Trophies (4 page)

The interior was cool, dim, and silent. Our
steps were muted by the vestibule's sweep of bright blue Persian
carpet. When I'd been younger, I'd pretended it was a magic flying
carpet that could sweep me far away from the problems I didn't want
to face. Once again, I wished that was true.

Outside, a car honked.

"Who could that be?" I didn't really care,
whoever it was I could avoid them, but hopefully the new arrival
would distract Patty. Often she rode an issue like a mouse on a
little wheel and right now I could survive without further
harassment.

But she wouldn't look at me and her lower lip
vanished between her teeth.

My internal organs roiled again. "Cuz,
besides your father, whom did you call?"

She rolled her eyes. "Caren."

That sensation of ice invading my veins
seemed likely to become habitual. "Why?"

Patricia glared, rocking me back on my heels.
Thankfully her genes had skipped another of the family's hereditary
traits, the Roman nose, so she never seemed to be looking down on
me the way the others did. But she gave it a really good go.
"Because you're acting oddly, and you keep tensing and closing your
eyes, and then you start shaking, and I don't know what to make of
it, Charles, and you're frightening me." She pushed past me to the
door I'd just closed.

I glared back. I'd missed the Roman nose,
too, but right then it would have been helpful. "Tell me, is Caren
supposed to understand me because she's a shrink, or because she
used to be my girlfriend?"

But Patty slung open the door and stalked
out, and the moment exited with her. I was losing all around.
Suddenly the silence of the house felt menacing. Alienating Patty
was not something I cared to contemplate, especially if Aunt Edith
really was gone. I couldn't bear to lose both my girls in one
day.

Even the once-magical house felt odd, like
the home of a stranger and not where I'd grown up. On the surface
it was the same, mahogany and white Edwardian, with Aunt Edith's
beloved green and blue Persian carpets brightening the hardwood
floors. Out-of-place modern art by the local talent decked the
walls and drove me mad, as they'd done since I'd first seen them.
Finally I could get rid of that lot and bring in the oils of horses
and ships and landscapes the décor really deserved. But that
thought, rather than helping, instead tightened in my chest as I
stalked into the parlor.

And instantly I knew something was wrong.

seventeen years earlier

"Hallo, I'm Thomasson. Can I help you find
your class?"

I glanced up, already tired of being in a
school where nearly everyone was so bloody tall, even if it was
only the first morning of term. The fourth-year currently looming
overhead wore a prefect's badge gleaming silver against his navy
jacket's lapel. His matching tie was the only one I'd seen so far
that was properly tied and his dark hair was cut in a manner Mum
would call "normal." It was even combed. Unlike Hardenbrook, I
didn't have to tell myself I wasn't going to like this one.

"I don't know," I said. "Can you?"

The skin around his eyes tightened but one
side of his mouth curled upward, as if he couldn't decide whether
to laugh or scream. "Are you in Allworth's section?"

I thought for a moment before answering. "If
that's where the troublemakers hang out, it's probably where I
should be."

His lips pursed. "No, I saw you with
Hardenbrook, and that means you should be in the head's suite right
now. All the way up the stairs and to the right." He pointed.
"You'd best hurry; you don't want to be late for that one."

If I truly was stuck in this beastly place
for the next seven years, trouble with the headmaster on the first
day probably wasn't the brightest way to introduce myself. I
consoled myself by giving Thomasson a long, sour look, then
shrugged my backpack higher onto my shoulder and trudged
upstairs.

By the time I reached the third flight I had
slowed to a crawl, which was just as well because otherwise I might
have tripped over the canvas carryall blocking the top. I started
to sidestep this and drew up sharpish when a foot appeared out of
nowhere and slapped the bag to the other side of the landing.

I peered up and to the left. One budding
athlete of about fourteen years held a first-year, helpless with
his natty coat tugged down over his arms, against the wall at the
start of the next flight up, while another practiced soccer with
the victim's carryall about the landing. As I watched, this latter
fourth-year, backpack banging across his shoulders, sent the
increasingly dirty canvas spinning across the floor to crash
against the wall a foot before me. He started to go for it again
but stopped when his gaze met mine.

