The Overlooked

Chapter 8: The Fun Begins

November arrived in a great chill of wind. Scarf-nosed children trudged about the grounds, forward-angled and clutching their hats to their heads. The faded Union Jack tore wildly at its flagpole, dancing manically like it was sentient. Trees blew to and fro, rapping on the windows late at night as to ask for a sanctuary from the dreadful wind. It was the kind of teasing gust that suggested greater things were to come, carrying an impish, icy warning on its breath that made everyone tense.

"Look!" Lowri gasped one morning in her enviable, wispy little voice. Frin moved over to the windowsill and followed Lowri's pointer finger to the misty backdrop of mountains, which were (as of that morning) capped with glistening snow. They looked like something from 'Heidi', all grey and still and white-lit. 

"Do you think it will ever reach Lanton?" Frin asked wistfully, looking on at the great stone deities. Cora appeared behind the pair, blue toothpaste in the corner of her mouth and donning only one shoe. "Nah, it never snows here."

It did, however, get bone-chillingly cold. As if over night, a frost fell over Lanton and left the place white at the edges. Fires were lit in old-fashioned cast iron fireplaces, kept alive by an irritable, soot-covered man that hobbled around with a shovel over his shoulder like the grim reaper. Miss Annie, poor thing, went knocking on every door one night handing out large fleece blankets and rambling tiredly about children freezing their toes off. It was a winter of fogged breaths, joint hands, red noses, raw fingertips and, somehow, it sprouted life in Lanton. 

"How gloriously tempestuous it is out there," said Mr. Griffiths, staring out the classroom window with the perceptive gaze of a philosopher. "And how dreadfully our last winter compares."

He stood contentedly, a red ceramic mug in his hands, and recited algebraic expressions as if they were Shakespeare. He was thriving far better than frail Ms. Halbird, who had a raging vendetta against harsh weather conditions of any kind and went around mumbling, "Too cold, too cold, too cold."

Another party seemingly unaffected by the chill was Kolt Dawson and his gang. They staged a sort of meaningless protest that involved wearing as little clothing as possible without technically breaking any rules, merely to enrage the staff, it seemed. Frin nearly felt sorry for them, as they waltzed around in grey school shorts and white button-downs, blue at the edges and stiff but preaching about the blistering heat. In desperation, one of the professors offered to pay each of them 2 pounds to end their little stunt, and the next day they were seen in black school sweaters and trousers, quite pleased with themselves despite harboring a wicked flu. 

Even afterwards, Kolt couldn't quite be lost. He became akin to an insect, constantly buzzing in and out of vision but disappearing the moment he was searched for. It was strange to think that, before their little encounter, Frin had hardly known he existed. Now, when he noisily entered the dining hall surrounded by his pair of mates or argued tirelessly with a flushed teacher, he was entirely unignorable.

His hold on those records was silently driving Frin mad. It wasn't even a certainty that he still had them, but the fact that he might was enough to vex her. He plagued her thoughts like a tick, appearing with that stupid devilish smile of his, grasping the beige file between two fingers and waving it jauntily. He made textbook pages blur, appetites disappear and sleep flee, and it was becoming more noticeable by the day. 

"Cyfrin," Efa's voice rang somewhere on the outskirts of Frin's mind. She looked up suddenly to see the blonde, close and bearing the 'concerned mother' look she often got, which Frin quite hated on her. "Would you tell me what's the matter? I've addressed you twice now, I think."

It's hardly worth reciting Frin's response, as it was some disconnected excuse and half-hearted reassurance that nothing was wrong. Efa wasn't convinced, but figured further prying would be in vain.