Chapter Text
The dining hall was every bit as ostentatious as I thought it would be–high ceilings, gilded sconces, chandeliers dripping crystals like teardrops. Edgar’s mother had arranged the table as though preparing for royalty, her energy fluttering about the room like a bird in spring. I was seated near the head, directly across from Edgar, who made a point of not looking at me as he unfolded his napkin with surgical precision. His father was noticeably missing. His mother, meanwhile, was all smiles. “So, Monsieur Campbell, tell us everything. How do you find Lone Moon so far? The countryside? The girls? Oh, they must simply adore having a young handsome Englishman as their instructor!”
I gave her a polished version of my first day, though my eyes kept drifting to Edgar. He cut his food with unnecessary force, as though the meat had personally offended him. His silence spoke louder than any words. The conversation meandered pleasantly until the doors opened, and footsteps echoed across the marble floor. “Ah!” his mother squealed, springing from her chair with all the glee of a child. “Here he is–the groom-to-be!”
I turned, and my chest tightened.
Andrew entered with a gentle smile, his posture confident but unassuming, dressed neatly in clerical black with a white collar that seemed to glow in the candlelight. His presence alone seemed to calm the room–or at least, everyone but me. “Andrew my dear,” Edgar’s mother sang, taking his arm. “Come, meet Monsieur Campbel! You must remember I told you–the new English teacher, and as it happens, Edgar’s old schoolmate. Isn’t it marvelous?”
Andrew’s gaze settled on me, warm and steady, and he extended his hand across the table. “It’s a pleasure. Edgar has spoken of you.” For a moment, I couldn’t move. My fork rested uselessly in my hand as I stared at him. Seeing him up close–I was confused to say the least–this was the man Edgar had chosen? This was the man who wore the ring that could’ve been mine? I forced my expression into civility, taking his hand at last. “The pleasure’s mine,” I said, though the world tasted bitter. Across the table, Edgar finally looked up. His eyes met mine, deep and unreadable, as though daring me to say more.
Dinner was served in courses, typical for rich people: rich soups, roasted fowl, endless trays of delicacies that would’ve made my younger self wide-eyed. But I barely tasted any of it. My attention was fixed on the dynamic at the table. “So, Monsieur,” Edgar’s mother chirped, her eyes bright as she ladled more vegetables onto my plate than I could ever eat. “Tell us what you’ll be teaching our girls. Literature? Poetry? Oh, I imagine they’ll simply swoon over Shakespeare.”
“English language and literature, yes,” I replied smoothly, managing a smile. “Shakespeare definitely, I’ve found that young students prefer stories they can sink their teeth into, rather than endless sonnets.” Andrew chuckled lightly, his voice warm. “Practical and imaginative. I like that. You’ll fit well at Lone Moon.” I tilted my head, letting the smile sharpen into something sly. “And you, Andrew–what exactly do you teach? Or is it just sermons and vows these days?”
The question landed heavier than I’d meant it–or perhaps exactly as I’d meant. Edgar stiffened, fork clinking against his plate. Andrew, though, only gave me a patient smile. “I teach theology at the academy. And outside the classroom, I hope I teach compassion.” His hand brushed ever so slightly against Edgar’s under the table, subtle but visible enough to burn me.
“That’s sweet,” I said, my voice dipped in venom. “Compassion. A good quality to have. So does this mean that you plan on staying in the church your whole life, or is this more of a…stepping stone career? A way to keep yourself busy until you find something more exciting?”
Andrew paused with his wine glass halfway to his lips. His smile flickered, but didn’t falter entirely. “My vocation isn’t a stepping stone. It’s my calling. I consider it a privilege to serve the academy and the community.” I gave a low hum, feigning admiration. “Noble. Very noble. But isn’t it…limiting? Tying yourself down so young? You must have had other ambitions once. Surely you thought of being something else before settling into sermon and scripture?”
Edgar’s fork scraped sharply against his plate. “Enough, Norton.”
