A Light Amongst Shadows

by Kelley York

It is, truthfully, difficult to think. Mr. Hart has always seemed to be such a gentle and sweet man, but what do I really know about him? What would any student really know about a teacher?

  I’m beginning to feel more and more like I don’t know much about anything.

  Come the next morning, it’s blissful to get to skip out on our usual Sunday morning services, seeing as the chaplain has departed while school is out. It leaves us free to eat breakfast and head straight to the library, which we’ve decided is our best bet to finding any information.

  The selection is not the best I’ve ever seen, but it’s far from the worst. We’re only here for one thing anyway, and that is the student yearbooks. We find them on a shelf in a far back, dark, and ignored corner of the library.

  “What are we looking for?” William asks.

  “Dirt.” Even as I realise it’s likely a useless endeavour and I don’t know what, precisely, I’m wanting or how we should go about it. But I must start somewhere. “Something, anything.”

  William swipes a finger along the dusty shelf. “Plenty of dirt to be had,” he says dryly, before we begin plucking the booklets from the shelf.

  They’re thin books, thirty, forty pages at most—less for the oldest volumes. Each one is hand-bound and carefully penned. These books are not distributed to every student, but are kept as a means of records, really. Each volume lists every student in attendance that year, along with class and staff photographs. Although photos, of course, are a more recent development. The earliest volumes consist of drawings and writing only. Seated at the nearest table, we begin the arduous process of thumbing through each one.

  How long we sit there, poring over them, I lose track. Neat the handwriting may be, but after staring at it for the better part of two hours, my eyes have started to blur, and all the photos begin to look the same. Eventually, William slides one of the books over to me. “Look; the year Mr. Hart began teaching here.”

  I take the offered book, peering down at the staff photo upon the page, and the names written beneath it. “Huh. Mr. McLachlan used to have hair.”

  William blinks and leans over to look. “Oh, I’d not even recognized him. Do you think the stress of the job caused him to lose it?”

  That gets a chuckle out of me. “I can see him up late, grading papers, just ripping out his hair by the handful. Why don’t these children understand such simple concepts!”

  “Look, then you aren’t the first student to drive him utterly mad,” he teases, turning his attention back to his book.

  “I hope I’m the best at it, though.” I skim over the short few paragraphs about the ‘new teacher,’ Mr. Hart. “Christ, this man is boring.”

  “Apparently Oscar found something about him interesting,” William murmurs as his eyes travel over a page. He pauses then, frowning. Before I can ask him what it is he’s found, he holds the book up towards me. “James…”

  The faint trembling in his tone catches my full attention. At first, I haven’t a clue what it is I’m supposed to be looking at. The photo is worn with age and I scan over the numerous faces, trying to determine what William wants me to see.

  Towards the bottom, I see him.

  “Is that our friend who failed maths?”

  “It is him, isn’t it? This volume is dated eleven years ago.”

  I take the book so I can study it closer. The name beneath it reads Timothy Chambers. I’d be hard-pressed to have forgotten that face. The boy in the photograph is most definitely the boy we saw the other night, out on the field, and my insides begin doing somersaults out of nervousness and excitement. Obviously, this person existed, which means we did not, in fact, lose our minds and imagine things. “I would think most of the current staff was around back then.”

  William flips back several pages to the staff photos. “Asking any of them might be a poor move on our part, don’t you think?”

  I sniff a little. “Let’s hear your better idea, then.”

  His lashes lower and he returns his attention to the book. “That photo tells us he lived. Perhaps we need some real confirmation that he died. The cemetery?”

  “A cemetery? What kind of school has a bloody cemetery?”

  “Schools that are home to people many parents don’t want, I suppose.” William shrugs. “I’ve only been once; I’ve heard it was largely for boys who died from illness and whose parents couldn’t afford—or simply didn’t want to pay for—a burial elsewhere.”

  “What’s to say he’s even buried there?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s something to try. If we’re seeing him on school grounds, then logic says it’s possible his body is somewhere near here, too.”

  A fair enough conclusion to come to. I grin as though he’s just suggested a picnic. “This should be fun.”

  “You are entirely too cheerful about this.”

  “Much better than dwelling on the unsolved disappearance of my best mate, isn’t it?”

  “Fair enough.”

  We push our chairs back and return the books to the shelf.

  Snow fell lightly all through the night and has continued into the morning. We both were smart enough to put on our warmest wool jackets; I even abandoned my uniform in favour of a linen tunic not unlike the ones they have us wear for drill. “It’s always so cold here. Do you think that’s what’s got the ghosts all worked up?”

  William shudders from the chill. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “I’m allowing myself to be dragged to a graveyard not forty-eight hours after we encountered a dead student not far from here. I should say I’m loads of fun.”

  “Would you feel better if I carried you instead of dragged?”

  “My legs are tired,” he laments, not without a small smile despite his displeased tone.

  “Maybe if you exercised more, you wouldn’t tire so easily.”

  William snorts. “I’ve never been a physical sort of person.” We’ve passed the dorms, venturing into a section of the school I’ve only ever seen from afar. The looming iron gates surrounding the small cemetery are in view, inky black where they jut up from the snow.

