His tone is nearly playful, and for the first time, he’s made aware of his own inability to address dire circumstances with sincerity. There’s always a part of him that just refuses to behave. “I’m not in trouble, but...it bloody feels like it.”

“You’re in London? Whatever for?”

Crow sinks, and decides the best way to take this call is hunched over on the floor, stretching the telephone wire out as far as it will go. He reiterates the events of the past two weeks with a voice that sways depending on which bit he’s talking about. It’s a fluid mix of bleak amusement and stifled tears, and the professor patiently listens until the very end. Only when Crow goes quiet does the professor finally take his time to speak.

“That is...a very big change for you. It’s regrettable you were made to leave Misthallery. You adored that town more than anyone else in it, I could tell.”

Pleasantries don’t help. Crow wants to snap, but just hearing a familiar voice is a blessing. One he doesn’t want to ruin. His grip on the receiver tightens, and so does the clench of his jaw. This conversation will echo in his head for as long as it takes for him to find his way home.

“I...I know it might sound like a long shot, but you couldn’t help me, could you?” Crow chuckles evenly, as if he might be asking for a cup of sugar or a lift to the shops. “I still owe you for the last time you bailed me out – and I’ll make good on that, mark my words – but...I just need—”

“Crow. If I had the power to put this all right for you, I would do that.”

“Don’t just say that! I-I don’t need you actin’ like you feel sorry for me, too!” Crow suddenly spits, feeling a rush of something white-hot shooting up his throat. “I know this would never have happened if I had been just a bit more careful about who was knockin’ on me door, b-but...come on, come on, there must be some way to get me back home! If anyone can do it, I know it would be you!”

The line goes silent. He presses the receiver against his cheek so hard that it leaves an imprint, hoping not to miss a single sound. The anxiety of squandering his one line out of here has his fingers shaking. Eventually, the professor replies, but his calm demeanour only brings forth further despair.

“Crow, would you like my honest opinion?”

“I...I suppose.”

“Even if it might not be the opinion you were hoping to hear?”

“...Yes.”

He can hear the professor shift around through the warbling static of the line connecting their two devices. There’s a distinct clearing of the throat, and Crow wonders if Luke is somewhere in the background.

“I think that this is an incredibly golden opportunity for a boy like you, and that you simply haven’t seen that yet. Your levels of intelligence and self-awareness astounded me when we first met – I might have been able to see through your trick, but I certainly couldn’t see through you. You say that if anyone in this world can make your circumstances work, it would be me, but you’re wrong.”

Crow bites at his lip hard enough to bleed. The faint taste of copper blends with the tang of puke still lingering between his teeth. Roll the salt of some tears into the mix, and it tastes like his worst nightmares all occurring at once...yet somehow, the sting of liberation is unmistakable. Somewhere in there is something new. The suspension before the drop.

“You are the only person who can make the most out of where you are. There’s lots to be found in that new school of yours, and lots for you to learn that you can take home with you. Use that. Use it to keep yourself safe. You severely underestimate yourself if you think this is a hurdle you cannot overcome.”

Crow nods sagely, even though it cannot be seen. A smile works its way through the gloom, and he realises what the sudden feeling of freedom washing over him really is. The peace of giving up.

“I’m sorry I cannot help you in the ways you wanted. To be honest, I’ll be out of London for the next few days, but if you were to send me a letter after then, I would most certainly reply. This is simply a problem that I have no power to help you with, but I’m flattered you think so highly of me.”

“I-I understand,” Crow sniffs, feeling a little silly for ever having the idea to ask for help. After all, that’s how this always pans out for him. Even though the professor’s words had been of the utmost kindness and encouragement, he’s still alone. Like always, the only thing he can do is walk it off. Put a brave face on, and make it all seem inconsequential. Every last bit of it. “Of course. I’m sure you got other things to do. Mysteries, an’ all that lark.”

“Quite. This one in particular is...strange. I received a letter regarding an inheritance, if you can believe it. When I return, I shall tell you all about it.”

“Sure. I’d...I’d like that,” the boy lies, hoping that instead they might never have to cross paths again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you…”

“You’ve done no such thing. Actually, it’s good to hear from you – how is your eye doing now?”

Crow gives the start of a fumbling response, hoping to steer the conversation away from anything important, but admits, “S’alright. Don’t hurt any more, but it’s still full of blood. Can’t see right yet.”

“I see. It’s good to hear you’re improving. If it starts getting worse again, though, please, Crow…”

“I know, I know,” Crow swallows assuring him reluctantly, “I’ll tell someone about it. Y’don’t have to worry. Anyway, I’ll let you get on. G’bye.”

“I’ll speak to you again, Cr—”

Crow hangs up before he finishes, and he roughly rubs the flat of his palm over his chest where the dent in his breast starts to ache. There’s a bone there he thinks he must’ve clipped at some point over the last few days, and it’s not a great pain, but it’s persistent. After holstering the receiver, he takes a minute to sit and process things before he has to head back and start figuring out his new nighttime routine.

But, there’s not really much to process. He’s not getting any help out of this. That’s the long and short of it, and it’s left him exactly where he was before. Light-headed, queasy and at a total loss of what to do. He’s got no more helping hands at his disposal. Layton is right. He’s the only one who can help himself now, but the professor’s praise might’ve been more encouraging if he didn’t feel like he was already at rock bottom. It’s so much easier to shoulder all the burden when he can at least see the reason to keep going in the faces of his friends, but here? What is there around here to really keep the fire going? It’s a vast sea of unrecognisable, unrelatable identities, and his own is getting caught up in the wash, extinguishing hope, morale and even his own arrogance.

He chokes back this bitter defeat silently, leaving the room and saying nothing more to Barker, who at least has the decency to recognise the hurt on his face. In a display of kindness that has Crow wanting to punch out windows, he offers no further suggestion, and quietly escorts the boy back to the dormitories.

Wren ends her first auction night with a piece of paper being wafted under her nose.

Alright, so she hadn’t done as much as she would’ve liked – who could’ve foreseen such a breakdown of confidence? – but clearing up everything afterwards is a good kind of recompense. She’d even shoved Marilyn out the door, ordering her to go home and get some rest after all had been finished up. With the ledgers filled out properly, the back room sorted and swept, and the auction house given a quick run over with the duster, most of the chores are done by about eleven.

Then, to some surprise, a new revelation from Louis. If his part in their last catastrophe is anything to go by, she worries that he’s about to herald some kind of disaster. It doesn’t help that his expression is grey and soulless when he shakes the paper in her face. She shoots him a withered, pained kind of grimace, and throws down the broom she’d just been using.

“Louis, I don’t think I like that look in your eye. No offence,” she says with a small, empty laugh. She takes the paper from him, if only because it’s becoming a bother, but she hesitates to look at it.

“Sorry,” he says without a hint of apology. “I thought this would be the best time to bring it up to you. Didn’t want to dull the mood. It’s about Arianna.”

Wren pales. “D-don’t tell me...oh, we’re not gonna lose Arianna as well, are we? I-it’s okay, we can just...we can just stash her down here! Tony, too! Hide ‘em down here, nobody will be any the wiser—”

Louis gives her a hard nudge to shake her out of her tangent. He doesn’t need to tell her that it’s completely unrealistic, and she deflates on the spot, fingers rubbing at the paper that’s now curling under the heat of her hands. She starts to pout defiantly, knowing what she’d like to do is shove paper into Louis’ coat and be done with it, but she knows better than that. She reluctantly unfolds it.

“S’not an immediate worry,” he offers quietly, “but it’ll become one if we don’t do anythin’. When I went up to the manor the other day to talk about her dad’s will, she showed me that.”

“What is it?” Wren asks, peering at the typed print. The words are being read, but in the order they’re in, nothing makes sense.

“It’s...a threat.”

The soles of her boots squeak as she begins to fidget, starting with her toes before working its way up to her shoulders, which begin to shudder. The more she reads, the more furiously she bites at her lip, until a sliver of skin tears and brings with it beads of blood.

“A threat,” she repeats with no inflection.

Louis pulls a hand out of his pocket to tap the top of the paper – the warble it makes echoes in the suffocating silence of the storage room. “This isn’t the only one. There’s a few of them, and she’s been getting them in the post for a few months now. At first, she didn’t think anythin’ of it – who would? – but now...they’re getting angrier.”

She feels she’d have more than a few choice words for the scum who’s been sending this vile drivel to the letterbox of a teenage girl, but the letter springs forth a fountain of questions. Not just who would bother to write this rubbish, and who would have the agenda to do so in the first place, but...why?

“Why...why so many of ‘em?” Wren asks aloud. “Ain’t that scary? It’s a threat, alright, but if they ain’t followed through on it yet, it must mean...well, it must mean that there’s something they want, right? I mean, it’s hardly a ransom or anything…”

“Let’s not speak that outcome into existence,” Louis wheezes pleadingly. “I made sure to tell her and Tony to stick together like glue, and to keep themselves mostly at home. You’re right about them wantin’ something, by the way, it said so right here on the bottom—”

“No, I mean-- I can see what they want, but...why do they want it? There’s got to be more to it than just this request. It’s not like it’s unreasonable, but...cripes, the way they’re askin’ about it is wicked. Surely, this is a crime.”

“It might just be, but we’re in no position to get the police involved – as if we’ve ever been able to before. With Arianna and Tony on their own, they’ll get snatched just like Crow if the police catch onto them. It’s tricky. We really can’t risk it.”

Wren’s expression becomes a little more stern, and all panic begins to disappear from her posture. Neatly, she folds the paper up and slips it into her pocket, and catches Louis’ eye with a cat-like smile. One that’s a little unfamiliar on such a kind-hearted face.

“Leave that to me,” she tells him coolly. “I’ll start lookin’ into it, but let me know if you get any more! God, Arianna, you couldn’t have told us ‘bout this a bit sooner? Yeesh.”

“I had a feelin’ you might have it in hand,” Louis replies with a sincere kind of smile. However, anyone who knows the sceptical Louis well would know his belief would never end there, but he says nothing further. With a wise grace, he faithfully keeps his mouth shut. If Wren wants to truly put him at ease, she’s going to have to follow through all the way and get some answers, all while slotting herself into the impressive hole Crow has left behind.

Now, if she can just make that happen…

“Miss Arianna Barde

I wish you well on this day, even in the wake of the many letters I’ve sent to you. As each day passes, the treasure you sit upon grows in value. Monetarily, it is nothing compared to the influence it will have on this world, and even at your age I know you understand this. However, what comes with your youth is the loneliness of losing your family. For that, you have my deepest sympathies, but it brings to my attention the matter of your guardianship. If you have no guardian to speak of to manage the affairs of your estate and your person, then it may be my duty to bring this information up to the relevant authorities.