But I wasn’t looking at him. My eyes were fixed on Andrew, watching the way he shifted in his seat, the stiffness that betrayed him despite his practiced composure. “I only ask,” I said mildly. “Because Edgar has always been drawn to…bigger things. Adventure, discovery, risk. I just wonder how well a man of faith and quiet duty could ever keep up. You just seem..well..like you’re an easy option. Someone he can settle down with, someone he can bring home to his folks without worry, somebody safe.”
Andrew’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, then closed it, glancing at Edgar as though for reassurance. That tiny crack was all the proof I needed: I’d gotten under his skin. Edgar’s mother, tittered and reached for more wine. “Boys, boys, no need to get so serious! This is a dinner, not a debate!” I leaned back in my chair, smirking. “Forgive me. Old habits. I’ve always had a taste for stirring conversation.”
“Conversation?” Edgar snapped. “That wasn’t conversation! That was you–”
“Edgar,” Andrew interrupted softly, placing a hand on his arm. But his calm sounded forced, like it might shatter at the wrong word. The silence at the table had curdled into something unbearable. Edgar was still glaring at me, Andrew stiff as a stature beside him. His mother busied herself with refilling glasses that didn’t need refilling, trying to paste over the awkwardness with her relentless cheer.
And then–Ella’s small voice broke through.
“So…can we have dessert now?” she asked innocently, swinging her legs beneath her chair, utterly oblivious to the battlefield she sat in the middle of. The absurd timing of it made Edgar’s mother clap her hands together with theatrical delight, her nerves instantly redirected into fussing over cakes and custards. Andrew exhaled slowly, his eyes still lowered and Edgar muttered something sharp under his breath before pushing back his chair.
“Come on,” Edgar said to Andrew, his voice flat. “We’re done here.”
Andrew rose with him, stiff as a man walking down to the gallows. Neither of them looked at me as they left the dining room together, Andrew’s hand brushing against Edgar’s shoulder in some small act of reassurance–or maybe possession. I stayed behind, my glass of wine untouched now, the echo of Ella’s innocent question still hanging in the air. I couldn’t help the bitter smile tugging at my lips. Edgar could storm off all he liked, but I’d managed to crack Andrew’s perfect little veneer. And that was sweeter than any confection the kitchen could produce.
–
Later that night, the house had grown quieter. The clatter of dishes and silverware had faded into the muted rhythm of the maids cleaning up the wreckage of dinner. I lingered near one of the tall windows, nursing the same glass of wine I’d been pretending to sip all evening.
The reflection in the glass shifted, and I felt him before I heard him. Andrew.
“Norton,” His voice was low, steady–nothing of the genial pastor’s warmth that he wore at the table. He closed the distance between us with the careful steps of a man walking onto stage, his expression pared down to something sharper, clearer. I turned to face him, schooling my own features into a smirk. “Pastor Kriess. Come to offer me absolution already?”
His eyes didn’t flinch. “I came to tell you something plainly. You may think this is a game, but it isn’t. Edgar is not some prize you get to win back with sharp words and old memories.” The calmness in his tone unnerved me more than if he had shouted. He meant every word, and there was no performance in it.
I leaned back against the window frame, pretending at ease, though my pulse betrayed me. “Funny,” I drawled, “because where I sat, it looks like he still listens when I speak. Still falters when I look at him.” Andrew’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “If you care for him at all, even a fraction of what you claim, you’ll stop trying to undo his happiness. He’s building a life, Norton. A good life. With me.”
His words hit harder than I cared to admit. For a moment, I saw no trace of the gentle pastor Edgar’s mother had swooned over–only a man who had already won what I’d foolishly abandoned. The quiet stretched between us, taut as wire. Andrew should have walked away, but instead he lingered, his eyes fixed on me with a weight that made the wine turn to ash on my tongue.
I smirked again, careless on the outside, though inside I was thrumming like a snare. “What’s wrong, pastor? Afraid the prodigal might come back and steal your flock?” That did it. His hand shot out, slamming me against the wall so hard the sconces rattled. The stone bit into my spine, the air crushed from my lungs.
