Chapter fifty! The fact that I've written something this long is still absolutely wild to me. I'm so unbelievably grateful for all of your encouragement, but also the wonderful thoughts and observations that you share with me. It makes my entire week, and whenever I have doubts or writers block a few minutes re-reading them usually sorts me out. Anyway, I finally got a new laptop last week and the result is a 5,593-word chapter. I think its appropriate extra content for the fifty-chapter milestone!

Thank you to the guest reviewers, I'm glad to hear that this story brings a little brightness to the world in these times. And to Cyanide Laced and Ashley Kless who have been reading and commenting for as long as I can remember, a massive thank you!

'I teach my lip its sweetest smile,

My tongue its softest tone;

I borrow others' likeness, till

Almost I lose my own.'

~ Lines of Life, Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1829)*

Chapter Fifty -'My spirit knows its clime'*

The quiet of the early week had felt like a return to calm seas after days of a brewing storm. Unfortunately, the peace was indeed too fickle to last. Wednesday morning became the new scene for a series of skirmishes in the long battle between the houses of Cameron and Dalton.

Mutiny had marked the sunrise. Walls bloodied by verbal sparring awoke each resident, strife chasing their morning routine from dorms, to bathroom, and breakfast. Rage had culminated in the showers, all dignity lost to near a fight in nothing but towels. Welton's student body seemed cursed like the city of Verona to weather these winds of fury and revenge.

It was into this affray that Kathleen arrived, oblivious to the consequence of her cordial act. A polite question of good rest provoked an education on how happy nights, do not in fact, equal happy days.

"I slept terribly," Charlie regarded Cameron with cool eyes from across the table. "Retrospectively, of course. Until this morning I had no idea I'm living with a thief."

"Did tearing our room apart not satisfy you?"

Charlie's glare was acid. "You can't hide it forever."

"You think I want your pathetic poem-" Cameron stopped abruptly, shooting backwards in his seat. Knox's knee collided with the table, upsetting the crockery as he leapt to his feet, thrusting out an arm to form a barrier between the rival roommates. Neil yanked Charlie back by his shirt collar, hissing low into his ear.

"He's welcome to search me!" Cameron spat, his face contorted with rage.

"Make it a dare and I just might."

"Stop goading him, Cameron," Neil said, keeping a firm hold on his best friend's wrist. "It's never good for anyone. Besides, you can't complain after you've insulted his work - which you haven't seen - it's inviting trouble."

"Claims," Charlie clarified darkly, "which he claims not to have seen."

Neil shrugged. "It's sure to turn up in the next few days. Perhaps you're both wrong."

Cameron lifted his chin, "I look forward to your apology."

"I'd rather kiss Nolan's wrinkled feet."

Pitts gagged, the disgust in his voice more than an undertone. "I think I'd rather have my insides pulled out."

"Or eat a worm" Meeks agreed.

Kat went back to her breakfast. Somewhere in the world this moment would be the happiest in someone's life. Somewhere a marriage was taking place, a baby being born, or a birthday celebrated, but here at Welton they were cursed to dine on the eggshells of yet another nemesis clash.

Her sympathies for Mercutio multiplied tenfold. Neil's attempts to guide the conversation to safer waters were valiant; but calmer seas were the voyage of dreams. She eyed her bag, wandering briefly if it was worth cracking open her Latin textbook. As her eyes moved, Neil's idle chatter faded rapidly from her notice, and a brooding figure caught her gaze.

It was evident that more than a missing poem bothered Charlie. His memory was too good not have another copy down by now. But everything about him - his silence, his stiff shoulders, the worried angle of his brows - conveyed his staunch aversion to questions.

"Neil?" Todd's uncertain voice pulled her back to the present, "you know I respect the theatre, but is every playwright Ginny suggests on opiates?"

His roommate snorted, rendered speechless by the sheer incredulity of his tone.

Taking the script from him, Kat flipped through the pages of The Ghost Sonata, reading aloud as she scanned the text,

'J: Hasn't he a wife here, too?