"What the hell are you looking at?" he
said.

In order to answer his question properly I
paused to examine him with a touch more depth. His auburn hair,
long in front and back but short on the sides, flopped across his
sloping forehead above bold blue eyes. His tie dangled inches
beneath his prominent Adam's apple and a collection of rugby pins
decorated both jacket pockets. From the amount of cloth allocated
to his sleeves and pants legs, it appeared his parents, or whoever
carried the responsibility for his uniforms, expected him to grow a
bit over term.

"My first guess would be a bully." I cocked
my head. "Are you in Allworth's section?"

All three gaped at me. Then the victim
snickered despite his undignified position.

The fourth-year holding him, a bit shorter
and with tow hair cut by someone who liked the Beatles, gaped the
longest. Finally he snapped his jaw closed. "What the hell does
that have to do with anything?"

The redhead, it seemed, had no desire to
negotiate. Leaving the carryall in peace, he headed my way.

"You realize, of course," I said, "that we're
both supposed to be in the head's office right now."

He stopped in the middle of the landing. His
glare held for a moment more, then his lips thinned to a
hairline.

"Cartier—" The tow-head released the
first-year, who jumped aside and shrugged his jacket into its
proper position.

"Shut it, Darrow." Cartier kicked the
carryall one last time, sending it flying, then turned his back on
me and shoved the first-year sprawling when he tried to grab it.
Darrow laughed and stepped up beside him.

As Cartier leaned forward to deliver the
shove, the motion placed his backpack directly before me. I had a
clear glimpse of stiff new olive-drab canvas, black edging, bright
brass zippers with black chain dangles, and one of them wasn't
closed. A small soft-bound journal, its cover creased and worn, had
been jogged loose and stuck out by several inches.

Darrow and Cartier were otherwise engaged. I
slipped the journal from the backpack and secreted it within my
pocket. A moment later, the two fourth-years shoved past me, one
each side, and thundered down the stairs, raucous comments bluing
the atmosphere behind them.

"Vandals." The first-year hefted his
carryall. "Brand new, and look at it now. It'll never come clean.
Thanks, by the way."

I was already climbing the last flight. "Next
time stand up for yourself and don't wait for someone else to do it
for you."

The headmaster stood outside an open door,
watching the two of us as we picked up our pace down the hall. He
had the sort of manner that encouraged such obliging behavior, chin
held level, a flat expression which presumed an explanation would
be immediately forthcoming. Although his scarlet and blue festal
academical gown should have given him a motley appearance, rather
like a royal jester, I personally felt no desire to laugh.

"Sorry, sir," the other first-year said.
"But—"

I cut him off. "—we got lost."

I felt the other's flabbergasted stare but
concentrated on Headmaster Tufton. Although he wasn't a tall man,
nor a stout one, he seemed immovable in the hallway outside his
suite. His long narrow face ended in a trimmed grey beard and
mustache that gave him an Elizabethan appearance. A vein throbbed
in his temple but his expression never wavered.

"Well," he finally said. "Here's hoping
you'll learn the building." He paused. "Quickly."

He swept out his left arm. The other
first-year scurried past into the suite. I paused, just to let him
know I wasn't impressed — even if I was — then followed more
slowly. The door closing behind us boomed.

The suite was open and airy, windows wide to
the breeze and sheer curtains fluttering. In the far corner was a
massive desk, the sort of thing Shakespeare might have loved, with
a brass-studded leather chair askew behind it and a stack of papers
beneath what looked like an honest-to-God cannonball. Books with
worn spines lined an entire wall.

A leather sofa and assorted soft chairs, in
shades of brown and tan, clustered in the room's center. The other
boys in Hardenbrook's section, as well as a half-dozen other
first-years, presumably from another one, perched in a solemn
circle, staring as the victim squeezed into a spot. Then all eyes
swiveled toward me as if awaiting the next act in the play.