“You need to understand,” Andrew whispered. His voice wasn’t raised, but it coiled in the air like smoke, slow and poisonous. His face was close enough that I could see the faint tremor of restraint in his jaw. “He’s not yours anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time. I was there when you weren’t. And if you even think about breaking him again–if you so much as look at him wrong..” He leaned closer still, until his lips nearly brushed my ear, his breath cold against my skin. “..you won’t just disappear like last time. I’ll make sure no one ever finds you. Don’t test me, my patience is running low.”
My blood ran cold. The smirk I wore faltered for a heartbeat–just enough for him to see it. His eyes glimmered with satisfaction, dark and steady, like a man too familiar with the weight of his own threats. Then, just as suddenly, he released me. I staggered against the wall, blazer askewed. Andrew adjusted his cuffs with deliberate calm, as though he hadn’t just promised to bury me in the earth. I was still pressing my back against the cold stone, trying to shove down the surge of adrenaline, when a soft shuffle echoed from the corridor. The sight of Edgar froze me–his eyes wide, scanning the scene, questions already forming on his lips.
Andrew, sensing the intrusion, straightened. The cold menace in his gaze melted in an instant, replaced with the calm, gentle warmth I had seen countless times tonight. His posture relaxed and the faintest smile touched his lips. “Ah,” Andrew said softly, tilting his head toward Edgar, “I didn’t realize we had company.” His voice was perfectly composed, almost domestic, betraying none of the threat that had just lingered in the room.
Edgar blinked, frowning slightly at the tension that still clung to me. “Is…everything okay?” he asked cautiously. Andrew chuckled lightly, the sound smooth and disarming, and gestured to me with a subtle nod. “Of course, my dear. Just a little…spirited debate, nothing more. Norton was sharing his thoughts on our curriculum, weren’t you?”
I wanted to roll my eyes, to shatter the act, but my body betrayed me–still stiff, still raw from the earlier pressure of his grip. Edgar, sensing the sudden shift, offered me a tentative smile. Andrew gave me a pointed look, calm but firm, like a warning whispered under the guise of gentleness. Then, as if nothing had happened, he stepped back, giving me just enough space to breathe, and walked past Edgar toward the dining hall.
The corridor felt unnaturally silent after he left, the faint echo of his footsteps like a ghost I couldn’t shake. Edgar’s hand brushed mine, warm and grounding, and for the first time since Andrew’s warning, I let myself lean into something familiar. I felt Edgar’s hand linger on mine, tentative yet thoughtful, and I clung to it like a lifeline. My pulse was still racing, each beat echoing the faint, chilling reminder of Andrew’s presence.
“Are you..okay?” Edgar asked softly, his voice low, cautious. There was genuine concern in his eyes, and it was almost maddening how it made me want to lean into him, to confess that no, I wasn’t okay–not after Andrew’s grip, not after seeing that quiet, controlled darkness in him.
“I..I’m fine,” I muttered, though my voice didn’t carry conviction. I could feel the heat of my own tension, the nervous energy trembling through me. Edgar didn’t pull back; he never did. For a long moment, the corridor held us in suspended silence. The distant clatter of cleaning utensils was the only other sound, but it felt miles away, inconsequential. And then I realized–I wasn’t scared of Andrew anymore, not entirely. I was more aware of the danger he represented, the power he could wield, and, absurdly, of how far I can push him to his edge.
Edgar’s gaze caught mine, unwavering, tender, just how I remembered. “Norton,” he said quietly, almost a whisper. “Are you sure?”
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. I wanted to tell him everything, to confess the mixture of fear and fascination, the way Andrew unsettled me, and the way I couldn’t stop thinking about him. But I didn’t. I couldn’t yet. Instead, I just squeezed Edgar’s hand, a silent promise that he was my anchor, even in the storm of what Andrew represented.
My hand moved almost on instinct, gripping Edgar’s arm before he could step away. The warmth of him beneath my finger jolted me, grounding me, yet at the same time, it felt like I was trespassing–clinging to something I had no right to hold onto anymore. “Tell me,” I murmured, my voice low, strained, “are you actually happy, Edgar? Does he satisfy you?”