B: Yes, but she's mad. Sits in a cupboard, because her eyes can't stand the light. In here. (Points to a door concealed in the wall.)... Yes. I told you they're a bit out of the ordinary.

J: What does she look like?

B: Like a mummy. Care to see her? (Opens the concealed door.) Look, there she is.

[...]

The Mummy: (in the voice of a small child) Why are you opening the door? Haven't I said it's to be kept shut!

B: (talking baby-talk) Now, now, now, now. Little girlie must be good, and she'll get a sweetie. Pretty Poll!

The Mummy: (speaks like a parrot) Pretty Poll! Is Jacob there? Funny man.

B: thinks she's a parrot. Could be she is.

"A parrot!?" She stared at the paper, "If this is your next play I will travel across the country to see it." She held the stack of papers up, her extending hand freezing at the sight of Charlie hunched over, his gaze fixed on his plate. Her laughter faded. Adjusting the direction, she passed it to Knox.

"How can a cook steal nourishment from their food?" Knox looked up, scandalized. "Is she some sort of spirit sucking, domestic vampire?"

"Ask Cameron," Charlie said savagely, "he knows all about spirit stealing."

His eyes sparked. "For the last time, Dalton, I didn't touch your stupid poem!"

"Then what happened to it?" He challenged, "did it grow legs and stroll off my desk?"

Cameron made a sound of frustration, slamming his hand on the table. Todd barely caught Neil's glass before it was toppled by the vibrations.

"If that scrap of scribbles is so important, why don't you tell the truth?" The hurled challenge hit its mark. Charlie looked as if he'd been slapped.

"That is what you're scared of," his seething held an edge of triumph, "that it will be found by K-"

"Cameron!" Kat snapped. Charlie had turned ashen, red splotches appearing like bloody wounds on his ghostly complexion. "I think you should stop."

"It's not your battle, Kat!"

She blinked. A bubble of silence encircled the group; the din of the breakfast hall crashing around them like the roll of a wave. Whether time had stopped, or if her brain was simply malfunctioning could not discerned - only the sharp prickles dappling her body from inside out. Of course, people had been rude to her before, but never him. Never to her.

Neil's cheery tones fell mute. His alarmed expression paled in comparison to that of the speaker's remorse. Charlie's eyes had widened, as if his brain had only just caught up with the jagged edges of his mouth.

Clinging to her concern, Kat opted to ignore the comment, and let a deep breath soothe the sting.

Todd got to his feet. His movement igniting a bewildering reminder of his presence - having maintained a skillful invisibility throughout the domestic - yet the tremors of his hands betrayed the breach of his limits. "I'm going to check the mail," he mumbled.

"I'll go with you," Kat moved hastily to follow him, a false cheer in her tone, "perhaps there will something from my parents."

Neil looked torn. A strange expression passed over his face as the pair left. Knox poked him sharply in the ribs, shifting his focus to the miserable lump beside him.

He winced, "how are you doing?"

Charlie groaned, his eyes closed with one hand gripping the ends of his hair as if it was the last string holding him back from collapsing on the table; the picture of regret.

"I'm sorry."

Without lifting his head, Charlie shrugged. "It's not your fault."

Neil simply patted his shoulder, careful to tilt his frown into the shadows.

XXXX

The entrance hall was unusually quiet. High windows divided the light shining through their glittering panes. Above, the gallery seemed almost silver in the winter sun, leaving the society gathered at the foot of the staircase in deep, grey shadows. Every few minutes a cluster of students passed, forcing the group to scatter towards Kathleen seated by one banister, or Charlie leaning against the other.

Morning lessons had slithered by in a monotonous slew of latin verbs and civil war dates. Relations had stagnated in these tiresome hours, compelling the frantic duo to further flight at their release for morning break. Now, Todd perched on the step below Kathleen, his arm pressed against Neil's.

