The lantern in the tower had not burned in twenty years, but Arthur Blackwood kept it trimmed anyway. It was not habit. Habit was the way he took his tea—black, no sugar, measured with a precision tha
He arrived at Whitethorn Academy on a Tuesday in October, three weeks before the first fog came off the Thames and settled into the college like a guilty conscience. His bag contained a change of clothes, a copy of Marcus Aurelius, and a letter of recommendation from a man Arthur had known for exactly forty-seven minutes. The letter spoke of his academic excellence. It did not mention that...
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