The question hung in the air like smoke, curling between us, clinging. Edgar froze. His shoulders stiffened, and for the first time all evening, he didn’t meet my eyes. That hesitation–that pause–said more than any words ever could. I watched him struggle, his jaw tightening, his lips parting just slightly before pressing shut again. He didn’t pull away from my grip, though. That, more than anything, made my chest ache.
“Norton,” he finally said, voice quiet, guarded. His gaze flickered to mine, sharp and wounded all at once, before darting away. “You don’t get to ask me things like that.” he suddenly snapped, pulling his arm from my grip. “I’m not a teenager anymore. I don’t have the luxury of being reckless–of chasing after ghosts who don’t stay.”
The words hit harder than his shove. His tone wasn’t loud, but firm, final, spoken with the weight of someone who had learned how to bury his longing. “My life is steady now. It’s where it should be,” he went on, his voice colder, as though trying to convince both of us. “And I won’t let you unravel it just because you’ve decided you regret leaving.” He turned from me then, spine stiff, steps quick. But even as he walked away, I couldn’t unhear that faint tremor in his words–-the kind that betrayed a truth he didn’t want me to touch.
His words clung to me long after he disappeared down the corridor: I’m not a teenager anymore…I don’t have the luxury of being reckless.
I sat there in the quiet, every muscle taut, staring at the empty space where he had stood. I should’ve been furious–furious at him for dismissing me, for pretending Andrew could fill the place I had once held. But instead, all I could think about was the look in his eyes. That tiny flicker he’d tried to smother.
He was lying. I knew he was.
If he was truly happy, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He wouldn’t have snapped so defensively. He wouldn’t have had that tremor in his voice when he spoke of his so-called steady life. I pressed a hand against my chest, as if I could hold down the storm beating inside. Six years. Six wasted years–and yet the moment I saw him again, I knew. I’d always known. He wasn’t just some boy from my past, some foolish infatuation. Edgar Valden was the center of it all–the reason I had left, and now, the reason I had come back.
The thought should’ve scared me. Instead, it thrilled me.
I would find the cracks in his perfect little domesticated life. I would pry them open until he stopped pretending. Until he admitted the truth–that no matter how tightly he clung to his composure, he still belonged to me. Andrew, the ring, the respectable life he built–it was all a facade. And I was going to tear it apart piece by piece.
–
The next morning, I slipped into the mask of a teacher. Chalk in hand, pacing before a room of bright-eyed little girls, I pretended this was all natural–standing at the blackboard, explaining words that had once carried me through darker nights.
“Shakespeare loved tragedy,” I told them, scrawling the word across the slate. White dust clung to my fingertips like ash. “Not because he wanted to depress his audience, but because he wanted to remind them of something important.” A ripple of whispers. Curious eyes. “In every one of his tragedies, there’s a fatal flaw, “I continued, turning back to them. “Pride, ambition, jealousy… something hidden in plain sight. Something the characters think they can control, but never can. And when it finally unravels, it takes everything else with it.”
The room went still. Even the fidgeting stopped.
Ella, perched in the second row, raised her hand with that same sharp-eyed boldness that reminded me so much of Edgar. “So you’re saying tragedy isn’t about the world being cruel–it’s about people causing their own misery?”
I almost smiled. “Exactly. The world doesn’t have to lift a finger. People carry their downfalls inside them. “I tapped the chalk against my palm, letting the words hang. “And it’s always the ones who think they’ve escaped their past who end up most entangled in it.”
The girls scribbled furiously in their notebooks. A few exchanged uneasy looks, like they’d just been warned of some ghost in the walls. Ella didn’t write anything at all. She just kept staring, chin tilted, as though she knew my words weren’t just a lesson. The air had gone thick, too heavy for a room filled with a bunch of ten-year-olds. I caught myself, shook my head, and clapped the chalk dust from my hands as though scattering the gloom away.
“Now,” I said with exaggerated seriousness, “before any of you panic–no, this does not mean you’re doomed to die tragically because you forgot your homework.”
A burst of soft giggles cracked through the silence.
One girl near the back piped up, “But sir, if we’re late, will we have a fatal flaw?”