"If this homework rate keeps up I'm going to die," Pitts smacked his head down - Meeks barely managing to place his palms between his best friend's skull and his knobbly, knee bones.

"We'll give you a nice funeral," Kat shuffled away from the curved baluster poking into her back. Settling down, she drew her coat over her lap like a blanket. Since the long walk back from the library with Todd, a chill had taken up residence in her bones. Its ache noted the absence of a presence so often at her shoulder. Only now, at his replacement by unforgiving carpentry did she appreciate his efforts.

Meeks patted his head, "I vote for a buffet spread. Perhaps that will tempt you from your grave."

"Here lies Gerard Pitts," Nuwanda continued with a salute, "defeated by academia; restored to life by hors d'oeuvres."

The theoretical victim shot him a glare. "You hardly do any homework! And using fancy French words doesn't count. No homework, no canapés."

Charlie faked offence, his reply too explicit for an average school, let alone Welton. In the same moment, two second-year boys meandered past the stairs; their open mouths morphing into giggles.

Neil threw him a scandalised look.

He shrugged, flashing a smirk still marginally sharp from the morning battle.

Cameron tutted.

Nuwanda's smirk thinned to the edge of a blade.

"No snide comments? No criticism?" He regarded Cameron mockingly, "adult words got your tongue?"

"Some of us use the manners we were taught-'

"Theft?"

Cameron flushed, "for the absolute last time, Nuwanda, I saw it on your desk - the same as you - until lights out. Then I woke up to you-"

"Lying is against the four pillars, Cameron."

"Charlie, just hear him out" said Neil, silencing Cameron with a sharp look before he could interrupt.

"Are you kidding?" Charlie frowned, "listening will only encourage him."

Knox caught Kathleen's eye as they watched the battle commence. Words fired from musket mouths, tongues sharp and poised to strike the opponent like Minié balls to bone. Each crack of gunpowder jibes curdled public blood, drawing close young faces absorbed by the staging of forbidden rage. Scratch after scratch to reputation tore into Cameron's armour with every new student on scene. His black mood grew, purging bile to the final, indescribably fatal wound.

"I'm morally bankrupt!?" He cried, "you hypocrite! This, King of the seven sins, is exactly why your parents can't stand you!"

The explosion was instant. Charlie shot up, fists clenched, and sped away like a rogue bullet into the dark. Below, Neil reeled back, hands splayed between Todd's tightening grasp and the banister spindle pressed into his body so tightly that seemed a second spine.

"No one," he said, voice solemn, "is to mention this. Vow it on the club's honour."

Kat nodded, curling her fingers into the hem of Todd's jumper. He reciprocated the touch, sandwiching himself between those whose hearts bled most. One by one the dead poets swore, their eyes laying judgement on the villain lacking remorse.

"Cameron." Neil lay still across the stairwell, a cold god carved in marble.

"What?" He met the string of disapproving looks with a hellfire glare. "He's done nothing but accuse me of things I haven't done."

"I know!"

Todd pressed his palm against Neil's back, the pressure easing his heaving chest. His blazing cheeks did little to disguise the tightness of his jaw increasing with each syllable of Cameron's defence.

"He doesn't deserve that," he continued in a tone of barely concealed disgust. "No matter how upset you are, that was unacceptable." He looked away, fixed on the shadows cleared of onlookers by Charlie's keen exit, gradually relaxing into the circular motions drawn by Todd across his back.

Kat lingered on the quick taps of the otherwise stoic boy's shoes. "That wasn't defence, Cameron. That was cruel."

Without waiting for a response, she devoted herself to the task of folding her coat. The gentle motions did little to abate the lightning singe. It crackled, raw on the slain portion of her soul. Knox pulled her from the quagmire of mistrust and disloyalty, encouraging her to jump across the boundary to the main corridor.

"We should get to class." Knox followed her and jumped down the last two steps, watching Neil as his feet hit the ground. The thump seemed to jolt the taller boy into action. He puffed his chest as he slipped back into the cloak of passionate reign.