I do not mean to be callous, but the situation demands it. I do not think you selfish for neglecting this matter, rather I’d attribute it to your age, but the matter still stands. The time you spend thinking it over is time that could be spent using your treasure for the benefit of not just the country, but the world at large.

I’m certain you understand this.

Sincerely, a most concerned individual.”

Chapter Text

The first school day.

From the very moment he’d woken up, pillow stained with drool and eyes wet with lingering tears, he’s been trying to swallow down a lump in his throat that just won’t go. He’s careful to breathe slowly, to convince himself there’s nothing wrong, but it’s ragged. He’s not felt like this since the very first time he took up the stage under the mask of the mythical Black Raven. This costume, however, he feels to be a little less inspiring, and far more suffocating.

The clothes all fit him, which is surprisingly uncomfortable. Rather than a too-big under-shirt, a too-small waistcoat, and trousers that Marilyn has been letting out inch-by-inch as the years have gone by, each garment sits on his person perfectly. The sleeves aren’t too tight, the waist doesn’t sag – though the blazer is a little big around the shoulders – and the shoes are brand new. Proper brand new shoes that fit his feet, that don’t leave bruises and blisters, and don’t force him to walk on the tips of his toes. Shoes he doesn’t have to hammer nails into when the soles rip.

He gazes owlishly into the mirror at the end of the room as if he might be looking at an entirely different person. The clothes themselves are smart, but they don’t look it on his body. The shirt is crisp and white, the trousers and blazer are black with red trim – it’s not an offensive-looking uniform by any means, but it looks outlandish on him.

The saving grace overall is the school hat that accompanies it. It’s optional during the daytime, but mandatory for photographs, assemblies and formal events. It’s a bright red, not as pleasant a colour as his blue one, and doesn’t quite sit on his head the way he’d like, but it’ll do. A small, lingering comfort. It’s the one part of his uniform that puts a smile on his face, and he thinks he’s just about ready for the day as he tugs the brim down firmly over his forehead.

He takes two steps towards the door before a sickly cough interrupts him, and bless him, he knows Albert doesn’t mean to be at all condescending, but the hesitant look plastered on his face doesn’t sell it well. He’s already gesturing to Crow with an accusatory finger before he can muster the explanation, and Crow is pre-emptively rolling his eyes.

“Sorry, my friend, but you’re missing the tie,” he says apologetically. “I know it’s a right pain sometimes, but you’ll get struck down a mark for not having the right uniform. That’ll be a detention, or worse.”

He, himself, is dressed immaculately to the point Crow feels a sting of envy. The uniform doesn’t just fit him, it suits him brilliantly. He looks perfectly smart and respectable (which to Crow’s lot is grounds for an insult and a scrap), and it makes not just Crow, but Duncan as well, stand out as scruffy and inferior. Duncan is wrestling with his own tie at the moment, cursing at it under his breath as he tries not to asphyxiate himself.

Truthfully, Crow had seen the tie, but had simply assumed (hoped) that it was optional. He sighs, snatching it up from the pile of clothes stashed under the bed, and holds it out to Albert. If he’s going to try and blend in enough to help him get out of here, he’s going to need some help. It might be embarrassing to ask for aid like this, certainly not his first course of action, but it’s miles better than being caught short out in the thick of it. The ghoulish face of the teacher from yesterday suggests itself.

“I dunno how to tie a tie,” he proclaims matter-of-factly, far too brusque an admission when asking for a favour. “And I don’t much fancy getting called out for that, so...mind givin’ me a hand?”

Albert looks briefly taken aback, but smiles agreeably and takes the tie from him. Then, with a knowing smirk, he swings the thin, silky fabric over Crow’s head and begins to natter away. The boy can talk about a mile a minute, which Crow will admit is not a skill shared with any of his friends back home in Misthallery.

“I’ll do you much better than that, pal, I’ll teach you how to do it yourself. See here, now, you’ll want to pull this bit down a bit, and then take this side and wrap it around...”

So far in his schooling life, all Crow has managed to ascertain is that tying a tie is easier than using a fountain pen, but not by much. It’s a poor replacement for his beloved scarf, which is draped over the headboard like a lonely cat. He stares balefully down at the accessory, tugging it out so it doesn’t feel so tight around his neck, which only causes Albert to chide him.

“No, don’t pull it like that, you’ll tighten it out. It’s supposed to sit that way. It’s a bit uncomfortable to start, but I’m sure you’ll get used to it. Duncan did.”

Duncan, ignorant to his friend’s sympathetic words, does not seem to be used to it. He’s sort of biting at it like a dog, yanking it every which way to get it to loosen. It reminds Crow not fondly of the yapping little dog Socket once had when they were much younger, and how it would yank the lead out of his hand and sprint off whenever they went on walks. Though Socket claims otherwise, he’s quite sure that dog bit him on the arse once.

“Uh-huh…” Crow murmurs, unconvinced. “I’ll...keep that in mind.”

“Duncan, hurry up,” Albert chitters brightly, coaxing him in the direction of the door. “Everyone’s leaving for breakfast already. I don’t want to be back of the queue again.”

“Right,” Duncan huffs, slinging the tie around his neck and making for the door with haste. “I’m starving. Cor, why can’t they just let us use clip-ons? Be a lot easier. You agree with me, right, Crow?”

Crow offers a non-committal noise, kicking the last of his belongings further under his bed before following the other two out into the corridor. Throwing up dinner last night left his stomach pitifully empty, even after Barker had offered him a couple of crackers to scarf down before bed. He’s in dire need of a proper meal, and just for an hour, he thinks he should be able to tune out the ripples of discontent surrounding him enough to fill his belly, even if it means keeping his nose to his plate, and hiding himself between his two new...friends.

To call them friends… That’s...not weird, is it?

The first class is even more of a breathtaking experience than breakfast, and not in a good way. Now that students are morphing into their own groups, shuffling in hordes to their respective classes, Crow is becoming gradually singled out as a new face. He’s almost put on his backside when he’s jostled by two taller teens running past him, leaping up the staircase to the classrooms above – one of them is the boy he’d seen yesterday with a striking similarity to Badger.

The main schoolhouse is not at all shabby. The floors are a bit worse for wear, their polished lustre having been eroded over time by countless, restless feet, but everything else has been cleaned up for the new term. The walls are neatly painted, homing portraits of past alumni and teachers, the brass adornments of the doorknobs and chandeliers are sparkling, and the windowpanes are gleaming, though Crow can tell they rattle unevenly in their frames, wondering if that could be a potential way out of the building at a moment’s notice.

He’s spent the entire morning up until now wedged protectively between Albert and Duncan, surveying the area and mapping out just how this is all going to go if he wants to get through this experience unscathed. Breakfast had done him good and bolstered his confidence, but when the boys are led from a jumbled line outside of the classroom and into a pre-planned seating arrangement, he starts to sweat. Okay, no problem, he can tough this out. It’ll be a rough start, but he’s been dragged through worse. Maybe his neighbours in class will be alright.

The boys are listed in an alphabetical roster, and file to each desk when their name is called. There’s a pause when Crow is asked how to pronounce his surname, and Crow gloomily realises he’d forgotten he ever had one. In the classroom, it puts him square in the middle. Albert is somewhere at the front, and Duncan in the far-right back corner.

Unlike the usual format of two boys to a desk, these desks are separated to one per person, laid out in four formal rows. They look nice enough from afar, but actually settling down in one grants Crow a more honest view of school life. Someone’s taken a pen like a chisel to the side of the surface, flashing the fibrous grain of the wood inside. There’s a smiling face drawn around the empty hole in the corner meant for inkwells, and towards the bottom, a student has expressed his boredom with sitting in a maths class in 1948. This is the kind of social resilience and truth that Crow finds compelling and familiar, and it puts him into an immediate daydream. He thinks fondly about his friends, wondering what sharing a classroom like this with them would be like, and in the light of day he’s a little more certain that they’re holding things together well without him. Not too well, he’d like to be welcomed back with some relief, but they shouldn’t struggle.

“Hey, you, the teacher’s talkin’ to you.”

Crow’s given an elbow across the desk by a short, stocky boy sitting beside him. With a gormless blink, Crow is turned back to the front of the room where the teacher is watching him expectantly. Thankfully, she seems disapproving over angry, but it’s enough to put the other boys into fits of giggles. Crow rubs at his cheeks, eager to hide any evidence of embarrassment, and momentarily locks eyes with a sympathetic-looking Albert who is of no help to him whatsoever.

“S-sorry, miss,” he chokes out behind his hand.

She throws up a brow, contentment working its way onto her youthful face bit by bit. She’s on the younger end of the spectrum of teachers here, but her eyes are too sharp to admit inexperience. With a sigh, she gestures loosely to her face with a swiping motion. When Crow doesn’t understand, she testily clarifies, “Whilst the rules on hair length aren’t hard and fast here, we do have some expectations for the way you present yourself. Could you please brush your hair out of your face?”

Crow’s mouth hangs open. A splinter pricks the skin of his finger when he clamps down too hard on the edge of the desk, and the awaiting eyes of fifteen to twenty other boys around him stifle his breath. He tries to emit as much apology through look alone as he possibly can, hoping to cushion an answer the teacher likely doesn’t want to hear.

“Erm. N...no.”

Her eyes turn to steel. “I beg your pardon?”

“...No?”

She shakes her head, eyes wide and wary. In his periphery, he can just about make out the excited shuffling of the disbelieving boys sitting beside him. There’s no bigger splash a new student could make than refusing to comply with a teacher. The eager silence is sickening.

“I don’t believe it’s up to you,” she says warningly. Her previous patience, the waiting exasperation she’d shown before, is gone; being the new boy doesn’t afford him that much. “If you’re in need of a hairpin, I have plenty here. Is that what you want?”

He shakes his head. A slick sweat is forming on the back of his neck, and he’s certain his rising panic is not a fear of the fist of authority coming down on him, but the fact that he’s not outside, and there’s nowhere to escape. The stuffy atmosphere only makes him yearn for the fresher air of the countryside. Isn’t this what they call claustrophobia?

“Crow, you know I won’t hesitate to send you out of my class even on your very first day of school,” she tells him threateningly. “It’s not my wish to, but I will do it. Now, which would you rather prefer?”