I arched a brow, pacing dramatically across the room. “Oh yes, tardiness has slain many great men. Imagine Hamlet, oversleeping through his duel, or Macbeth missing his cue because he left his dagger at home.” I mimed patting down my coat pockets, fumbling as if searching for a missing weapon. The girls erupted, giggles bouncing off the stone walls. Ella laughed too, though hers was quieter, more measured, like something was weighing on her.
I leaned against the desk, smirking. “And what about you all? What would your fatal flaw be?”
“Chocolate!” one shouted.
“Daydreaming!” another.
“Boys,” said a third, her face red as the others howled at her honesty.
I chuckled, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Ah, see? You’ve learned Shakespeare already without even knowing it. You’ve named your flaws. That’s step one. Step two..” I lowered my voice conspiratorially, “is never letting me catch you using them as excuses.” Another wave of laughter rolled over the room, lighter this time. Their pens scratched again, not because they feared the weight of tragedy, but because they enjoyed the game of it.
For a moment–just a moment–I felt as if this might be my calling.
The laughter finally began to fade into a quieter hum as the girls bent back over their papers, still whispering among themselves. That’s when I noticed a hand raised. “Yes, Miss Valden?” I asked, still grinning from the chaos I’d stirred. Her eyes were too sharp for a child, like she was measuring me against something only she knew. “You never said yours, Mr. Campbell,” she said. “What’s your fatal flaw?”
The room hushed. Even the girls who had been scribbling stopped, their ears pricking up like sparrows. I froze for half a second longer than I should have. My grin wavered, but I forced it back in place. “Oh, me?” I tapped my chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “Let’s see..perhaps I’m too devastatingly handsome for my own good.”
A ripple of giggles broke the silence, but Ella didn’t laugh. She only tilted her head, studying me with that same curious seriousness. I leaned against the desk once again, wagging a finger. “Or perhaps it’s my wit. Yes–that must be it. Too sharp for Shakespeare, too quick for tragedy to catch me.”
The girl’s laughter filled the room again, but Ella remained still, her pencil tapping lightly against the desk. Her silence pricked at me until she finally said, almost matter-of-factly, “I don’t think that’s true, Mr. Campbell. Everyone has a real flaw. Even you.”
I chuckled, a little too tightly. “Oh? And what flaw would you give me then?”
She met my gaze, unblinking. “You don’t know how to let go.”
Her words struck with a strange, uninvited precision, and for a moment it felt like all the air had left the room. My grin faltered, my tongue dry in my mouth. The other girls glanced between us, giggling nervously, not understanding the weight of what she’d said. I force out a laugh, tapping the chalk against the board. “A philosopher at ten years old–heaven help us.” The class tittered, but I couldn’t shake her words. They clung to me like wet cloth, heavier than anything a child ought to say to a grown man. And when I dared look back, Ella was still staring, not with malice, not with mischief–just with that quiet, unshakable certainty.
And damn her for it, because she was right.
The heavy toll of the bell rang through the academy halls, shaking the last traces of laughter from the room. Chairs scraped back, books snapped shut, and in a flurry of ribbons and skirts the girls spilled out into the corridor, their chatter fading into the distance. I gathered my notes slowly, letting the silence settle. But when I glanced up, Ella was still there–perched neatly behind her desk, her hands folded atop her book.
“Class is dismissed, Ella,” I said gently, gesturing toward the door.
She didn’t move. Instead, her eyes–too old for her face, far too knowing–lifted to mine. “Mr. Campbell,” she asked softly, “do you really believe that fatal flaws could happen in the real world?”
The question caught me off guard, tightening something in my chest. I swallowed, searching for levity, but her tone left no room for jest, I could tell something was bothering her. My lips parted, then closed again. For once, I didn’t have a clever retort, no easy wit to fall back on. The truth hovered on my tongue, bitter and unspoken.
Finally, I managed, “Yes…I do.” I noticed her eyes flinching at those words. “Ella?” I asked gently, stepping closer. “Is there something up?” She looked up at me then, her gaze steady. There was no pretense, no attempt to soften the truth. “No,” she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not okay.” The honesty struck me harder than I expected. In that moment, I realized she wasn’t just a curious child. She carried weight–far more than her age should allow.
