𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑺𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 || 𝑨 𝑩𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒐𝒏 𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚

03. 𝑨 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝑶𝒇 𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚

Chapter 3.

‎ .˚ * ꒰ঌ✦໒꒱ * ˚.

January, 1815

BENJAMIN FEATHERINGTON HAD decided, once and for all, that school was a prison.

Not just metaphorically - literally. Rows of desks, barred windows, uniformed wardens pretending to be teachers, and an entire curriculum designed to scrub your brain clean of any original thought.

They taught the wrong things. And they taught them badly.

He slouched in the third row, eyes on the ceiling, while Mr. Leighton pounded on about virtue. As if a man like him would know the meaning of the word.

Mathew was scribbling next to him, tongue between his teeth. His paper was covered in misspelled words and smudged ink. Benjamin watched him for a moment, mildly fascinated.

"You wrote 'liberty' with a Q," he muttered.

Mathew blinked. "I thought it looked funny."

"It's not a word."

"Do you think he'll still give me half marks?"

"Only if he's going blind."

"Mathew Fitzroy," said Mr. Leighton, sharply.

Mathew jumped. His quill rolled off the desk.

"Recite the second declension ending for servus."

Mathew looked up, panicked. "Um-"

Benjamin didn't even glance up from his notes. "Servus, serve, servum, servi, servo, servo," he said coolly. "Plural: servi, servi, servos, servorum, servis, servis."

The room went very still.

Mr. Leighton turned on his heel.

"Did I ask you, Mr. Featherington?"

Benjamin raised his eyebrows. "He wasn't sure."

"I didn't ask if he was sure."

Mathew was staring at his knees, already flushed red.

Mr. Leighton stepped forward, reached down, and - with a thin wooden ruler - struck Mathew sharply across the back of the hand.

Mathew flinched but didn't cry out.

.˚ * ꒰ঌ✦໒꒱ * ˚.

Later, outside, Mathew cradled his wrist and stared at the sky.

"It's fine," he muttered. "It doesn't even hurt."

Benjamin didn't answer at first. His face was still hard with quiet fury.

"I should've just said nothing," he muttered.

"No," Mathew said. "I didn't know the answer. You helped."

"And you got hit."

"It's just a hand."

Benjamin looked over. "It's not about the hand."

They walked to the Featherington house with their satchels slung loose and their collars askew. Mathew had his wrist tucked against his ribs, though he swore it didn't hurt. Benjamin hadn't spoken in ten minutes.

The sun was still bright, catching on the tops of chimneys and the rims of passing carriages. They took the long way home.

When they reached the Featherington steps, Benjamin didn't ask if Mathew wanted to come inside. He just opened the door and waved him in.