Somewhere towards the back, Crow picks up on a whisper that he’s lucky pulling this stunt in a class with a teacher who is hesitant to dish out corporal punishment. Crow would agree, but he wouldn’t call this a stunt. The boys around him have stopped laughing, and are starting to look concerned by the prospect of trouble. The silence shifts from opportunistically entertaining to deeply uncomfortable.

The wound hasn’t healed fully, but...there’s not much else he can do. If he keeps refusing, then every idiot in class will want to badger him about it. Must every situation be a lose-lose for him?

He swallows, and rakes a hand under the loose lock of hair that falls over his brow. It tucks behind his ear well enough, not something he’s particularly used to feeling, but maybe if he fashions his hat right it’ll hide the worst of it. For now, he’s forced to bare the damage to an audience he feels a surge of disdain for. The teacher may just be doing her job, but it’s warped her new student’s first impression of her into a particularly ugly one.

She has the decency to recognise her mistake. She hides it well, but there’s the familiar, twitching downturn of the lips, almost parting in surprise when a wild streak of red catches her eye. He’s not had the chance to inspect it by himself for a little while, it’s still painless after the course of medication, but the blood hasn’t completely drained yet. Whether it feels better or not, he’s positive it looks ghoulish, and the ringing emptiness of the classroom genuinely hurts him. It hurts him more than being taken from his home, and more than isolating him from his friends. It hurts as an invasion of the one bit of privacy he can actually control, and now it’s just...thrown out into the classroom for everyone to see.

Now he remembers why he’d never gotten on with the prospect of classrooms. A peanut gallery under the pretence of learning.

The teacher says nothing more on it. She simply hangs her head, picks up her chalk, and begins to jot out on the board a plan for the autumn term’s lesson plan. Nobody dares utter a word, but the stares are palpable. At some point in her listless explanation, the hair Crow had tucked behind his ear works its way free and back into his face, and it’s left like that for the rest of the lesson, creating a burning presence that conceals half of a cold, deathly glare he maintains for the following hour.

A layer of cloud hangs thickly over the school by the time the first break of the day rolls around, and threatens rain, so most of the students remain indoors. It’s twenty minutes to do whatever one fancies, and for Crow, it’s spent huddled under the staircase in the main school building. Tearing a page out of the back side of his jotter gives him something to write on; the pencil he borrowed from Albert came with faint teeth-marks on the end, flaking away the paint.

He gets about a third of a way through a letter he plans to send back to Misthallery before a familiar voice interrupts him. Duncan hasn’t the most dulcet tones in the world – rather more of a cheese-grater quality to them – but his concern is unrestrained. Crow would shake him off out of pure self-consciousness if the guy wasn’t so wonderfully blunt.

“Yikes, that was some lesson,” he snorts, lowering into a squat to join Crow. “I didn’t see it from all the way at the back, but I sure heard some stuff. Albert wouldn’t say anythin’ – he kept talkin’ about how he didn’t want to speculate – but everyone else is sayin’ you got a dead eye. You alright?”

Crow just huffs, blowing a strand of hair out of his eye. “I can see just fine. S’not dead, it’s just...healing.”

“Well, that’s alright then,” Duncan replies blithely. “It’s not like we’ve got Gaffer today, so there’s no worries. Hey, you’re not doin’ your homework already, are you? Y’sure you’re not a swot?”

Crow petulantly pulls the paper away from his view, and nose-to-nose, he bites, “It’s a letter, nosey parker.” Not that he thinks there’s anything bad about doing his homework now. What’s wrong with being efficient? Work harder to make tomorrow brighter. Isn’t that always the best way? “I’m gonna send a note back to my friends at home.”

“Oh, right. Y’can’t use a pen, can you?”

Crow threatens to to bat him on the nose with a neat flick of his borrowed pencil, and hisses, “Are you done? I’m kind of busy here!”

Duncan doesn’t take a great amount of offence, and shoots him a lazy, unaffected smile. “Yeah, I think I’m done. Don’t forget we’ve got History next, so we’ve got a trek to the third floor ahead of us. Oh, by the way, I got told to pass this along to you. It’s from the English mistress. Here, uh...it’s in here somewhere-- ah, here we go!”

The boy forces a small scrap of paper into Crow’s hand. Whatever he says next falls on deaf ears, and Crow doesn’t bother to watch him shuffle away. Before he disappears, he urges Crow to hurry up with his letter before he’s left behind. The corridor has already begun to fill with the squeaking shoes of students dashing back and forth, passing Crow by as he hurriedly unfurls the paper.

“To whom it may concern,

Please consider excusing this student from the rules of attire on account of illness/injury to prevent distress.

Thank you, …”

The signature is illegible, but the intention shines forth. For a second, Crow feels a little more receptive to the methods of his English teacher, but he knows better than to flip his attitude too quickly. He’ll take the free help, but she’d better not expect anything in return. He won't be snared like that.

The rest of the school day proceeds without fuss, but is still nail-bitingly awkward. After the incident in English, it seems none of the boys in Crow’s class are all too keen to get close to him. It fends off their ire, but also their potential friendship, and though Crow could see this as a win-win for him, it’s frustrating to see this kind of peace come at the cost of his privacy.

The following lessons are History, which is taught by an incredible dull man with an incredibly dull beard, which only makes Crow long for the professor’s peaceful, droning voice even more, and Art, which was a surprisingly fun end to the day – his own love for mask-making had attracted the attention of the wiry-haired mistress, and pre-emptively put him in good favour. If the rest of the lessons are as easy to get through as these, then he’ll have all the time in the world to plan his escape. Just as long as he doesn’t get too distracted writing letters concealed beneath his workbooks, hands stained with ink, desperate to let those at home know what’s going on.

“Arianna,

I sent this letter to your house because you’ve got the easiest address of anyone. The school says I’m not allowed to make phone-calls whilst I’m here, so it’ll have to be through writing now. Where do I begin? It’s a bit of a mess, but I think I’ll be able to get myself out of it. Just don’t forget me whilst I’m gone, alright? I’ll put the address on the back of this letter for you.

This school is weird. It’s like a big prison with huge concrete walls, though the food isn’t bad. The teachers are a bit of a menace. I wish they weren’t so nosy, but I got a free pair of shoes out of the whole thing, so I can’t complain on that front. How’s the market doing? I’m sure you’re all keeping busy. I trust you to keep everything running smoothly until I’m back. Tell Wren there’s an empty ledger in the safe if she runs out of space in the current one, and not to wear that silly coat on stage or she’ll sweat to death!

I’m not sure when I’ll be back. The professor wasn’t much help this time around, so it’s just me. I’ll keep you updated. Just write back, okay? And, maybe send me some sweets in the post, too? I know it’s a lot to ask for, seeing as you’ll be paying postage and all.

See you soon, Crow.”

Chapter Text

“Calm down, Arianna, it ain’t another threat. I’d know this godawful handwritin’ anywhere. He’s been at that school for how long now, and he still can’t use a fountain pen properly?”

Nabby tears the letter open carelessly and tosses the envelope aside, which is caught diligently by Tony, who doesn’t take kindly to other people littering in his ancestral home. Arianna dances nervously on the tips of her toes, not at all comforted by the fact, nor by the entire gang of friends crowded sympathetically in her home. She’s had another letter this week, and they’re only getting more demanding as time goes on.

“He’s only been there a day or so,” Scraps bites, equally anxious to hear the contents of the letter.

“But, it does feel longer…” Gus shoves his hands into his pockets, and begins to wistfully kick at the floorboards. “He couldn’t even come and say goodbye. I-I’m sure he’ll come back, but…oh, what’s he saying, Nabby? Is it anythin’ good?”

“He’s...optimistic?” Nabby crows somewhat awkwardly, folding up the letter and slipping it into his pocket, much to the protest of his friends who wish to read it. “Hey, calm down, he’s doin’ fine. He says he’s got space to work, so he’ll be figurin’ out a way back in his own time – and that we should send him a few sweets in the post. But, haven’t we got somethin’ bigger to deal with? Like, whoever is threatenin’ Arianna and Tony?”

“It’s over the Golden Garden, isn’t it?” Wren frowns, bouncing impatiently. Unlike the others, she does not look worried. She looks fiercely determined and raring to go. “Someone found out about the garden, and now they want a piece of it! I thought the professor said to keep the place a secret!”

“We did! I don’t know about any of you, but I didn’t tell anyone!”

“He seemed to think that the air down there would be good for me. He said to keep it a secret until I was better,” Arianna recalls shyly, “and I’m surprised that it really worked, but after that, he said it was up to me what happened to it. He did recommend some good archaeologists to come and investigate the place to see what it really was. They’ve already come and gone, though. That was almost a year ago! And, I haven’t told anybody else about it since then. Perhaps one of them let it slip…”

“Which is all well and good,” Louis considers, “but it doesn’t really make sense, does it? I mean, they’ve already got first pick of the place, so what good does tellin’ anybody else do? And, if they want it for themselves so badly, why don’t they just come and get it like that guy did back when the spectre was in town?”

“Yeah, the only reason it was kept safe was because Loosha told us where it was, and he never got to see it! I’ll bet even now, he still doesn’t know exactly where it is. But, in the end, it’s just a bit of land. Who cares?”

Wren swiftly backhands her brother’s head. “Idiot, it’s not just a bit of land. That thing is a relic! The professor said it was a huge discovery, and most importantly, it was where Loosha came from. We can’t just give it up like that! Besides, it’s on Arianna’s land. She owns the property, so she owns the garden. That means it’s up to her what she does with it.”

“Hence the threat,” Scraps reminds her. “Kicking up a big fuss ‘bout it didn’t serve the villain well last time, and now that people know it’s here, they can just pull it right out from under Arianna and threaten her to keep her mouth shut. Keeps them off the coppers’ radar, too.”

“Or, so they think!” Wren smirks, casting a haughty eye down upon all of the loyal minions of the Black Ravens, who in turn watch her with flat enthusiasm. “I have Hans lookin’ at those letters right now! We’ll see soon enough if he can find anythin’ about who sent them.”

“Jeez, when did you become such a stooge for the filth?”

“I-I’m not!” she pouts. “It’s called utilisin’ an asset! Seriously, if we didn’t have his help durin’ our last investigation, we’d have lost Crow for good already! Hate ‘im if you like, but don’t forget that.”

“Investigation. You sound like a detective already. Aren’t you enjoyin’ this a little too much?”

“I-I don’t mind at all,” Arianna agrees, siding confidently with Wren, though withered by the excitement. “I trust her. Honestly, I feel a lot better knowing you’re all here to help. I don’t want to leave my home, and...I don’t want to give up the garden to anybody. It must be special if there are so many people interested in it, but it’s special to us, too! I just...don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. It’s not like I can actually go to the police, is it?”

