He lay flat on his back as the candles burned out, one by one, a bleak cloud of depression weighing him down. Slowly, silently, tears ran down his temples, leaving behind cold trails on the skin and soaking into his hair.
Finally the last of his candles guttered in a pool of its own wax, and he reached despondently for his medicine. There wasn't enough left in the bottle to let him sleep forever. If only there was!
Well, if it helped with the pain in his head, perhaps it would help with the pain in his heart.
*
DRUGS only brought an end to the physical pain; they did nothing for his despair. He lost his appetite, but now that he was no longer suspected of having a fever, apparently no one noticed that the trays came down almost as full as when they went up. He took his medicines in apathetic silence, and found a strange refuge in the books he used to despise.
This time it was the Healer who had put a time limit to his retreat; the Healer had said that he should be ready to return to school in three days, so in exactly three days, there was another visit from his mother.
She appeared with the supper tray, and actually gazed on him with a hint of approval.
"Your teachers are extremely pleased with you," she said, neutrally. "You're going to be quite ready for school tomorrow."
He wouldn't look into his mother's eyes. He knew there would be no reprieve.
At breakfast, Nelda handed him a small glass containing some thick, unidentifiable liquid.
"What's... this?" he asked, staring at it dully.
"The medicine that will keep you from having those headaches from now on," Nelda replied, with a tart edge to her voice. Now that was not what Lan remembered; as he recalled, the Healer had not put things with such certainty. It will help prevent them, was what Lan remembered. But it was obvious that Nelda was determined that the inconvenience of the headaches would no longer be occurring to disrupt the household schedule.
And if they do—obviously it will be because I did something wrong, that I didn't take enough of the medicine, or didn't take it at the right time, he thought bitterly, his throat closing with a painful lump. Or because I'm faking it.
The medicine was nowhere near as bitter as his thoughts, and he swallowed it down without a grimace for the taste. Then he gathered up his books, wrapped himself in his depression as well as his cloak, and trudged off through the bleak half light of a gathering storm to what he could not help but feel was his doom.
He didn't try to hide in a crowd this morning; why bother? Tyron would find him no matter where he was.
Bundled in his cloak, with the hood pulled over his head, perhaps they didn't recognize him. He didn't make his usual sprint, he walked—or, rather, plodded—straight to the door. And no one stopped him, or even interfered with him.
But this did nothing to give him his lost hopes back again. In fact, all it did was increase his feeling of impending doom. With leaden steps he climbed the staircase to his floor.
He's waiting. He's sitting like a spider in the middle of his web. He knows he can have me any time he wants, and he's just waiting for the perfect time, with the biggest audience.
Silence fell over the classroom as he entered, took off his cloak, and hung it on his peg near the door with the rest.
He sat down at his desk without a word to any of the others. He didn't think it was his imagination that painted expressions of pity in their eyes, mingled with a kind of gloating relief. ("He's going to be picked on, not me!")
The morning classes went far too quickly, and the nearer the time came to lunch, the more Lan's stomach knotted and the less he felt like even seeing food. But it wasn't until the rest filed out of the room and he put his aching forehead down on the cool wooden surface of his desk, that the answer to his unspoken prayers broke into his mind.
I don't have to go down to lunch! There is no reason why I can't just stay here!
It was so simple, and so perfect, he could hardly believe no one had ever thought of that solution before. Perhaps it was only because hunger overcame fear around lunchtime; but more likely, it was because the students were used to following routine. The students had always gone down to lunch in the Hall at noon; hence students always would. He had no appetite anyway; if he didn't go down to the Hall, there was no way that Tyron and his cronies could reach him! It was strictly forbidden for any student to be on any floor that was not that of his own Form during the school day, and not even Tyron was immune to that rule. He did have a sanctuary after all!
I don't care about today, he thought with a sigh, putting both arms up on his desk, closing his eyes and resting his head on his crossed arms. My stomach's in knots anyway. Tomorrow I'll bring some bread in my book bag. There was always water to drink in an urn in the back of the classroom, and although bread and water was supposed to be punishment fare, not even all Lan's favorite dishes lined up in a row in the Hall would be superior to plain bread in peace.
And if anyone asked why he stayed here—well, he could just plead an uneasy stomach and a fascination with something he was reading. Illness combined with scholarship should be equal to any adult objections.
As his head eased, he got himself a drink and then went back to his desk to pillow his head on his arms. It was so peaceful in the quiet classroom that Lan actually dozed a little, and started awake at the sounds of the others returning to class.
He sat up and opened his book as the rest of his class came in. And he noticed that his classmates eyed him with curiosity. There was no doubt that his absence from the Hall had been noted.
As the next class proceeded, more ideas for escape came to him, for after all, there was still dismissal time to worry about this afternoon, and arrival in the morning. I can wait as long as I have to for them to leave, he decided. And I'll really study, I won't just pretend to. Although he still didn't care much for his classes, studying was preferable to bullying. And there was one thing that he did like: the reserved approval of his teachers for his progress. Reports were sent to parents at weekly intervals, and Lan's parents had been much better pleased with him of late.
If I do well enough, maybe they'll let me go back to Alderscroft for the summer....
Better not to hope for that. It was enough if Tyron and the others would leave him alone. This ploy might make him late for dinner, but that was no problem. As long as he was safely at school and not running wild with friends (as if he had any), his parents wouldn't care where he was.
At the end of the last class, the third idea came to him, another flash of revelation that answered his final problem. Sixth Form never gets here much earlier than anyone else. In fact, he had occasionally gotten in past them because he had arrived before any of them did. No one at home is going to pay any attention to how early I get up.
It would be a sacrifice, because of all things he loved best, one of them was to lie abed in the morning. Getting up early was torture.
But if he could avoid the far worse torture the Sixth Formers meted out, it would be worth it.
I'll ask Cook to send one of the boys to wake me as soon as she starts work, he decided. That would be a good time; Cook was up and at her duties a good two candlemarks before any of the family. She might not like it, but he could mollify her by not demanding anything for breakfast that she didn't have already done by the time he got downstairs. Yesterday's bread and butter and jam would be good enough for him! She always cooked up more than anyone could eat; he could pocket the leftovers to serve for his lunch. And if his parents wondered why he was going in early and staying late, his weekly reports would be all the answer they needed.