I crouched slightly to meet her eye level, careful not to startle her. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, though part of me knew this was a question with no easy answer. Her voice wavered as she spoke, breaking the silence. “It’s…it’s my father,” she confessed, eyes brimming with tears. “He’s sick… and nobody seems to care. Everyone’s just worried about the wedding, about Edgar, I feel invisible at home.”
Her words hit me like a cold wind. I hadn’t expected such raw honesty, such weight carried by someone so young. I could see the hurt etched into her features, the way her shoulders tensed as if holding herself together with sheer will. “I..I’m sorry,” I said softly, my voice faltering just slightly. “I know how hard it was for you at home.” I took a slow breath, trying to find the right words. “Look I understand, more than you might think.” My gaze softened. “I lost my father when I was very young. It… it wasn’t easy. There were days I didn’t know how to go on, days I felt like no one noticed the emptiness left behind.”
She blinked up at me, a mixture of curiosity and sadness in her wide eyes. “What did you do?” she asked quietly.
I let out a small, bitter laugh. “I didn’t always do the right thing. I stumbled a lot. But I learned that even when the people around you don’t seem to care, your grief, your love–it doesn’t vanish. You carry it. And sometimes, all you can do is hold onto it, let it guide you to be stronger, for them and for yourself.”
Ella chewed her lip, considering my words. “So it’s normal to feel…lost?”
I nodded, “It’s more than normal. It’s human. And it’s okay to feel it. What matters is that you don’t carry it alone. Not now, not ever.” For a brief moment, the classroom felt quieter, the afternoon light spilling over the floor like a soft embrace. And I realized, despite the age difference between us, she reminded me of the fragility and resilience of life itself–once I had taken for granted.
The soft moment between us was broken by the familiar sound of the classroom door creaking open. I looked up to see Edgar standing there, his expression of impatience and concern. “Ella,” he said gently, “it’s time to leave.” She hesitated, glancing between the two of us, before nodding reluctantly. I could see the weight of her worries still lingering in her eyes, but she obeyed without protest.
As they passed me, I couldn’t help but notice the subtle tension between Edgar and I, an unspoken history lingering in the air. Before stepping out, Edgar cast me a subtle smile, quick and fleeting but enough to make my chest tighten. It was almost imperceptible, yet it carried weight–something familiar, something I had been chasing for years. As the door clicked shut behind them, a thought rooted itself deep in my mind, blooming into something darker than mere longing. If I wanted him, truly, completely, this–his family, this luxury of being a nobleman, and his life here–this was the key. I would need to get close, entwine myself in the threads of his world, until there was no separating us.
If Ella trusted me–and she already did–then Edgar would have no choice but to see me as something steady, reliable, necessary. His mother seemed fond of me too, almost absurdly so. The house, the wealthy, his world.. It was all right there within reach. All I had to do was thread myself into the seams until I became indispensable.
I stepped into the corridor, the cold stone echoing beneath my boots, and already I was plotting–ways to find Ella, to ease her worries with stories and laughter, to win her over more and more. Ways to stay in his mother’s good graces. And, of course, ways to keep Andrew at a distance, to prove he didn’t belong. And Edgar’s father—weak, bedridden, fading. A ghost haunting the manor before he’d even left it.
The thought twisted in my chest, half-pity, half–opportunity. Edgar was a man who carried his burdens like sacred relics, clutched tight against his ribs. The illness of a father, grief of a sister–these things would press on him, wear him down. And who would be there when he needed someone steady enough to bear it with him? Not Andrew. Andrew was too polished, too sanctimonious, all sermons and false light. Edgar might believe in him now, but when the weight of death pressed harder–when he needed someone who truly understood loss–that mask would crack.
I stopped in the corridor, hand against the stone wall, my breath coming sharp. I knew loss. I’d lived it. That was something Andrew could never touch. If Edgar’s father was dying, then Edgar would soon be standing on the edge of the same abyss I once stood at. And when that moment came…he would look for me. He always had. He always would.