“Not without them ratting you out to the services first,” Scraps sighs. “It’s tricky, but...Wren’s right. Hans did us a favour back then. So long as you can wrangle that idiot and not let him get in our way, I guess it’s alright.”

“Great,” Wren spits. “So glad to have yer permission. Well, whatever, that’s just one angle. I think we should take turns stayin’ here in the manor with Arianna and Tony in case anythin’ happens. Safety in numbers, y’know?”

“And,” Marilyn adds, who has been patiently listening to her friends’ bickering up until now, “if the going gets real tough, you can always come stay in the hideout. I know you don’t want to leave home, but,” pause for a brief reminder of being displaced during the event of the spectre, her home smashed to pieces by the selfish whims of a truly villainous man, “it’s better to keep you safe first. Besides, they know where it is, not how to get into it, and the rest of the village will have questions for anyone trying to drain the lake. Ain’t really normal behaviour, is it?”

“It’s better than nothing,” Tony sighs, but forces a grateful smile nonetheless, and tugs encouragingly at the hem of his sister’s dress. “I should keep all my disguises on standby! There’s no need to worry, Arianna.”

“H-hey, no need to treat me like that. I’m making the most of my time too, you know! I have plans and everything!” She’s still pale, but she throws her nose up to add a bit of weight to her claim. “It’s just better to have more than one, right? I like to think of what Luke would do in this scenario.”

“...Eat an entire roast lamb by himself?”

“Well, obviously not that! No, I know these grounds like the back of my hand! Anyone who comes here to try and take the garden from us will regret it!” Despite her proper upbringing, Arianna really is a feisty sort deep down, and it seeps through her nerves. Her knees knock when she talks, but she has the guts to put a brave face on. “But, what about Crow?”

“He’ll be alright,” Nabby tells her, but not with any particular reassurance. If anything, it prompts a glare from her. “If his plan goes arse-up, he’ll let us know. Then we can start worrying.”

“I mean,” Arianna stamps a petulant foot, causing Tony to take a cautious step back, “what are we going to tell him? Should we tell him about the letters I’ve been getting, or—”

“Absolutely not!”

“Why not?!”

“And bother him more?” Nabby’s irritation is about as flat as the rest of him, but he strikes an unusually sharp chord, and swipes a wrist under his nose. “If we tell him about what’s going on here, he’ll flip his lid in a panic, and it won’t help anyone. We tell him the market is doing great, and that’s it. Wait for him to get back—”

“If he can even make it back! For a friend, you’re awfully unworried about what’s happening. You just brush it off like he’ll be able to take care of it, but what if he can’t?! Then what? By that point, I’ll bet it’ll be too late, and we’ll have no idea where to find—”

“Whilst I’m lovin’ this marital dispute,” Scraps takes a step between them, dry and unfiltered, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder, “Gus looks like he’s about to cry, so let’s stop this, and go and do something that’s actually useful.”

“I-I’m not crying! I wasn’t goin’ to! I swear!” Gus snivels to nobody’s belief.

“Yeah, I think we’d better get back to work,” Socket agrees, having been inching for the door since the start of the conversation. He tugs Badger by the sleeve. “If you ask me, I think Crow will be alright. It seems like he ain’t goin’ anywhere for the time bein’, so let him think of a plan. We gotta focus on the garden right now.”

“Not so much the garden, but the person behind the letters…” Wren strokes her chin thoughtfully, her intellectual image hindered solely by the lack of a smoking pipe. “But, you leave that to me for now! I’ll start snoopin’ around for clues!”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be running the market, Sherlock? We still need to price up the stall stock for next week.”

“I can do two things at once! I’m not Socket!”

“Hey!”

“So...do you think Crow will really be okay?”

The small, square pit dug into the soft, wet soil of the manor’s tower has deepened by about five feet – Socket can no longer be seen from inside, and Badger can only just about peer over the top if he stands on the tips of his toes thanks to his near-monstrous height. The mud from within is collected in a threadbare, burlap sack, and periodically taken outside to be tossed into the lake.

Socket pauses, a sharp rock extricated from the soil sitting in his open palm, which he absent-mindedly begins to toss. “I do. I mean, he’s a bit of a wonder kid, ain’t he? He always finds a way out. He promised me when Wren got the nick that he’d get her out, and he did. He promised here he’d be back, so...I believe him.”

Badger watches him silently for a moment, observing the way the trowel he’s holding plunges into the hardening dirt with a satisfying squish. It’s not the weirdly mindless optimism that Nabby seems to have warmed up to – an unlikely revelation for the perpetual pessimist – but one based entirely in trust for his friend. He’s not worried by his circumstances because he thinks so highly of Crow’s capability. His self-preservation. Perhaps he has a right to feel that way, but Badger can’t help but fret. It feels too convenient for his liking. Things never end up the way he hopes.

Eventually, he replies quietly, “I’m jealous. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but...the world is big. He can’t keep everythin’ off his back. The whole reason he’s in that state in the first place were his dad, and it’s not like he could’ve ever…”

It goes without saying. A teenage boy against a grown man seldom ends well for the underdog.

Socket tosses a handful of soil up over the rim of the hole, where it dissolves into a cloud and settles loosely on the growing pile. “I guess you’re right,” he says rather blithely. “But, ain’t our whole group about pulling one over on adults? We’ve fooled tons o’ people. Who’s to say we can’t do it here?”

“You’re really not worried, are you?”

“I am! I just...don’t feel like…I guess I don’t want to feel bad about it right now. I’ve got work to do, y’know? And, who wants to work with that hangin’ over their head? We’ve got enough to worry about with Arianna. I don’t think Crow would like it if we left her in the lurch to go help him. He’d probably be fumin’ and yell at us like he did when we knocked that patron in the canal during that trial.”

“T-that were an accident,” Badger balks suddenly, turning to busy himself with the ever-interesting wall of dirt that surrounds them. “I didn’t mean to…”

Socket simply laughs. “Yer s’posed to be a masked figure of legend, but what kind of legend are you when you get spooked so easily?”

“Comin’ from you, you wouldn’t dare jump off a roof like Wren would.”

“I like the ground!”

“Clearly, or we wouldn’t be six-feet deep in a dirt pit! Speakin’ of, what if this thing collapses? Do you know where you’re goin’ with this?”

Socket grins, dirt smeared over his cheeks, which is becoming a regular sight for him. Badger is getting used to seeing more muck in the mirror at the end of the day too, but he’s still not keen on all the details about Arianna’s request. The deeper they go, the more he worries they’ll be flattened by a landslide of mud.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be reinforcin’ it as we go. This...this building is weird, y’know, there’s not much foundation on the inside, but the walls seem to go down forever. I wonder if it’s all supported from outside the building….”

“Are you trying to dig through the wall? We’d never manage that!”

“Nah, we’ll just dig until we find the bottom of it!”

Badger continues to work at a steady pace, but it’s much slower than Socket’s mechanical efficiency. He’s so meagre and easygoing in almost every aspect of his life, which is growing into a stark contrast from his tactically-clueless-turned-workaholic sister, but the moment he gets a tool in his hands and a job to do, he moves at an unbelievable speed. The impressive familiarity with what he does oozes from every movement.

He hates to repeat himself, but finds himself murmuring, “I’m jealous…”

“Again?”

“Only because you’re so...I dunno. I dunno what the word is. It’s like you don’t care if summat bad happens…”

Socket stops to watch Badger work for a short while. He doesn’t handle being stared at very well – it’s half the reason the Black Raven mask is such a thrill – so he finds himself speeding up, awkward, nervous, and oddly hoping to impress. But, it doesn’t occur to him that digging through the dirt with his fingers like a large, anxious mole makes him look more deranged than dedicated. He stops when Socket reaches out to hold one of his hands.

His fingers are pretty small and not terribly dextrous, but he seems to make do just fine. He wraps them around three of Badger’s longer, needle-like digits – bony, knuckle-white, and always bulging from his bruised, tan skin – and pulls them towards himself. Then, rather abruptly, he shoves the trowel he’d been using into Badger’s hand.

“You should...prob’ly use this. You look like my dog when he went diggin’ for bones in the garden.”

The worst part about being flustered by something is that he can never find anything to say. Socket is so good at rolling with his own idiocy, and Wren is endearing in the way she tries to style out her social faux pas. Even Gus, who is terminally dopey and drops blunder after blunder seems to tackle the heat in his own, rosy-cheeked, innocent way. Badger can’t do that. He just freezes like a deer in headlights, blank, unresponsive, and owlish.

All he can bring himself to say after a tediously long pause is, “But, you need this.”

“Nah, you can keep diggin’. I should start working in reinforcements,” Socket grins, not at all fazed by whatever seems to be nipping at Badger’s ankles. The dogs of teenage sociological war. “Actually, I don’t s’pose you can give me a boost up. I didn’t think we’d get this deep so soon, and I didn’t bring a ladder.”

“Sure. Y’want a leg-up, or…?”

Chewing his lip, Socket replies, “It’d need to be a high leg. I ain’t very good at climbin’.”

Badger moves to give him a leg up, regretting it the moment Socket plants a dirty, mud-caked shoe into the palms of his hands, and even more so when pushing Socket upwards causes him to slip, fingers raking through the unsteady topsoil, and collapse painfully right on top of him.

“Or, you could just drop me! That’s fine, too! Hey, are you alright…?”

Chapter Text

For most, the banality of routine keeps people tethered to earth, grounded and assenting, but for Crow, it’s...itchy. That’s not to say he’s a thrill-seeker, he quite likes the tedium of paperwork and organisation, but he gets to work on his own time, whether it be during a lazy, warm afternoon or a tense night where home is not viable. The freedom of choice. The freedom to invite boredom into his life when and where he sees fit, because everyone must experience it at some point. Liberation is good for the soul, but tedium keeps the world real.

Homework is easy, but he’d prefer to do it when he feels like it. He’d had to sit through some short English assignments, referencing between textbooks, but the ambient shuffling and sniffling of tables and tables of boys around him, all herded into the dining hall and sharing a cloud of post-meal bliss, was a kind of excruciating he didn’t know existed. What’s worse, although the method of work was foreign to him, he’d finished half an hour before everyone else, and not wanting to be singled out for his diligence, ended up sitting in dull silence until the hush had lifted.

