Fletcher knew he should go to sleep, yet he felt too exhilarated to do so. Even the usually lazy Ignatius had caught his mood, playfully chasing his tail in the darkness of the room.
Fletcher held out his candle for Ignatius to light, then went out into the common room. As he entered, he saw a fading light in the stairwell, with the sound of hasty footsteps echoing from below.
‘Come on, Ignatius, looks like we aren’t the only ones who can’t sleep,’ Fletcher said. If it was going to be a restless night, he might as well have company.
The corridors were eerie at night, the chill draughts of air whistling through the arrow slits that peppered the outside of the castle. Fletcher’s candle flame flickered with each gust, until he had to cup it with one hand to keep it from going out.
‘I could do with one of those flying lights right now, don’t you think, Ignatius?’ he whispered.
The shadows shifted unnaturally as he moved down the corridor, the dark slits of every suit of armour staring at him as he walked past.
It seemed strange that whoever was ahead was moving so quickly, their pace closer to a jog than a midnight stroll. Fletcher hurried to keep up, his curiosity getting the better of him. Even when he reached the atrium, all he saw was the dim light and a swish of cloth as a figure darted out through the main entrance.
The courtyard was silent as a grave and twice as eerie when Fletcher set foot outside, but there was no sign of the mysterious person. He walked to the drawbridge and peered out at the road, looking for the candlelight. As he stared into the wavering gloom, he began to hear the steady clop of hoofbeats on the ground, coming towards the castle.
Fletcher darted into a small room built into the drawbridge’s gatehouse, blowing out the candle and pressing himself against the cold stone wall. Whoever it was, Fletcher didn’t want their first impression of him to be that of someone who liked to sneak around in the dead of night.
He quelled Ignatius’s excitement, impressing on him the need for silence with a stern thought. He remembered what happened the last time he had been in a cold stone room, hiding in the dark. At that memory, the imp responded with agreement and even a hint of what felt like regret. Fletcher smiled and scratched Ignatius’s chin. The imp understood more than he thought!
The chirr of spinning wheels and the crack of whips announced the arrival of carriages, rumbling as they crossed the old drawbridge. Fletcher peered through a chink in the stone of the room, hugging his arms to his chest for warmth. Was it the nobles? Perhaps one of the teachers was arriving early?
There were two carriages, both ornately decorated with golden trimming and lit by crackling torches. Two men rode on top of each, wearing dark, brass-buttoned suits and peaked caps that put Fletcher in mind of the Pinkertons’ uniforms. All of them carried heavy blunderbusses in their hands, ready to blast buckshot into anyone who ambushed their convoy. Precious cargo indeed.
The doors opened and several figures got out, wearing perfectly tailored versions of the Vocans uniform. In the dim glow of the torches it was hard to see their faces, but the one closest stepped in clear view.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said to the others in a posh, drawling voice. ‘I knew this place had gone to the dogs, but I didn’t think it was going to be this bad.’
‘Did you see the state of it, Tarquin?’ said a girl from the shadows. ‘It’s a wonder we made it over the drawbridge.’
Tarquin was a handsome boy with chiselled cheekbones and angelic blond hair that fell in curls down to the nape of his neck. Yet his blue-grey eyes seemed to Fletcher as hard and cruel as any he had seen before.
‘This is what happens when you let the riffraff in,’ Tarquin stated with a contemptuous sneer. ‘Standards are slipping. I’m sure when Father was here this place was twice what it is now.’
‘Still, at least the commoners can be given the commissions we don’t want,’ the girl said, out of Fletcher’s sight.
‘Yes, well, that is the silver lining,’ Tarquin said in a bored sounding voice. ‘The commoners can have the criminals and, if, heaven forbid, they allow dwarves to serve as officers, then they can command the half-men too. Keep everyone in their rightful place, that’s the way to do it.’
A girl stepped out from the gloom and stood beside him, squinting at the tall castle in front of them. She could have been Tarquin’s twin, with razor sharp cheekbones and cherubic hair curled in delicate blonde ringlets.
‘This is a disgrace. How can every noble child in Hominum be forced to live here for two years?’ she asked out loud, tucking an errant strand behind her ear.
‘Dear sister, this is why we are here. The Forsyths have not set foot in Vocans since father graduated. We are going to show this place how real nobles are meant to be treated,’ Tarquin replied. ‘Speaking of which, where are the servants? Be a dear and fetch them for us, would you, Isadora?’ he joked, pushing his sister towards the entrance.