"My jumper," Kat spun on her heel, "I left it in the library!" She bounded a few steps across the solid floor. "Tell Keating I've gone to fetch it," she called over shoulder, "I'll meet you in class!"

She hurried through the maze of familiar passages, squeezing between the hordes of younger students like a fish against the tide.

Shrill clanging masked the pubescent roar as she burst through the double doors. Despite the bell signalling her tardiness, Kathleen couldn't help her pace slowing to a pivot of admiration. Sunlight lit the high dome ceiling, shadows creating the illusion of night and day around the blue painted curve. Dust glimmered like remnants of stars on the little used sections she traversed, her eyes wide half in rapture, and half in search for her missing belonging. Kat suspected she wouldn't care if she lost her woollen possession to this literary labyrinth forever; the atmosphere itself was worn and cosy enough to make up for any loss.

The scent of wood and ink became thicker as she ducked into a familiar alcove. Hanging from the back of a creaky chair was the lost article. Kat scooped it into her arms. As she pulled it on, the aroma of the space became all-encompassing. Briefly, she wondered if this is how those boys in the common room had felt when they spoke of being high. Giggling at her own naivety, she failed to see the figure crossing the aisle.

They collided.

Bony hands reached to steady her shoulders; their weight familiar.

"Nol-Grandfather!" She corrected herself.

"If I am not mistaken, you should be in class."

"Yes. I-I forgot my jumper," she reached up to tug at the strap of her satchel, "I'm on my way now."

His eyes narrowed, wrinkles reducing their roundness to a squint. It was impossible to know what he was looking for, but whatever it may be, he found it. With a curt nod, he held out a crooked arm.

Gingerly, Kat took it. Her footsteps grew in confidence as they traipsed the plush carpet, all talk confined to her reading list. Only once did he mention her Mother, recalling her fondness for the dramas of Aphra Behn.

They circled the ground floor. Suspended in the liminal maze of corridors their silhouettes harked back to a sturdier man, and generations of girls with ambition that no institution could anchor.

XXXX

Meeks pushed Knox's fingers down, "you can't summon them by drumming." With a shrug, he brought his other hand onto the desk, flinging it to the side before Meeks could slap it again.

"Where are they?"

"Probably together," Pitts muttered, scribbling the final lines of his chemistry essay. His eyes scanned the door for Keating, shaking his head at Knox before turning back to the ink stained paper.

Cameron rolled his eyes, "he will have to get used to Kathleen's absence soon." Catching Neil's glare in his periphery, he frowned, fixing his gaze more resolutely upon Keating's empty desk.

Knox made a face, the corners of his mouth downturned as he gestured wildly between the relegated peacemaker and his problem. "Don't drag Kat into this," his eyes widened in quiet appeal to Neil once more.

"He's like a child pulling her proverbial braids to get her attention" Cameron hissed, gripping the back of his chair as he turned to face them. "And it works, every time."

"But Cameron, we're still children. We're seventeen! What else is he supposed to do?" Neil slid into an unoccupied desk, laying a hand on his shoulder which was promptly shaken off.

"He can stop irritating me and wasting our time" he spat, "she's leaving and when she goes he'll get worse. He's emotionally stunted as it is, he will grow even more unbearable!"

"Cameron," Neil spoke lowly, his tone sharp as a blade slicing through rock, "promise me you will not interfere."

"Crisis averted!" Several heads snapped up. Kat's eyebrows furrowed, "the crisis of losing my jumper...in winter?" She shook the dark garment in her left hand, "okay, it's not very exciting but you're all looking at me weirdly."

"Not very exciting?" A head popped around the doorframe. "I do hope that isn't a comment on my teaching, Miss Murray."

"Of course not, Captain." She slipped through the narrow arrangement of desks, sending a reassuring smile to the group. Their concern was sweet, she thought, flicking through her poetry book. Yet the attentiveness seemed mislaid. The striking bolt had been a moment endured, but her book lay open, a day half-penned. No rough hands had torn through her past, tearing out well-thumbed yet private prose.