He’s got it all in hand, but it’s hardly inspiring. It lends a tinge of cockiness that has never really benefitted him in the past. Misthallery is too humble a town, even for the likes of the illustrious Black Raven. Here, he sails confidently through the curious looks of boys from other classes who have heard about the unusual boy with the strange eye, and the routine meetings with Barker who is effectively his new social worker in Melanie’s stead. He thinks nothing of the homework, little of the lessons he’s forced to sit through, and retains only what he feels like he ought to know later down the line. Until the second period of his second day.

The procedure for classes are simple. All boys line up against the wall outside the classroom in alphabetical order – their seating order – and are inspected for uniform and hygiene before entering. Shirts tucked in, ties on straight, no breakfast or toothpaste smeared over the face; it’s easy for Crow, who had to learn how to keep himself presentable on his own merit. But, for his first Maths class, the atmosphere is strikingly different. There’s no idle chatter whilst they wait for the teacher to emerge. There’s no shuffling and fidgeting, or any signs of life and soul from his classmates. All of a sudden, they turn to stone, moving like machines with greying faces and trembling, still hands. He’s too far from Albert and Duncan to ask why, but his concerns are much abated when the classroom door finally opens, and the teacher steps out.

It’s the burly, hook-nosed teacher from day one.

The other boys don’t dare look at one another. They don’t even look at the floor, they just gaze into the middle distance with glassy eyes, hoping to blend into the wallpaper and not be seen. Like a mouse hiding from a fox, their rows are inordinately neat, enough that the proximity between each student could be measured perfectly with a ruler, and the teacher descends on them and begins his inspection. One by one, sizing each boy up, and if the uniform is acceptable, he says nothing. If not…

“While I appreciate certain people’s inclination towards a free and easy lifestyle in this decade, this school maintains a traditional sense of dress – and that says nothing on the fact you’ll see nothing of the board with your hair in your face. Pin it back or cut it.”

Crow hasn’t got Barker to hide behind this time, and there’s not a chance in hell any of these other boys will stick his neck out for him – and he certainly doesn’t blame them! He’d be hard-pressed to find a reason to willingly step into this man’s firing line, whose classroom is appearing him now more as a no man’s land than a place of learning. But, if he’s going to get his head shot off regardless, he might as well do it without forgoing his nature. He pulls the note from the English mistress from his pocket and holds it out for the teacher to take. The teacher opens it, reads it, and promptly crumples it up.

“Can you see? Are you in need of an eyepatch?”

“...No.”

“Then I see no problem,” the teacher grunts. “If it requires no medical attention, then there is nothing stopping you from adhering to the dress code. Your fellow classmates are here to learn, not to gawk at you – any boy who is looking at you is not looking at the board, and that will be promptly addressed. So...hair up, now.”

Crow begins to seethe, but he daren’t show it on his face. He swore to himself he’d never yield to a piddling adult, but he’s backed into a corner. This man doesn’t fall alongside the ranks of the sickeningly patronising or the mindless abusive – every word he says is thick, enunciated, and clearly well-chosen. It shows years of experience in a school, but the ugly streak of the no-nonsense and unsympathetic. The man is nothing like his father, who sees no need to justify anything. Everything is ironclad, and the slightest deviation would paint Crow as a miscreant and an outsider. And, he has no problem with being either of those things, but this guy is double his height, and forty times his weight.

He acquiesces, but his gaze drops like a ton of stone, and the one eye, still brimming with residual blood, locks onto his new nemesis with the coldest civility possible.

“And, you can wipe that look off your face.”

Or not. It’s no wonder the other boys are keen to go ignored. He can’t foresee a way of winning here, and though his classmates are not looking at him, he can practically feel their attention exuding, bearing down on him, all thinking the same thing – what an idiot.

The teacher wastes no time. There’s no preparation period, no easy introduction into the lesson, just a prompt seating and the shrieking of chalk battering the chalkboard. This is where Crow decides this teacher must be Gaffer, the one Duncan had spoken so poorly of. His name is written in thick cursive in the corner of the board, and is soon surrounded by a sea of numbers and formulae. As much as Crow feels a comfortable hatred for the man, he’s a little excited by the prospect of maths beyond what he can do with money. It’s the one thing that made him stand out from his friends, and pushed him into the world of business. A proclivity for numbers.

It’s fortunate that the method of Gaffer’s lessons require little student input other than choral repetition. The threat of punishment for stepping out of line looms heavy above their heads, but there is little time in which to rebel. The moment he’s done explaining the issue of one equation, he’s moved onto the next and threatened detention to anyone who doesn’t have this all written down by the end of the lesson. It’s no wonder he teaches mathematics. He’s built like it.

“And so, if a is seven, and b is five, you will find that the addition of these two sums will prove the answer. The substitution can be deduced quite simply by working backwards in these cases.”

It’s simple stuff, but still so satisfying. Not many things ring quite the same in Crow’s life than puzzles and numbers. He wonders if that’s how he’s found himself surrounded by them. The enigma of his market, and the numbers it yields. It’s wonderful and simple. So simple, in fact, that he begins to faze out when Gaffer starts to repeat an equation he’s solved long before it’s even been written up on the board. Numbers don’t change, the formula doesn’t change, so there’s nothing all that daunting about it. It’s the repetition that keeps him grounded better than anything else. That, and sweets. Speaking of sweets, he’s beginning to suffer from the impact of a sugarless life. School pudding is mediocre, and eating it feels like an insult to Aunt Taffy. Why waste his taste-buds knowing that a delicious bag of licorice is waiting for him at home? The perfect treat…

...is rudely interrupted by something coming down hard on his desk, jerking him back into reality, and throwing him almost a foot out of his chair. When the dust clears, almost literally, there’s a thin edge pressed into the wood of his desk. The imprint of a ruler. The room suddenly feels cold, and he hadn’t noticed it growing that way.

“Dare I repeat myself?” the black cloud lingering over him asks, threatening thunder. “That any boy not looking at the board is not paying attention?”

And the resulting punishment, well, if Crow hadn’t remembered it before, he’ll definitely remember it now, and the days it’ll take the welt on the palm of his hand to heal.

The utterly miserable follow-up punishment for his lack of attention, as if he needed more salt on the wound, is to help wash out the test tubes in the science room. There’d been no space to claim his intelligence, that he’d already learnt all that he needed to know on this particular topic, and even if there had been, it would’ve gone over about as well as the Black Market in a child labour court case. He’d have just wound up with two stinging palms instead of one.

It’s hard not to sling the glass around angrily and risk dropping things onto the floor, so Crow is forced to direct his anger in a different direction, and moodily looks around the room for things to sate his boredom. He’s not had a class in this room yet, an ageing science laboratory with thick rows of long, unbroken counter-tops, all equipped with gas taps and drawers for personal belongings. Of all the things he’s explored in his life, freedom permitting, science hadn’t been one of them. The extent of his scientific knowledge is how flammable portions of his home had been when doused in alcohol or filled with gas, and how chemicals in a can aren’t to be inhaled. He’s more of a biologist than a chemist, familiar with the many plants and animals that inhabit Misthallery, but never to hold a candle to Marilyn’s expansive knowledge. If he weren’t feeling so hard-done-by right now, he’d probably be feeling pretty keen...before feeling acutely betrayed by his own eagerness. It’s fine to settle in somewhat, but actually enjoying the experience is too risky. Good thing Gaffer is there with a ruler and a sniper’s flick of the wrist to stop that from getting out of hand.

He’s about halfway through a large stack of test tubes, all stained with a dark liquid residue, before he glances at the clock and realises he’s been here for fifteen minutes already. There’s still two more square-holed stacks of them left to go! Of all the chores in the world he hates doing, it’s the washing-up. How blissful it is to run a business that avoids that particular curse entirely. What few meals he ate at home had been off the same three plates, and it never did him any harm to give them the most cursory rinse before using. Chemical contamination, on the other hand, sounds like a mysterious issue, and he’s just beginning to wonder what this liquid even is before the tube almost slips from his soapy grasp, startled by a voice coming from over his shoulder.

“Ah, you’re already halfway done, I see. Good work. It’s very appreciated.”

Crow tilts his head to eye the teacher standing beside him – he often has to tilt quite a long way if they’re standing to his left – and sizes up a man who looks like the truest polar opposite to the man who put him here in the first place. He’s a bit more subdued-looking than Barker, with no aggressive facial hair or criminal jumper. Smaller, perhaps because he’s hunched over, with a mousy sort of temperament, and a keen pair of eyes hidden behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He wears a shirt, tie and nicely-knitted jumper, but still manages to look dishevelled somehow.

Where Crow stares at him blankly, the teacher seems to alight with a spark of familiarity, and he says, “Ah, you must be the boy they brought in from the social services. Might you be the lad with the incredibly impressive test scores?” His eyes glint cheerfully when he asks, and his lips stretch into a candid smile. “I believe you may be in my class tomorrow.”

Crow flushes a tad at being so easily recognised. It’s turning out to be a lot harder to blend in than he’d expected. He offers the teacher a sort of sheepish acknowledgement to the former, and to the latter replies, “I might be. You’re...not gonna make me wash these up again in class, are you?”

The teacher laughs. “No, no, that’s a job...well, that’s usually a job for my technician, but he seems to have disappeared for the time being. Normally, it would be him if it involved handling the more abrasive kinds of chemicals, but since this is only iodine, it’s perfectly fine for you to do it.”

“What’s iodine…?”

“A chemical element. Well, this isn’t – what you’re washing up there is a diluted form, but it’s still unpleasant to get on your bare hands or clothes, so...be careful.”

“I ain’t paying for this uniform, so I don’t give a monkey’s if I’m honest with you.”

The lingering bitterness from the punishment slips out rudely, and a bit too harsh towards a teacher who’s been nothing but cordial so far. Crow expects to find his punishment lengthened, but is surprised when the teacher begins to chuckle. He pushes his glasses up over his nose using the heel of his hand, exactly the same way Louis does…

“I suppose I must say that’s fair does, then. But, try not to run our budget low with cleaning bills. We’re short enough as it is, and I’ve been having trouble getting creative with my lessons without having the more interesting teaching elements. Not that Gaffer would mind particularly…”

Crow perks up at the mention, hoping for a bit of shared hatred as he spits, “Oh, so he’s no good to you then either, is he? Figures. Beatin’ my hand with a ruler – who does he think he is? I got dragged out of my home town for abuse, and now they’re throwin’ me right back in it!”

