Part One

It didn't snow a lot in England. The winters were usually a mess of slush and rain, the atmosphere too damp to create anything like the white, fluffy snow of fairytales. But maybe that's what this was. The snow fell in heavy flakes as he stood outside the vast, iron gates, holding the hand of an elderly gentleman he didn't know at all. This couldn't be real; this had to be a dream. The old man squeezed his hand.

It felt real.

But that meant he was really here, that it was really snowing, and that mum and dad were really dead.

Mr. Wammy—the elderly gentleman whose name was on the building—showed him to his room. He didn't think he would get his own room. There was a big bed, and a shelf filled with lots of books. He went to the shelf immediately, recognizing some of the titles and curious over the ones he didn't know. He was aware of Mr. Wammy standing in the doorway, watching him take in his new surroundings. He looked out the window. They were on a high floor, and he could see down into the playground. There weren't any kids out now, being nighttime, but he liked watching the snow fall to create a white blanket over the ground. It was accumulating quickly.

"Do you need anything?" Mr. Wammy asked, and he shook his head in reply. "Get a good night's rest, then. You've had a busy day."

Busy, like he had been doing something fun, not like he had watched matching pine coffins get lowered into the ground.

He opened the closet, but there wasn't a lot in there. He finally took off his coat and scarf, carefully hanging them on a hanger, making sure they didn't touch the other clothes because they were still damp with snow. There was a pair of white pajamas folded neatly on a shelf, which he changed into. They were a little big on him, the sleeves extending over his hands, but they were flannel and warm. He scrambled into bed and gripped the edge of the blanket in his fists, holding them to his chest.

Mum and dad didn't have any brothers or sisters, and neither did he. This is best for you, Mr. Wammy had said. You'll have a good life at Wammy's House. They took him out of school and everything, though he didn't understand why. He was at the top of his class, even after skipping a grade. But Mr. Wammy said that everyone was smart at Wammy's House, that they had their own classes and good tutors. Maybe this was best for him. Maybe he wouldn't be teased for being smart or small or weak.

He turned to face the wall, scrunching his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. It would probably be okay to cry now, now that no one was around to feel sorry for him. But he didn't want to. He had cried enough over the past week, and his eyes were tired. He was tired, but he didn't want to sleep. The burial played over and over again in his head, and he was acutely aware that it had happened only that day. But if he were to sleep, it would mean today would be over. It would mean that the next time he woke up, he would start a new life that didn't include mum and dad, and he didn't want that at all.

Mr. Wammy himself woke him in the morning, even though his name was on the building and probably very busy. They went down to breakfast; he forced himself to eat some toast. It had no taste, but he ate it anyway. He would have much preferred to stay in his room alone that day, but Mr. Wammy had other plans—they had their first lesson, and the moment he stepped into Mr. Wammy's office he knew that he would be okay.

He loved the office immediately. It was just like in films, with a big desk he couldn't see over and bookshelves all around the room. It was a corner office, so light from the tall windows crisscrossed the floor to form diamond patterns. He snuck a peek outside. It had stopped snowing, and it looked pretty. No one had gone outside yet, so the snow was still new and untouched. It looked fluffy, not like the usual dirty slush of England winters.

He sat in one of the guest chairs before the desk and to his surprise, Mr. Wammy sat in the one beside him. He didn't sit behind the desk in his big, leather rolling chair. He sat next to him, like a companion, not like a tutor at all.

"Are you ready?" he asked. He could have said no and he guessed that would have been okay, but he nodded instead. When Mr. Wammy smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkled like paper. "I knew you would be."

His schoolbooks were big and heavy, but very interesting. He already knew a lot about maths and language, so Mr. Wammy didn't teach him any of that. Today's lesson was more like puzzles, and he liked figuring things out. He was presented a list of facts, and he had to find the solution. It was easy, but fun. There were moments that Mr. Wammy looked surprised when he gave a correct answer. He liked showing off a little, especially when Mr. Wammy would smile and tell him how well he was doing.

He was almost disappointed when the session was over, but he knew they would be doing the same thing the next day as well.

"Very good," Mr. Wammy said, rising from his chair. "That will be all for today. You can go down to the playroom, if you would like."

At first glance, the playroom was weird. He stood in the doorway as he looked for a potential companion, but everyone seemed to be grouped together already. He wasn't very good at starting conversations, but he saw a bookshelf and a window seat and immediately formed a solution. He was confused by the bookshelf at first. There weren't many kids books; a lot were classics that he had only heard about, but never read. He selected Crime and Punishment at random and huddled into an empty window seat.

On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. Bridge.

It was a good book. The characters had long names he couldn't pronounce, but he liked the story. In between chapters, he would look outside. Some kids were now playing in the snow, throwing snowballs at one another and creating a mound that he guessed was supposed to be a snowman. They piled it too high and couldn't reach the top to put on a hat. He smiled despite himself.

Mr. Wammy had to come find him for supper, because he never showed up at the dining room. He stood beside the window seat, looking down at the book in his hands.

"That's one of my favorites," Mr. Wammy said. "Are you liking it?"

He nodded vigorously.

He went to return the book to the shelf, but Mr. Wammy insisted that he bring it back to his room. "There is nothing quite so disquieting as having to abandon a good book."

He smiled, clutching the tattered pages to his chest.

He still didn't much feel like eating, but Mr. Wammy promised that if he ate all his chicken, he could have a piece of cake. That brightened up his mood. Not only did he had a piece of cake, he had two, and he was allowed to bring a box of chocolates back to his room. The other kids couldn't know, though that wouldn't be a problem—He didn't know any of the other kids yet. But his tutor walked him to his room, talking about Crime and Punishment the whole way up. He thought Mr. Wammy would leave when they reached his room, but he came inside and closed the door instead.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, but he didn't know how to answer. Mr. Wammy crouched down, holding both his shoulders in his big hands. "The way you're handling this is very brave," he said, trying to keep eye contact with a boy who didn't want to look up. "Please know that you can talk to me whenever you want. I'm here for you."

He suddenly hugged Mr. Wammy, surprising even himself, clinging to his neck as the elderly man's arms wrapped around him. "There, there," he said, patting his back, but he couldn't say anything because he was crying so hard. "I know."

But he couldn't know, could he? He couldn't know how much he missed his mum and dad, and he couldn't know how lonely he felt not talking to anyone, and he couldn't know how much he wanted everything be normal again. But he only nodded, accidentally leaving a trail of snot on Mr. Wammy's jacket. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand when he pulled away. Mr. Wammy smiled, and he felt better seeing his crinkling eyes.

Mr. Wammy wouldn't leave until he was feeling a little better, at least, and he was almost sad when he was alone in the room again. But he had his flannel pajamas, and the box of chocolates and Crime and Punishment, and he didn't even have to keep the light on to read because the moon was so bright that night.