Kat chanced a look at the empty seat, devoid of sketches and mischievous grins. No, it was not her fragility violated. Not her haunted thoughts strung out for popular view. She laid her pens out as Keating's hour began.

"Criticism," he elongated the word with tones of dread, "is the mark of academic validation. But when applied properly, it can be electric. Today, I challenge you to exert yourselves in a game of lyric tennis. Are poets, as Wordsworth claims, presenting 'a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings?' Or are they, as Shelley believes, creating new feelings, new thoughts and sensations to change the world?"

Keating paused. "Mr Dalton," his laughter lines collapsed into wrinkles of concern, "it's pleasure to see you. Please take your seat."

Heads swivelled.

"Sorry, Sir." The figure ducking into the room was more spectre than self. Dishevelled beyond average, his mussed hair and tie askew did little to disguise his thoroughly miserable expression.

Their teacher nodded once, then moved to the centre to speak again. "Take out the essays you read last night. Now Mr Perry, you're team captain for this side of the class. Pick your player, Shelley or Wordsworth,* and make your first lyric serve."

Neil pushed up his glasses, waving Shelley's A Defence of Poetry* at the Captain. "I hereby declare poets to be the hierophants of Shelley's claims. Poets create linguistic beauty to convey meaning and truths about our world, they inspire us, expand our imagination, and reveal new angles or sensations that can fundamentally change us." He looked up at Keating, "poetry is a method of shaping the world, and shaping its people to reach an ideal. Isn't that what you taught us, Sir, that words and ideas can change the world?"

"Fifteen love." Keating's voice was half a whisper, "I think it would be unfair to nominate an oppositional speaker. Do we have a volunteer?"

A sneeze sounded. The outburst reverberated until a boy with shaky legs rose to the task. Spaz spoke as eloquently as his allergies allowed, yet Kat could not pull her attention from the Captain's divided one. He nodded, encouraging and keeping score as expected. But his eyes gleamed as if all the fondness and strength and hope in the world had caught up in a single sparkle.

"This is the most passion you've shown all year!" Keating inspected the students sat before him, a bundle of coiled energy. Each uttered score drew the constellations of his eyes closer to the curve of his mouth. "Perhaps I should have begun with mental games and not physical ones."

Fond laughter followed the teacher as he paced the front of the classroom.

"Alright, class dismissed." He waved them out with a broad grin, "I must put an end to this flattery of my terrible humour. I'm afraid my ego shall swell too large for me to fit through the door. Out with you!"

Needing no encouragement, the students scrambled for the exit. Books hastily scooped up fell with a clatter in the ensuing scuffle, all sound muted by the stampede towards the common room.

Kat hung back, re-arranging the contents of her satchel with care. As brave as she liked to think herself to be, shoving through masses of teenage boys was a battle best avoided. Free study could wait. Lost to her musings, she stepped out of the empty classroom.

"Charlie?" He stood pressed against the mellow beige wall, outlined by the faint sunlight. If he hadn't looked so miserable, the sight would've boarded on angelic. Amidst the muted browns and yellows his presence burned bronze. Gazing into his sorrowful eyes she recalled the ghost of a similar time. A girl with damp hair and a boy examining Austen had stood toe to toe in this very corridor - as they did now - in wait of her apology to him.

Vulnerability haunted the lines composing his face, deep and darkened in the rich swathe of light. "I wasn't sure you'd talk to me," he said finally, breaking the spell of stillness.

"I could never ignore you."

"You should," he rubbed the back of his neck. "I got carried away aiming at Cameron, yet again. It was out of line, I never meant to hurt you- never you."

Her eyes softened. "I forgave you this morning. You looked so ashamed after saying it that I figured it was crossfire, but I appreciate you telling me." She reached out, taking his book and tucking it under her arm. "Let me walk you this time." Recognition flickered in his eyes, displacing the sheen of desperation. "I've never read Howl, tell me about it?"