“I’d – careful with those, the glass is awfully...delicate – I understand it seems like an archaic practice. I remember it very well from my own school days. You seem to come from troubled circumstances, so whilst I think some leeway should be given, I suppose he might think he’s being fair by not treating you any differently from your classmates. That’s one way to blend in…”

He’s very articulate for someone so unassuming, but it’s so refreshing to have an adult truly speak in their own words as opposed to having to hear the watered-down, child-friendly version. It’s infuriatingly patronising, and even more bothersome when people don’t even seem to realise they’re doing it. With that on his mind, Crow settles into the conversation with a sense of comfort.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to school before. This is my first time.”

The teacher’s eyes flash with amazement, glinting in the refractive lenses of his glasses. “Is that so? That makes your exam scores even more incredible. You’ve really never been to school before? How is it you scored so high…?”

Crow has to scrub a little harder for a persistent stain, and the gloves he’s doing it in doesn’t make it easy. “I taught meself, didn’t I? I didn’t go to any of the classes, but I went to the library a lot. Lots of time to read. I...spend a lot of time doing maths, too, so…” Divert. Divert away from potentially self-incriminating topic. “Anyway, my town doesn’t have a proper school, so I don’t think I’m the only one who never went. The closest school is in the next town over, but the buses don’t run at the right times, and it’s over an hour away.”

“No school? May I ask where it is you’re from? Barker said you were somewhat local, but I didn’t hear how close.”

“Misthallery.”

The teacher pauses. It takes a few seconds of silence for Crow to glance up and gauge his reaction, and he looks positively stunned. Lost for words. What reply finally comes is somewhat broken but incredibly enthusiastic.

“Misthallery! How remarkable. I don’t profess to dabble heavily in geography, but Misthallery is one of this country’s most well-kept secrets. To exist in the way it does with the perpetually perfect conditions for mist is nothing short of a natural phenomenon. How very exciting. I’ve visited in the past, and it’s an absolutely stunning little town.” Crow’s smile grows the longer he speaks, but the teacher’s own face falls for just a moment as he adds, “That’s some tough luck to be taken from there. Knowing that, I’d consider your behaviour to be very cordial. Quite the environmental change between Misthallery and central London.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Crow grouses. “I never thought I’d hate to see the sun. London is alright, but it’s no home to me. The moment I’m finished here, it’s back to Misthallery. My house may have been flamin’ pigsty, but...it’s the town itself that’s my real home. Not some shoddy flat.”

The teacher smiles. He smiles for quite a while, considering his response, and finally says, “Despite your rough circumstances, it seems to me you’ve turned out incredibly well-adjusted and intelligent. Bravo, Crow. I’m looking forward to having you in my class.” He then emits a humming laugh, and gestures to the dwindling pile of dirty test-tubes. “And, then you’ll get to learn what iodine really is. The unabridged version. In the meantime, whilst I’ve got a big stack of homework to mark, why don’t I make us both a cup of tea?”

It’s a surprise. There aren’t many adults out there who actually seem interested in his personal comfort. No stiff apologies. No committed misunderstandings. The science teacher, in the span of ten minutes, proves himself to be perfectly reasonable, and with the bribe of a cup of tea, a safe haven in this prison. Crow couldn’t possibly refuse. It’s been a long time since he’s been made a cup of tea by someone who is better at actually caring than pretending to.

“I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

Days later, the world around still feels dreamlike. Marilyn conducts her usual business, rising early to help with the stall – a stall she’s been trusted to run on her own more often than not now – and keeping a keen, devoted ear to the ground whilst out and about in town, but there’s something about the place that feels so different. It’s as if she’d never stepped down from the stage, and the weight of the cloak of the Black Raven still rests on her shoulders. Even as she’s chattering to her usual patrons, content types hardly connected to the thrilling business running underground, it’s as if the very essence of the Black Raven is still lingering under her skin. The feeling won’t escape her. The tingling of nerves, but a wide, spreading sensation of...something. It’s eluded her for days now. Familiar, but nothing she can put a finger on.

If she were a nervous type, she might’ve chalked it up to post-performance depression, and become worried by its persistence over the past few days, but she can’t will herself to fret. It’s like walking on a cloud. Wonderful but precarious. If she could verbalise it, she’d bring it up to Wren directly, but there’s nothing coherent about it. All she can do is approach from an angle, and hope some understanding is found. Perhaps Wren can pick up the pieces she’s missing.

“The lights on that stage are awfully hot.”

Wren looks up, distracted by the papers in her hand, and murmurs, “Huh? What’re we talkin’ about?” Ever since the night of their first auction, it seems as if she’s never been without a bit of paperwork to leaf through. This better not become a habit that’ll take her attention away from the business…

“The stage down in the market. The spotlights are really warm,” Marilyn repeats, lacking inflection because even she doesn’t know what she’s trying to say. With no customers, she begins to flip through the change in the stall’s box of cash. “I s’pose it’s unavoidable, isn’t it? Even though the place itself is so cold. I wonder if there’s a way we can cool them down…?”

Wren, sitting on top of an empty crate stamped with an icon of reliable, fresh produce, begins to kick her feet in thought. The hollow wood thumps against the heels of her boots. “Socket thought about that once, but I don’t think he could work anythin’ out. He said the amount of power needed to generate that kind of light will always generate a ton o’ heat. It’s a miracle Crow could stand it for as long as he did.”

“The black costume doesn’t help,” Marilyn smiles, cheerfully uneasy. “Ain’t that a thing, where dark clothes absorb all the heat? If the costume were white, maybe it would have the opposite effect…”

“Cor, can you imagine; The White Raven? Actually, that sounds ridiculous. Who ever saw a white raven? You’d get mistaken for a pigeon!”

“I wasn’t bein’ serious.” Though, for a second, she wonders what it would be like if she really had been. A whimsical counterpart to the great legend. “If we had white costumes, we’d have a right old lot of washin’ to do at the end of the day. Badger never lifts the hem of his up when he’s runnin’ through the gutters, and you’ve seen how mucky it gets up there. I think I’d sleep better at night not knowing how dirty they really are.”

“Summat about blissful ignorance?”

Marilyn pauses. “Sure, if you want to call it that.”

“Speakin’ of, I’d better go catch up with Hans. He’s doin’ me a big favour looking into those threats Arianna’s been gettin’. Here’s hopin’ he comes back with summat good!” She roughly folds the papers in her hands and crams them into her coat pocket. “The quicker we get that sorted, the better!”

“You’re spendin’ an awful lot of time with him recently…” Marilyn comments inoffensively. She idly spins a threepence on its side, and catches it when it almost falls from the counter.

“Well, yeah, it’s...it’s better to have ‘im on our side, don’t you think? I’m no fan of the police – not after what they put me through last time – but havin’ ourselves a man on the inside is useful! Besides, he’s...goin’ through it, too.”

“You’re goin’ to say that after everythin’ he’s done to us?” Marilyn blinks. She’s got civility down to an art, but it’s very unlike Wren to bat her eyelashes and pretend all is well unless it gets her somewhere, and a foot in the door at the police station is not it. She has standards. She’s tricky, but not so conniving that she’d betray her own principles to get ahead.

Wren pulls herself to her feet. The reply doesn’t come quite as quickly, as comfortably, as Marilyn would like, and eventually she mutters, “Marilyn, nobody ever called you a sewer-rat. You’re the only one of us that people actually like.”

“That’s…” she trails defiantly, “not true. They like Gus, too.”

“That’s ‘cos there’s nuttin’ to hate about Gus. And, there’s nuttin’ to hate about you, either.” You have a good reputation in town, and it’s never been spoiled by bein’ friends with us.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

Wren pockets her hands and begins to walk away. “It means...out of all of us, I don’t think you should be tellin’ me who I can and can’t forgive. And, that’s not sayin’ I forgive him.”

“That’s not what I was gettin’ at. I’d much rather make friends than enemies. I just...don’t get why you’re spendin’ so much time over there instead of…”

The end of that sentence sounds somewhat nonsensical, Marilyn realises just as she’s about to say it out loud, but Wren is already halfway up the hill towards the bridge. The conversation helped very little. Now, on top of the growing pains of becoming the Black Raven, she fears she’s unearthed a different kind of problem. One she hopes might just shut up and go away if she keeps her head down.

When Hans doesn’t show at their designated meeting spot, Wren is forced to trek up to Highyard Hill and knock on his door herself. It’s only a touch humiliating, walking over such neat cobbles in her filthy, yellow boots. The flowers in bloom here are nothing like the staunch weeds and leafy foliage pushing up bricks around the market. She’s not keen to stick around and stand out, but seeing as it’s been a while since she came up this way, a detour is needed. She takes a moment to stop by Edgar’s house, empty now and on the market, but still oozing with the life and charisma of a very interesting man. Effie’s too, now with new tenants in a young family, where she decides she’d been silly for fearing the place was haunted. Now it all feels like a fond memory, except for whacking her head on the fireplace. Thinking back on it, Hans had been there, too.

Casting a wary eye over her shoulder, she finally lands on his doorstep, and her own personal tastes aside, it is a lovely, well-kept home. There’s a reason his mother is so highly regarded amongst the other housewives in town. Knows all the gossip, has a most reputable house – spotless, of course – and a husband and son to be proud of (generously assumed). Her cakes always win at the summer fairs, and she’s always the best garden in bloom throughout the spring. A model wife, which is...admittedly nothing Wren has ever aspired to be. Her sole dedication to future home-making is keeping Socket alive. She’s never thought much of owning her own dream home. Her ambitions are meant to be lofty at this age, but even she can’t suspend her disbelief that far.

She knocks on the door. There’s a doorbell, but she’s never dared use one again since the time Scraps’ buzzer gave her a nasty zap. This family will have to settle for her strongest copper’s knock, which is ironic given the household. Briefly, she worries if the patriarch has returned home from his business, and envisions herself as a mouse approaching a very nasty trap.

A moment later, Hans opens the door. He’s hardly surprised to see her, realising how late he is to their appointment, but his face is overwhelmingly grey and dull. He rolls a wad of bubblegum around his tongue, and shifts his weight to pull the door open further. He’s not inviting her in, but it grants her the view of the comfy, well-furnished landing of the house. Weird to think that Hans lives here. That he returns here at the end of every day. It couldn’t be more different to her own tip of a flat. Socket’s shoes would be in the way, for a start.

“Right. I was meant to be seein’ you. Well, don’t get excited. I didn’t pull up much.”

She tilts her head. “What kept you?”

For a second, he hesitates to reply. It sits in his mouth for longer than is comfortable before he finally admits, “Mum’s crying. It’s a mess. I wouldn’t ask.” She can sense some vague, hostile sorrow somewhere in the back of his throat – and somewhere in the back of the house, judging by the faint shrieking to be heard – and she offers him a most amenable nod. If there’s one thing she’s good at doing, it’s keeping quiet.

