Page 64 of The Villains of Winter

He returned to Kitty after her shock wore down. “Lucien fell in his own fire. It was an accident. Elliott was shaken and I hid him.”

The grief had induced a fever, and James opened her jacket. He realized she wore Elliott’s clothes underneath. The Clark Kent buttoned shirt he’d lent to her in October was on her small body, first given when she had blood on her Spice Girls costume.

In a single glance, memories of their costumes on Samhain during the fall returned to him. The overweight meat on Yule every year that they carried in their arms, the juicy, heavy ham stolen from Rædwine. It was their tradition to feast in Elliott’s room with the thieved bounty.

James thought of their Yule feast in the Common Room–bourbon-glazed ham, roasted corn, gravy-soaked mashed potatoes, herbal pork-minced stuffing, honey-butter bread rolls.

He thought of how, every December, they bought a slice of Heather Tần’s boozy Yule fruitcake she bought from Wegmans, spiced with rum and berries. They always celebrated Yule the week before the solstice.

Kitty’s tears burned against his chest, and he felt a warm embrace.

Her arms tightened around him. “Thank you so much, James. You’re the best person in the whole world.”

He rested his chin on top of her head. He kissed her hair softly. “You don’t need to thank me. I’m taking Elliott out of the state. You have to pretend–”

“I can act like he’s dead, don’t worry.” She bit back a pinch of concern. Snowflakes soughed in from the cracked infirmary window. “Is he alright?”

“He’s alright, Kitty.” James breathed against her ear in a white cloud. “Head home to Mrs. Ledgerman. I’ll drive to pick you up when the spring term starts at the end of January.”

​​ PART EIGHT: THE WRATH OF APOLLŌN

BANEBURY, CONNECTICUT

WINTER

​​ CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

JAMES ALREADY MISSED ELLIOTT, AND it hadn’t even been three days that they were apart. James had taken the Kingshead Express train back to Connecticut by himself. He arrived at Æscwulf College on the Yuletide, enveloped by mounds of crystalline snow.

He visited Finch for the Yuletide, gifting him Nils Eriksson memorabilia, before Mr. and Mrs. Hudskin brought him home.

James grasped the edge of the sink tightly, forcing himself to keep it together. He had his fifth interview round speech on housing economics to give in front of Congressman Pittman in order to impress him enough to make him a political aide.

Except, James couldn’t focus on his speech. He was nauseated.

Every morning, he kept expecting Elliott to be beside him. Instead, there was a bare sheet. The sight of it nearly killed him. Dark thoughts beleaguered his brain.

Was Elliott dead? Had James only dreamt he saved him?

It was pathetic, but bundling some of Elliott’s old clothes with his scent still on them and covering them with a blanket beside him seemed to cure him in the mornings afterward. He watched old VHS tapes of Elliott drumming at night before bed.

It embarrassed him, but he used Elliott’s hairbrush, his notebooks, his blankets, so there wouldn’t be dust on them. He wore Elliott’s ties with the teeth marks at the bottom from Elliott’s habit of always nibbling on his tie ends the way some people bit pens.

Most senselessly of all, he moved all of Elliott’s belongings into his dormitory, which only made the torpedoed room even more of a hectic disaster.

James kept everything with him still.

James would sleepily drag himself to the Winterthur Hall Common Room, anticipating the sound of the coffee machine and Elliott drumming with his Walkman in his ears and a pair of drumsticks in his hands as James waited for his shot of caffeine. Elliott could play any drum solo by ear. The entire Common Room would hear Earth, Wind & Fire at six in the morning as soon as Elliott played the albums by memory. However, when James stepped past the grandeur of the bookshelves, the reticulated windows, and the antique fireplace, no one was there.

Everyone had gone home for the holidays.

Except for one other person.

“Oh, precious Apollōn!” A soprano voice trilled outside of James’s disorderly dormitory a week later. James had spent the entire New Year in solitude in Winterthur Hall as the somber snow fell outside. He hadn’t eaten much. He hadn’t drunk anything in celebration. He kept himself isolated. Professor Ilaria grasped him. “Oh no. I hear you are leaving us?”

“I’ve applied for the congressional office of Congressman Pittman. I have a speech to give him, and because he rowed crew, I invited him–”

“Barbaric. That sport is a bit beneath you, isn’t it?” Séverine smiled nonetheless. She never could remember what water sport he even played. “Alas. I must give you a parting gift! You’ve seen the feeble, weak pupils I must endure. I don’t know how I will find another such as you.”