  I laugh, although my gaze remains fixed on the gates in the distance. “Should we have you run laps ‘round the graveyard? I bet we’d find what we’re looking for faster that way.”

  “You will never see me running unless my life depends on it.”

  I’ll keep that in mind.

  Silence falls over us as we near our destination. It’s a small, isolated stretch of land, though it’s clearly been tended to over the years and is not overgrown. The fence stretches a good half a foot over my head, the gates a bit more. When William opens them, they give with a strained creak that chases a shiver down my spine. I cram my hands into the pockets of my coat.

  “If I die while attending this school, don’t let them bury me here. Throw me out into the forest or something less depressing.”

  He shoots me an anxious glance while slipping inside. “Don’t say things like that.”

  The snowfall has been just barely persistent enough that there’s already a blanket of it coating not only the ground, but the gravestones, as well. There is little remarkable about this place. Even the stones are small and unimpressive, the kind of stones one would see in the overcrowded city cemeteries of London. Depressing indeed.

  We linger there a moment, surveying the area. William fidgets, and I watch as he slides his laudanum from his coat pocket, uncorks it, and deposits a few drops upon his tongue. I don’t think I’ve seen him cart it around with him before; perhaps it being holiday has something to do with it. Or maybe it’s the ghosts exacerbating his anxieties.

  “Why are you so nervous, dear William?”

  His brows furrow as he moves to the nearest headstone and bends forwards to read the faded, chiselled lettering. “Should I not be nervous where restless spirits are involved?”

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think we’ll encounter any here. We’v
e never seen one during the day, right?”

  He doesn’t look convinced, and I see him absently rubbing at his arm where, weeks ago, the ghost in the hallway grabbed him. “Small blessings, I suppose.”

  I place a hand briefly against his back. “Shall we split up?”

  “Go on, then.”

  After offering a reassuring smile, I head to the opposite side of the cemetery. Still close enough we can see one another, can converse if we raise our voices. I begin the process of moving methodically throughout the rows of graves, brushing snow off some of the headstones and taking note of names and dates engraved upon them.

  What was it like for some of these students, I wonder? Certainly, illness and accidents happen at school, but for them to have been abandoned here by their families… What did they do to deserve such a thing? If I were to suffer such a fate here, would my family, too, decide it was easier to leave me here? Would I be yet another poorly marked grave to be forgotten about?

  I almost pass the headstone by, having to stop and backtrack a few paces to have a second glance. Timothy Chambers. The date of death listed matches up to his years of attendance, too.

  “William!”

  He crunches through the snow and frosted grass to my side, a little winded as he does so.

  “Do you think we should try a séance?” I whisper.

  “Don’t you dare.” He crouches, running his fingers over the etching. “No cause of death listed.”

  “There has to be a record somewhere, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes.” His head tips back to look up at me. “There’s the records room. I believe the headmaster is legally required to keep a file on every student, although I wouldn’t know how far back those date.”

  Ah. Joy. “How likely do you think it is he’d let us in?”

  “Maybe if we asked very nicely…” He rolls his eyes and rises to his feet, hugging himself tightly. “However, if it is a key we need, I can handle that.”

  “How in the world are you going to get a key?”

  He squares his shoulders, looking moderately pleased with himself. “I know where the maids keep their master set. If I were to borrow them and return them by morning, no one would ever know.”

  That sounds significantly more dangerous than a séance, honestly. “And if you get caught?”

  “I won’t. One of the girls, May, has been procuring my laudanum since I started here, and I pay her handsomely for it. I’ll ask her for the keys. If she wishes to continue being paid, she won’t speak a word of it.”

  “That doesn’t sound the least bit shady and concerning.”

  William’s smile is impossibly soft. “I find it endearing when you worry about me.”

  I sniff a little at that. “Who said I was worried about you?”

  “Oh, weren’t you?” He draws his hand back. “I suppose I won’t give you a kiss to calm you, then.”

  Try as I might, I cannot help the upward curve of my mouth. “Don’t blackmail me for your kisses.”

  “My kisses do not come easily,” he says, indignant. “Do you think me some kind of harlot?”

  “My harlot,” I hum in response.

  William curls his fingers into the front of my jacket, murmuring, “You’re quite rude,” before he leans in to brush a kiss against my lips that leaves me warm all over.

  “And you are quite a harlot,” I respond, grabbing him up in my arms to drag him back for a proper kiss that makes William’s breath hitch and his arms instantly go around me. For a few moments, anyway, I am content to let the rest of the world fall away around us, savouring the warmth and softness of his mouth.

  The only thing that drags us apart is a cold flurry of snow that rushes past us. Even then, William’s eyes linger on my lips as he licks his own. “We should get back.”

  “We should,” I agree, despite wanting to remain where I am and continue kissing him for another hour or ten. “Lead the way, harlot.”

  He gives my chest a playful shove before drawing back. “If I’m a harlot, I’m severely undercharging you.”

  I follow him with a grin. “And here I am, taking full advantage of that.”