“It’s nuttin’ to do with me, anyhow. So, what did you find? Anythin’ at all?”

The wood nailed flush into the doorway groans when he takes a standing lean against it. “One thing; it’s not been sent by anyone in Misthallery. I checked with the postie on that. He said he’s never seen that handwriting in town before. Whoever it is never sent a letter to Misthallery until now.”

Which means it must not been sent by anyone who knows Arianna in person. That’s something, but Wren is forced to grumble, “Well, that just leaves the whole bloody rest of the country then, doesn’t it? Sheesh. Alright, I’ll take it. Is that everything? Really?” Not that she doesn’t trust him, but he doesn’t look like he’s worked a full day in his life, or that he ever will.

“That’s everything. Trust me, I tried. Didn’t use any speciality stamp, so I couldn’t narrow anythin’ down from that. No return address, obviously. He paid for postage – he must’ve done – but there’s no identifiable postage meter stamp. It’s just your average Great Britain marks. Paid four pence for that, he did, and the rest.”

“So, he’s not from here, and he’s not international. I mean, I guess that sort of narrows it down.”

“If you like.”

Wren sighs, tugging wistfully at her jacket. “Alright, then. I s’pose that’s as much as I can ask you for. Cheers very much. Don’t reckon I owe you some sweets now, do I?”

To his credit, Hans forces a very convincing smile, and replies, “Not a bad wage for a detective of my calibre. It’ll do, but my rate might start going up.”

“Look at you, standin’ on your own two feet,” she grins, swinging playfully on the balls of her feet. “Granted, you got the boys in blue behind you, so you’re hardly self-made. Whassat they call it? Despotism?”

“Nepotism, you daft little… Listen, it’s that leg-up that’s getting you the answers you want, so I’d be careful with that lip. I’ll take two bags of sherbet lemons and not a sweetie less! Y’hear me?” He leans over to jab a thick finger into the puffy chest of her coat, and if it had been this time last year, she would’ve socked him clean across the jaw. Now, they’re exchanging banter, and...having fun. How quickly things have changed. For a second, the idea that she really might’ve forgiven him terrifies her, but before any of that confusion can seep in, a shrill voice ricochets down the hallway, and grows louder with every word.

“Hans, dear, who is it? If it’s that Cheryl from the Art Society, you can tell her I’ve paid my dues! Honestly, they’re only down the road, I simply don’t understand why they must send me so many letters! I really do think they’re quite--! Oh!”

That’s generally the reaction Wren gets up in this suburb. Mild surprise bordering on offence, but in her case, it seems more like grief. She’s a heavy-set woman covered head to toe in summer floral colours, lipstick faded and cheeks tear-stained. She’s clearly been doing her best to scrub her running makeup away, sodden hankie clutched in her hand, blending with her rosacea and warm, sun-beaten skin. This is Lucille Jakes. Arguably more pleasant than her husband, but not by very much.

“Not Cheryl,” Wren smiles painfully.

“Well, I can see that!” Lucille replies. She seems to have a perpetual strain of surprise in every sentence, as if personally aggrieved by every detail of existence. But, it’s not hostile, which is a lot more mercy than Wren had been expecting. Lucille gives her son a pointed nudge.

“O-oh,” Hans murmurs, scratching the back of his head. What a weird shift. He used to be such a mother’s boy. Every kid in town knew that, but nobody would say it or he’d threaten to get them arrested. “Right, she was just...here for a favour. That’s all. This is Wren—”

“Wrench Nutten, I’m aware.”

“Um. Hold on, she—”

“Her mother bags my shopping at the grocer’s. I’d know those eyes, and that smell – always smokes JPS straights, she does. You’d think she’d stop long enough to pack my fish before it gets warm. Yes, that mousy, blonde lady. It was your father you got that shocking hair colour from, wasn’t it? How is your brother?”

Somehow, she manages to be insensitive and insulting with an impeccably polite tone. The meaning of the words themselves can seem malicious, but nothing behind it reads as such. She’s simply stating it all to be fact, which it is, and leaves Wren no room to seethe over having her name so carelessly thrown into the conversation. Hans is staring at her with more disbelief than anything else.

“He’s doing fine,” Wren grits through her teeth. “Workin’ hard, as always.”

“Well, it’s good to see he’s nothing like your father. Not a bad lad, but if he could stop getting himself into such trouble with those other boys...but, boys will be boys, as they say.” She punctuates the useless thought by pinching her son’s cheek adoringly, but it’s made lacklustre by the depression evident in the crease between her eyes. “Especially my little boy. Not so little now, though, are you?”

“M-mum, I—”

“Sorry to interrupt you, Mrs Jakes,” Wren beams sweetly. “Really. I’d hate to bother you. I’ll be off now.”

Lucille swallows, likely wondering if her drying tears are an obvious sight, and she waves Wren’s kindness off with a flip of her hankie. “Oh, no, no, nice of you to...come and see Hans, actually,” she murmurs, as if surprised by what she’s saying. “In any case, I should be making a start on lunch. I got a nice bit of gammon this morning. Best be putting the oven on.”

With that, she bustles away, leaving behind a lingering sense of bemusement between all three of them, and the stench of stale, floral perfume. Awkward parental influence aside, Wren won’t badger him on the details of what’s put his mother in a state...but she does flash him a flat look.

“Your mum just called you fat.”

“Is your name genuinely Wrench?”

“Ugh. Don’t you dare call me that,” she hisses. “Seriously, what kind of mother does that to her only daughter?! It’s not like it matters to Socket – he’s turning into some sort of labourer-hippie, so it suits him down to the ground – but a girl has to navigate a pretty nasty world, y’know! Least of all the likes of your mum callin’ me that! I’m serious, Hans – stop smiling – if you tell anyone about this, I will be in jail for a very long time for what I’ll do to you.”

Hans is too busy snickering. “Does that ridiculousness run in your family, too? You have an even older brother, don’t you? What’s his name, Spanner?”

“Bracket. And, no! Dad was...just drunk when he gave the nurse my name. Look, even Crow doesn’t know about this, and I’d really like to keep some of my secrets my own, so if you’ll kindly shut your big, fat gob then nobody has to get hurt.”

“Bold threat to make on the doorstep of police inspector’s son.”

“Inspector? Not chief any more?” The sharp tease goes down like a lead balloon, and Wren remedies the underhanded jab by humming, “Still having trouble with him?”

He nods quietly, and mutters, “Nothin’ to worry about, really. At the end of the day, he...loves us. I know he does.”

Wren can’t refute that even if she wanted to. It’s not for her to decide, and even against her worst enemies, she’s not so cruel as to tarnish that last shred of belief held onto so tightly. There’s no telling how much it’s needed in that moment. If Marilyn could see this – could understand what it she’s been through – maybe she’d understand why this odd little relationship is worth the aches and pains, because the kind of kinship that comes through pain often transcends friendship or rivalry.

Chapter Text

The science teacher who proved himself a worthy conversationalist also turned out to be the teacher assigned to the handwriting class, which has only one student; Crow.

He takes a seat opposite the blackboard, surprised by the familiar face after only just having his lesson for his last period of the day. That’s two lessons they converge, and he’s no less pleasant. The lack of other students in the classroom is a great relief too, and Crow starts to feel a little more at ease. He settles in with less nerves than he’d entered the classroom with, especially now that he and the teacher are much more formally acquainted. He’d introduced himself properly during their lesson as Crake, and had laughed about the similarity of their names. Birds of a feather, as he’d fittingly said.

“I’m warning you, sir,” Crow smiles deviously, leaning in to rest his chin on his hands. “I’m a real menace with a fountain pen. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’m more of a biro person.”

“I’ll make sure to put down some blotting paper, then,” Crake chuckles nervously, eyeing the already-hideous state of the desk. “Don’t worry, this is all easy enough. Once you get the hang of using a proper pen, it’ll never leave you. I have some sheets here for you to trace. That way you’ll get a good grasp on cursive, as well.”

“Cursive, too?!” Crow groans. “That’s ridiculous. Cursive ain’t useful for anythin’...except fakin’ your own handwriting.” Which, now that he thinks about it, is not a bad skill to have, but that’d only work if the person whose handwriting he’s feigning writes like an old lady, so he maintains, “Nothin’ wrong with usin’ a pencil. So long as it’s readable, I don’t see what all the fuss is about!”

Crake sets the sheets onto the desk in front of his student, all with dotted letters for him to follow. It looks suspiciously juvenile for his level of academics. “Faking handwriting? Are you a fan of mystery novels, by any chance?” The pen follows, and is placed before Crow with the gravity of a sword. Come to think of it, there’s some kind of saying to that effect, isn’t there? Just how literal is that…?

Crow emits a sort of rumbling noise, caught between an awkward laugh and a cough. He doesn’t want to admit he’s better suited for the focus of a mystery novel than as its reader, and tacitly replies, “Sort of. I’ve read a lot of things. Erm, so you just want me to...copy over this? That’s it?”

“Without spilling ink all over the place, yes, that’s the idea. Give it a go. Would you like a cup of tea in the meantime?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Crow agrees, furtively uncapping the pen. He can’t see how this will end well. It never does. He’s gotten along this far by pencil alone, but the judgemental stares of his teachers are starting to grate on him. As Crake begins to bustle around the kettle kept in the corner of the room – there’s a tripod and a Bunsen burner with the kettle atop it, very fitting for the science teacher – Crow begins to navigate the tricky waters of pen-work. Slowly does it. No need to rush.

By the time Crake returns with a mug of tea in each hand, Crow’s hands are covered in black, and he’s only just finished A. The bewildered teacher gingerly sets the tea somewhere where it won’t suffer being contaminated with ink, and pulls out a handkerchief to aid the boy. “Oh, my,” he mutters. “You weren’t joking. How in the world did you complete your exam like that?”

“Oh, it got easier after the ink started running out. Um, thank you. For the tea, I mean. And, uh…” he trails off, daunted by having his hands wiped clean. It feels so...fatherly. Or, that’s what he imagines fatherly behaviour to really be like. Being unused to the kindness of it, he’s embarrassed, but the empty classroom doesn’t laugh at him, and neither does Crake. The teacher simply tosses the ink-stained hankie onto his desk, and claps his hands together.

“Alright, let’s...try that again, shall we? Now, you don’t need to press too hard at all. Do you understand how a fountain pen actually works?”

“The ink comes out the inside…? Like a biro…?”

