Over the weekend, Richard stayed holed up at home, burying himself in his books and going nowhere.
Soon, it was the second week after the Spirit Board incident.
On Monday, the seating arrangement in the Greenwood dining hall shifted slightly.
To be precise, two extra chairs were pulled up to a certain table.
This change didn't happen out of nowhere.
On the night of the Spirit Board incident, Warren went home and recounted the event as a joke to his family.
As he spoke, his younger brother even asked to borrow the thing to play with for a couple of days.
His mother, seated across the table, set down her knife and fork.
"What did you say?!"
Before Warren could even figure out what was wrong, his mother waved the servants out of the dining room."You bought some object of unknown origin, brought it to school, lit a candle, and performed a séance in your classroom?"
"It wasn't really a séance... we were just playing around..."
"And the candle went out?"
"Yeah, it went out on its own."
Dinner was cut short.
His mother rose and went to the study to call his father, who hadn't gotten off work yet.
Old Crowley was the vice-chairman of the North District Coal Mine Union, and he was rarely seen at home.
But that night, he dropped everything and rushed home.
"Where did you put that thing!"
Warren had never seen his usually gentlemanly father raise his voice like that.
"It's still in my bag..."
"Take it out. Don't touch it with your bare hands. Use a cloth."
He quickly did as told.
The round wooden board, carved with ancient characters, was wrapped in a handkerchief and placed on the living room coffee table.
Old Crowley stared at the board for a moment without touching it.
"You said the candle went out on its own. Among the people present, did anyone act differently from the rest?"
Warren thought for a moment. "Williams."
"Which Williams? If I yell 'Williams' on the street, half the block would turn around."
"Richard Williams, a classmate who sits three rows behind me.
"He never went near the Spirit Board. He stood to the side from beginning to end, holding the Cloth Bag, and never took the board out himself."
"And then?"
"Then he set the Cloth Bag on a desk. When I took out the round board, the candle went out. No matter how we tried, it wouldn't light again."
"Did he do anything else after the candle went out?"
"He... gave us a science lecture. Talked about the ideomotor effect and oxygen levels in enclosed spaces, making everyone think the whole thing was a hoax."
As Warren spoke, he noticed his father and mother exchange a look.
The next evening, Warren was called into his father's study. Someone was waiting for him.
The woman wore a long gray wool dress and her hair was coiled tightly. A red mole sat on her cheekbone, looking almost painted on.
"This is Mrs. MacNeil," his father said.
Warren knew that name.
Every year around exorcism day, his mother would invite this lady over, and they would stay locked in the living room for half the day.
Whenever she visited, Warren and his brother were ordered to stay in their rooms, and the servants were entirely dismissed.
Mrs. MacNeil had Warren sit in a chair. She circled him twice, pausing briefly at his head and both of his shoulders.
She withdrew her hands and spoke to Old Crowley. "He's clean. Nothing latched onto him."
Old Crowley's shoulders relaxed. "Thank you, Madam. We'll increase your fee to..."
"There is no need. I did nothing."
Mrs. MacNeil picked up her gloves from the desk and unhurriedly slipped them onto her fingers.
"However, that boy you mentioned..."
"Which one?"
"The Williams boy your son brought up."
She finished putting on her gloves and smoothed the cuffs.
"He didn't touch the Spirit Board itself from beginning to end, keeping it in the Cloth Bag, and only set it down right before the ritual began, after which the candle immediately went out."
"If your son's account is accurate, the Spirit Board was purged clean before the ritual even began."
The study fell silent for a few seconds.
"What method did he use?" Old Crowley asked.
"I don't know." Mrs. MacNeil wrapped her scarf around her neck.
"But someone capable of such a feat is either trained, or born with... spirituality.
"Either way, it wouldn't be a bad idea for your son to get on his good side at school."
She paused at the door and looked back.
"Of course, it could simply be a coincidence.
"But if it isn't... Mr. Crowley, your family runs a large business in this city. I don't need to remind you of the value of maintaining good relations with people of our sort."
The door clicked shut.
This incident manifested at the dining hall as Warren's extreme enthusiasm.
So enthusiastic, in fact, that Richard half-suspected the guy was gay—a grand national tradition, after all.