It was an unexpected opportunity to display
my unfriendliness. I stared back, sweeping my gaze across the row
of blank faces and thinking hard about how little I wanted to be
there. It seemed to work, or at least no one scooted over to make
room for me. I felt rather proud of myself.

"Have a seat, Mr. Ellandun." Tufton swept his
parti-colored self into view and paused at one corner of the
grouping. "Mr. Spence, budge up there."

One first-year at the end of the sofa shifted
an inch. I intensified my glare and aimed it at him. He shifted
further. I slid into the vacated spot. To keep the arena fair, my
elbows were restrained.

"We were just discussing the future,
gentlemen," Tufton said. Obediently, all heads swiveled in his
direction; I couldn't prevent mine from following suit. He turned
to the egg-headed first-year, sitting on one of the soft chairs
nearby. "Mr. Langstrom, you said you hope to work in finance?"

Great; one of those discussions. The great,
unknowable future that loomed before us like an approaching goods
train and which meant absolutely nothing to me.

But Langstrom, it seemed, had given it some
thought. He nodded his oval head in quick movements, his eyes
anxious. "Me dad's a banker, and he helps people manage their
money. But he thinks I should read for the bar, too?"

Another adult with a hang-up on money, just
like my own pater. Perhaps I wouldn't need to remind myself not to
like Langstrom, either.

But Tufton nodded, one hand stroking his
beard, and some of the assembled audience mimicked him like a Greek
chorus. Tufton's dark eyes were thoughtful, brows lowered to a
slender bar, but the curl of his lips implied his liking of the
idea. Which, of course, lowered him in my opinion dramatically.

"Legal training is always useful." He glanced
at me. "Would you agree, Mr. Ellandun?"

I blinked my surprise. "I don't know."
Honestly, any combination of law and money sounded utterly boring,
especially considering one would be stuck there for life. This
couldn't possibly be Allworth's section. What was the name of the
third master? Ewing? That would explain their herd-like
behavior.

For some reason, my response got Tufton's
attention. He stroked his beard again, eyes narrowing further and
lips uncurling. "Is it your intention to become an attorney, Mr.
Ellandun?"

I paused. The question made me uneasy
although I wasn't certain why. "My father wants me to."

Tufton nodded once, unsurprised. "But what do
you want?"

At first I thought,
What an odd
question.
Then abruptly, as the boy beside me shifted to stare,
I understood: even though I was only ten minutes from home, I was
no longer under my father's thumb. I was under Tufton's instead,
and if this question was any indication, he wouldn't squash me into
a boring future.

I stared at Tufton while the shock of that
new understanding reverberated through me. He stared back, his
expression softening. Then his eyebrows curved into twin question
marks.

But before I could answer, the memory of
William loomed over me, bigger and more imposing than that bloody
cannonball. Every possibility raised by my new understanding
depended upon the answer to that one all-important question.

"Did you know my brother?"

His eyebrows lifted higher. "Yes, Mr.
Ellandun, I taught your brother."

Simply as that, the winds died and my sails
collapsed. His answer ruined everything.

I couldn't compete with William. I refused to
try.

I must have stirred on the sofa although I
wasn't aware of moving. But my hand brushed my side. There was
something in my pocket and for a moment I couldn't recall what it
was. It was Cartier's journal, slipped from his backpack while he
shoved his victim about. The concept solidified within me.

I wasn't going to be anybody's victim. No
matter what it cost. And they'd remember me, all right, but on my
terms. Not theirs.

"A thief," I said. "I want to be a
thief."

current time

Aunt Edith's house felt odd. Quiet. Menacing.
Even the shadows of the oak branches, hanging across the
lace-shrouded windows, were still, like the half-seen form of a
sniper with his target in his sights.

Across the room, the what-not cabinet's glass
door gaped open by a hair. The white doily draped over the edge of
the sideboard was folded up, as if someone had rummaged through the
top drawer and forgotten to smooth it back into place.

Aunt Edith ran a tight ship. This wasn't
right.