  “Not full advantage yet,” he points out, pushing the gates open while casting a suggestive look in my direction that makes my insides flip-flop and an exorbitant amount of blood rush south.

  “Would full advantage mean coercing you into having a séance in the middle of the night here?”

  His expression turns sullen. “Not what I had in mind, no.”

  “During the witching hour? On All Hallows’ Eve?”

  “I’ll break your legs and leave you here in the snow, James Spencer.”

  I laugh, swinging an arm about his shoulders and drawing him to my side as we walk away. “Why are you so mean to me?” He scoffs at that, but I sense him shrinking in on himself a little and so I ask, “Did I say something wrong?”

  “I’ve been told I’m an unkind person before,” he says, looking away. “Am I truly? Am I unkind to you?”

  “So awfully unkind,” I tease, but the wounded look that crosses his face tells me this is obviously a Serious Conversation.

  “Were you to honestly feel that way, James—”

  “Stop being so serious,” I chide, gently pinching his side. “You are not an unkind man, William. Standoffish, unapproachable, perhaps…”

  He relaxes a little, leaning into me. “Now who’s being cruel?”

  From the school, the lunch bell begins to toll. Food sounds good right about now. “Oh, yes. I’m a regular beast.”

  “Funny, then, that you should kiss like such a gentleman.”

  As we pass the dorms, I remove my arm from around his shoulders. “I am but a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “What does that make me? A sheep?”

  I flash him a mischievous smile. “Depends on whether or not I can manage to eat you up.”

  William deadpans and tries to swat at me, and I dance out of his reach with a laugh.

  The remainder of our day is spent lying low, save for a few probing questions of the staff to ensure that the headmaster has, in fact, taken leave of school grounds. One less thing to worry about. But we haven’t a clue how long he’ll stay gone and sneaking about in the main building at night seems a terrible idea while he’s around. It’s for that reason we decide that the breaking and entering of the records room needs to happen tonight.

  For a few hours, then, we mull over a plan. Then William drags me into his bed, pressing soft kisses along my face and neck while I hum poetry against his ear. Impressively, his hands remain above my waist at all times. I suppose my rebuke the other night stuck with him.

  When the hour grows late, I return to my own room in time for curfew and wait. I’m to leave just shy of midnight and meet William at the records office after he’s retrieved a key. He refused my insistent offer to go with him, claiming if he were to get caught, it would be easier if he were alone. I’ve a million questions and concerns about this plan, but he hasn’t given me much choice.

  Sneaking to and from William’s room in the middle of the night is one thing. Sneaking out of the dorm altogether, crossing the grounds, and slipping into the main building? Entirely different. My heart is in my throat and it’s painfully cold outside and my eyes are trying to take everything in at once, wondering if I’ll encounter something in the halls or the fields. I arrive at the building with no problem, and the doors are unlocked, likely because servants have to come and go late at night and early in the morning.

  The records room is located in the far back of the building, down a series of dark, unsettling, windowless hallways. I’ve never had reason to be here, but I follow William’s directions and find it without difficulty. The minutes tick by on my pocket watch, and I grow increasingly anxious up until I hear quiet footsteps in the darkness and, a moment later, William comes into view, candle in hand to light the way. He smiles briefly, lifting a hand from which dangles a set of keys.

  The door
opens without a sound, immediately subjecting us to the musty, damp scent of a room that’s been locked up far too long. William lets out a noise somewhere between a cough and a sneeze. With no windows to let in moonlight, the candle does little to illuminate more than a few feet around us.

  The room is lined with rows of cabinets, each marked with the school year, of which the most recent appears to be closest to us. William lingers near one of the cabinets, and I catch his hand and wrap my fingers around it.

  “Nothing those old bastards could say about us would be any good,” I say, suspecting he might be wondering what our own files contain. “Let’s find what we’re looking for and get out before we’re caught.”

  William drags in a deep breath and nods, heading further into the room, scanning labels until we come across the one that reads 1860-1865. “This ought to be it.”

  He places the candle atop the cabinet while I open the first drawer and begin to rummage through. Thankfully, whoever is charged with organization has done a bang-up job, because Timothy Chambers’ file is right where it should be alphabetically. I pull it out with care, propping it atop the drawer and opening it. “This is him, right?”

  He leans in as we begin going through the papers together. Registration, class schedules, grades—which aren’t flawless but are far from horrible. Through most of Timothy’s record, there is nothing of interest. He seems to have been a normal boy.

  “Must not have been stressed over maths class after all,” I murmur. “His grades look fine.”

  William abandons my side, and a glance tells me he’s wandering a few cabinets down to look around. I flip through a few more pages. “Seems our boy was a thief, though. And an attempted runaway.”

  William halts in front of a bookshelf at the end of the row, touching the spines and running his fingers along them as though searching for something in particular. “Goodness, I cannot imagine why anyone would want to run away from this place.”

  “Too bad he didn’t make it out. ‘Punishments administered as documented in the black book.’ And his death is the last thing in here. Unknown illness.”

  “I’ve got it right here.” William plucks one of the books from the shelf and opens it up.