Warren and Mason both went out of their way to pull out a chair for him.
"Williams, come sit here... uh, Fenton, you can come over too."
Grey sat nearby, quietly eating her meal.
As Richard walked over with his tray, Hugh followed right behind him.
Mason turned his head. "Fenton, did you see Stanfield's goal yesterday?"
"I did, I did," Hugh quickly chimed in.
"The curve on that shot was ridiculous. The goalie didn't even try to dive."
The two quickly struck up a conversation, but Richard noticed that Mason would occasionally cast cautious glances in his direction as he spoke.
He sipped his hot tea and scanned the dining hall.
In the corner by the window, Barrett was still sitting in his usual spot.
The peanut butter on his bread was pitifully thin as always. He chewed slowly, his eyes never straying toward the center of the hall.
Beside him, Warren was poking at a steak on his plate.
Greenwood's lunches were divided into two tiers. The basic meal consisted only of bread, a vegetable salad, thin soup, and hot tea, and was generally sold quite cheap.
The premium meal offered various grilled meats, dairy, thick soups, and desserts, priced à la carte at rates comparable to outside restaurants.
In front of Warren sat a steak, a creamy bisque, roasted potatoes, a pat of butter, and a glass of milk.
Richard didn't have much of an appetite today. His tray held only a small amount of salad and some bread. He hadn't even grabbed soup, just a cup of free hot tea.
Warren seemed to realize something and pushed his plate toward Richard.
"Want a bite? This steak is huge. I can't finish it all by myself."
Richard glanced at his plate.
The steak was indeed large, but he'd seen how much Warren could eat. That piece of meat wouldn't even fill him up.
"No thanks."
"Come on, have some."
"Really, I'm good."
"Look how skinny you are..." Warren stopped midway, realizing how it sounded, and quickly shut his mouth.
The atmosphere momentarily stiffened before Richard set down his teacup.
"Warren, you stumbled in two places during the third paragraph of your Latin recitation."
"...What?"
"Yesterday, in Mr. Holland's class, during the third paragraph. You paused when you reached 'quam diu', and your stress on the later 'eludet' was off."
Warren's attention was successfully yanked away from the steak. "You actually remember where I stumbled?"
"Of course. Your issue lies with the perfect tense endings of second-conjugation verbs.
"You're just guessing based on feel when you recite. If you guess right, you get by; if not, you stumble."
"...You sound like you know what you're talking about. You've got a bit of Mr. Holland's flair."
"I've actually been taking remedial lessons with him lately," Richard said, taking a sip of tea.
"If you don't mind, I could help you sort out your Latin conjugation logic."
Warren blinked.
He didn't actually care much about his grades.
But his father's instruction had been to "get on his good side as much as possible." Now that Richard was actively offering to tutor him, it played right into his hands.
"How should I thank you, then?"
"Just spot me some extra food whenever we eat."
Warren froze. That was it?
Spotting a meal wouldn't even dent his pocket change.
"Deal. We can start today—order whatever you want."
"You said it. I won't hold back then."
At the other end of the dining hall, Lillian Hayward sat by herself.
Her tray was the same as always—thin soup, bread, no meat.
She stirred her spoon in the bowl, her movements slow, her eyes locked on the center of the hall.
She saw Richard Williams sitting at Warren's table, a steak and fresh milk unexpectedly resting in front of him.
He was eating and explaining something to Warren, who listened with rapt attention.
She pulled her spoon from the bowl and set it on the edge of her plate.
Richard Williams.
Just last week, he'd been sitting in the window corner like her, with a tray just as shabby.
When called upon in class, he would stand up and stammer.
And now?
His statement in Mr. Hutton's class had left the room silent for several seconds.
In Mr. Holland's Latin class, Williams had memorized the entire speech without missing a single syllable.
She had never dropped out of the top three in written exams, yet no one had ever invited her to "sit here" at lunch.
Perhaps good grades weren't the only hard currency at Greenwood.
Socializing required something else—a relaxed demeanor, a desire to express oneself, or just the right timing and guts.
She lacked all of them.
Or so Lillian thought. She resentfully withdrew her gaze and lowered her head to resume eating her thin soup and bread.
The soup had already gone a little cold.