“Well, you’re half-right!” He picks up the pen – Crow cringes when he gets a little ink on his fingers, but he dutifully pays it no mind – and gestures to the nib for Crow to observe. “See, that back portion where the ink pools is the reservoir. That would be, back when people used dipping pens, where the ink would be stored whilst they were writing. Of course, now, in our modern age, we’ve found a way to keep that ink supply going without having to pause every few seconds. And the very tip of the nib here doesn’t function quite like a ballpoint. Rather, the ink will flow when the nib splits against the paper...like so. Does that make sense?”

“It...actually does,” Crow remarks with some surprise. “So, I guess it’s not like a pencil where you have to put some oomph into it.”

“Certainly not. The pen should be doing all the work for you. All you have to do it guide it in the right direction. Give it another try.”

Crow takes up the pen again and applies it to the paper. It’s hard not to put a lot of pressure on it, and holding the pen so loosely causes his letters to become wobbly and wide, but there’s no spillage. At least, not until the very end, where the ink blots a little as he’s pulling the pen away. Crake observes the work with a satisfied nod, swiping around the shapes of the letters with his fingers.

“The wobbliness will disappear when you speed up. Imagine you’re sketching very lightly with a pencil, and you don’t want to push the point into the paper.”

Crow will follow the instruction because he has to, but there’s a slight tinge of sadness that oozes from the black spot on the paper, where he realises this shaky, near-indecipherable lettering is very much like that of Aunt Taffy’s. There’s no need for ledgers and receipts when her customers are only children, but she’s the undivided queen of greetings cards. She remembers every birthday with the tenacity of an elephant – a handwritten message in each for every adoring child who frequents her shop – and manages to churn out one Christmas card for everyone person in town. Of course, only a third of the townsfolk can actually read the garbled mess (Vernon not included, despite being siblings) so they’re received with gracious bemusement. At this point, she could write an insults instead of greetings and nobody would be any the wiser.

He swallows, pressing the tip of the pen to the paper, ready to draw out the next letter. Will...she be proud of him if she knew he was learning to write with a pen? If he sent her a letter in his new hand, will he get a reply? He’s only allowed to send one letter per delivery, and he’s been saving that for keeping his friends updated on his situation. Indecision floods, but he decides it doesn’t matter what the benefits of it are if he can make her proud in this moment. It would be enough to let her know he’s alright if thing were to get worse...

The room is bathed in a peaceful silence as Crow diligently continues to work. His penmanship has only marginally improved, but with time, it should even out enough to begin writing in cursive. He periodically sips his tea whilst Crake oversees his work, and after a few minutes, Crake sets his empty mug down.

“So, Crow, have you put any thought into your options yet? I know Barker said he was going to set that up for you, but the man seems suddenly inundated with work.”

Crow pauses, and remembers that pens aren’t as chewable as pencils just as he’s about to put the end to his lips. “Those are the subjects we get to choose, right? I’m not sure. I’ve only seen a few things. What can I do?”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

He’s never thought about it, really. Every kid has a dream, but his dream is already reality; a dream of living comfortably, and of building it with his own hands to avoid the lack of reliability of everyone in his life. He’s not got any more ambition than that. There’s nothing wrong with continuing to be the Black Raven, but he remembers how pensive Marilyn had been when faced with the same topic herself. He wonders if she’s still struggling with it.

“I don’t...really know. I guess I just want to be free to do what I like. That’s all.”

Crake pushes his glasses up his nose, and the lenses flash with intrigue. “Is that it? Most children have a greater sense of ambition, even if it can be a little lofty. What about a career? Or, possibly a family? You could travel the world if it suited you.”

Crow chuckles, dark and cynical, and purrs, “Every time I’ve left Misthallery, it’s been a complete disaster. I really don’t care about seein’ the world. I got newspapers. I can read books. That’s enough for me. As for a family, well...I’m doin’ just fine without one. I’ve got less to lose that way.”

He tries not to view his friends as family for that reason. For the moment they become his family, they become truly priceless, and losing them will be a kind of devastation he might not recover from. It’s like being in a committed relationship, but avoiding the legal, financial and emotional ruin of a broken marriage. Crake considers this with uneasy eyes, and Crow doesn’t blame him. Sometimes the conclusions he winds up at unsettles him, too.

Finally, Crake kindly says, “So, you...care about Misthallery, then. Is that safe to say?”

“I s’pose so.”

“Then, perhaps you can do something with that. What about...what about local government? Have you considered what it might be like to be able to shape the future of your town with your own hands?”

He hasn’t. Not because he’s never wanted to, but because he’s already been doing that, albeit a little inadvertently. Preserving the history of Misthallery, its tales of the fabled Black Raven and the hidden treasure of the Golden Garden, all supported through the Black Market and Arianna respectively. Though the spectre had brought darkness to their town, living through the legend for himself had brought an uncanny spark of life to those dreadful nights. He’s always believed fully in these little mysteries. They’ve never turned their back on him, and their value and what they could offer to the outside world is understated in his opinion. The world beyond his home may well be an enigma to him, but the life of Misthallery is, in turn, just as unknown to it. He’d rather be here to share it with people than to disappear and let it fall out of conscience.

“I guess I could do that,” he replies dismissively. It’s a good question, but he has to remember to stay on track here. “But, it’s none of your...whatever. I’ll be fine. Misthallery will always be my home. I know every bit of it. As long as I’m there, I’ll always have somethin’ to keep me goin’.”

Crake continues to watch him write for a minute before he quietly replies, “It’s not my intention to overstep. With boys as bright as you, I always make sure they understand how many options are open to them. There are lots of children out there who wished they had your opportunities…”

Crow has to smile, for in exchange for his wit, intelligence and the liberation he’d once had, it had been paid for with an unshakable curse. A black shadow lingering over his head. When that curse had lifted, his freedom had been stolen. The world always seems to balance itself out like that, and he’s certain it’s not worth it.

“Yeah, bet they’d love a life like mine,” he says sardonically, and sets his pen down. The first sheet of letters is done, and they’re all thick and scraggly, but he’s spilt no ink. A small triumph. In a new home with new friends and new experiences, it feels like he’s learning to walk again. “I know what my future is, and it’s not here. It’s not that I don’t want to explore the opportunities.” Because truthfully, he thinks he’d have a delightful time forgoing everything else in his life in order to see how far he could go. It’s simply the matter of how selfish it is. Sitting here and learning to write with a pen feels...indulgent, somehow. “I just happen to already have responsibilities. That’s all.”

Crake has a very tepid expression of thoughtfulness. It’s like some part of his brain disappears into a different world to make sense of things, and returns with a sparkle once it’s arrived at an answer. He doesn’t comment on these so-called responsibilities, but he does say, “In any case, you still have to pick your subjects. This is a grammar school, so getting your GCE’s is a given. I don’t doubt you’ll excel in whatever you choose, so what do you fancy?”

What would be the most beneficial…?

“Can I do History?”

“You absolutely can. You’ll need Maths and English, obviously, and three more subjects to progress to the next academic level, but many boys will get well above that. Closer to eight or nine, I should imagine, so really...it’s about what you can handle.”

He’s always liked History, plus there’s lots of learn when it comes to assessing the value of objects. That would never go amiss. Maths and English is a given. Art, perhaps…? He’s not the most stunning artist, really, but learning about the detail behind that kind of thing would certainly serve him well in assessing what art comes his way (and he really doesn’t want a repeat of their last little mishap).That’s four. Add on all three of his science subjects – Physics, Biology and Chemistry – and that’s seven. The cogs grinding in his head must show on his face because Crake taps the edge of his desk with a knowing smile.

“There are specialist subjects, too. Music or photography, if you’re an artistic sort. French, German and Latin for your languages – possibly even Greek. I’m quite certain there’s some sort of media-relevant study adjacent to English for students who want to go into publishing or journalism. Then, you’ve got Statistics and Business—”

“Business?”

“Oh? Is that what you’re hoping to do?”

He’d let the excitement get the better of him. This man is dangerously comfortable to talk to. He needs to stop letting his guard down so readily. Crow palms his face, marred by his own irritation, but still cannot help but smile. How frustrating. Even when Crake is being perfectly accommodating to his interests, he still feels...small.

“You could say that. It’s...it’s a reliable job, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is. I do believe what we do for business studies is actually a class supported by Gressenheller University. We don’t have the right teachers, but being so close, the university is often a follow-on school for students here. If you did those courses, you’d almost certainly be guaranteed a place there if you wanted to study business after your O-levels.”

The stubborn part of him would crudely ask what there could possibly be left in the world for him to learn in the realms of business, but the ambitious part of him – it does exist, he’s just very good at suppressing it in front of authority – wonders just how much he doesn’t know...and how much good it could do the market. That would take it up to eight, wouldn’t it? And, there’s nothing to say he can’t do more than that. It’s becoming a dizzying prospect. So much so that Crow casts his practice papers aside, and rests his head on the desk with a low lament.

“Y’really do make things difficult, don’t you?” he moans. “Why’s school got to be so complicated? You’re tellin’ me I can do all this, that and the other? What’s stopping me from doing all of it, eh? Hm.” He takes up his mug and drains the rest of his cold tea, eyeing the undissolved granules sitting at the bottom. “Guess I’ll have to actually put thought into this.”

“That’s the kind of ambition I love to see, but don’t overwork yourself otherwise you won’t pass a thing. You still have plenty of time to get your affairs in order. I know Barker likes to hurry it up, but you must ignore him. He’s just keen to get all the paperwork in on time. Nil desperandum.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you not had a Latin class yet?”

“...I take Latin?!”

“H-have you not read your entire timetable?!”

The rest of what was supposed to be the handwriting class turns into an in-depth study of Crow’s curriculum timetable, where he’d mistaken Latin for lunch, alongside a few other subjects he’s had no experience in whatsoever. They discuss it over another cup of tea, this one Crow manages to finish whilst it’s still hot, but as he’s licking the residual grains of sugar from the rim, he realises he’s been ensnared by what this place offers. A deceptive comfort that preys on his curiosity, and the moment the thought hits, he breaks into a cough. The stress might be putting him under the weather. It’s much more dry in London than Misthallery, so it wouldn’t be unusual for the change in surrounding to upset his body. The endlessly stacking aches and pains.

In any case, he won’t be sticking around long enough to see the summer holidays let alone any exams. The written plan for his potential future is shoved into his pocket with a sober sigh. He leaves, despondent at having gotten a glimpse of what a different life for him might hold, but he’s still shackled to the responsibilities he’d left behind. He won’t be so selfish towards his friends. They still need him, don’t they?