Kathleen let him talk as they ascended the staircase, padding through shadows pooled under dim candelabras; his voice growing as strong and solid as the mansion itself. Despite her best efforts, a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, lingering long after she had slipped into her place in the common room.

"So," Neil asked, regarding the pair with hesitancy, "has he apologised?"

Kat shot Nuwanda a teasing look, her words invoking the club pledge. "He has indeed taken the road less travelled."

"It's not that unusual" Charlie scoffed, flinging himself into a seat. Laughter cushioned his fall, provoking an eyeroll as he hid a grin behind the book Kat returned with a well-aimed throw.

"Thoreau wouldn't like you denying his philosophy," Neil joked.

"Thoreau was a professional hypocrite," Kat tried to stifle her grin, "but I appreciate the sentiment of his work. I rather like it, actually."

"If Thoreau can be a hypocrite, so can I," Charlie shot back, his eyes gleaming at Neil's playful frustration.

"At least you'll pay someone for domestic help in your hypothetical life of rural isolation, and not freeload off your mother."

He dropped his book, vaulting forward in his seat. "Of course, I'd pay! Not only would it be a violation of individual rights, it would reduce me to a useless mummy's boy. Besides, my mother wouldn't know how to turn on a washing machine."

"And you do?" Meeks asked, staring skeptically over his glasses.

He shrugged. "That's not relevant. I'm willing to learn."

"Oh no," Kat clutched the nearest end table, burying her head face down in the crook of her elbow. "You don't know how to do laundry. You don't even cook, do you?"

"I can make a sandwich," he protested.

Neil chuckled, "you should've seen him when he first stayed with me for the summer. The boy couldn't change his own bed sheets."

He pointed a finger at his betrayer, "you-you Judas!"

"Suffering artists don't have home help, Nuwanda." Meeks didn't falter under his glare, "you'll have to be self-sufficient in Greenwich village."

Kat looked at him, "Greenwich?"

"That's where we're moving," he fixed a firm stare on Neil, "after Welton. A crappy apartment of our own."

Neil nodded; his smile sad. "There are medical schools in New York."

"And theatres," Charlie said fiercely. "The people there are whoever they want to be."

Todd put down his pencil. The small thud drew all eyes to him. "Writers live there," he breathed, "poets, playwrights, Kerouac and Ginsberg."

"Exactly." Neil's voice was soft, his eyes distant. "A place that can feel like home."

Charlie's mouth had barely shaped a response when a hand appeared, whipping away his book. His neck snapped up, placing him eye to eye with Dr Hager.

"What," Hager demanded, "are you doing this foul, sullying material?"

He reached out for it,"foul? It's a book, it's educational!"

Hager stepped back, "possession of such a book, as you well know, is against school policy. No explicit content is permitted on campus, Mr Dalton. If I catch you again there will be a phone call to your parents-"

"But-"

"Ah, ah, ah," Hager held up his index finger. "There will be no bargaining. I am confiscating this."

"Oh no, not my parents!" Charlie mocked Hager as his tyranny exited the common room. "Cameron was right. They wouldn't say anything, they never do."

Meeks sighed, gesturing at Pitts to hand him a pen. "I'll add it to the list."

"What list?" Kat asked, dread unfurling in the pit of her stomach.

"Banned books" Neil explained, his gaze sympathetic. "Anything the school bored deem even vaguely communist, sexual, or even containing cuss words has been banned from the grounds. They claim it's to prevent corruption of vulnerable minds."

"Yet the irony of banning Fahrenheit 451 is lost to them," quipped Meeks, "they never read them. It's all from sensation articles."

Passing the list to Kat, Knox nodded at her look of disdain. "It's exactly what you think, those articles are published for money and hysteria. Hysterical people read more news than happy people, after all."

"Can they legally do this?" She asked, "continue banning books if the Supreme court deem it a violation of the first amendment?"

"What do you mean?" Knox leant into the conversation.

"They made a ruling in June." Kat recalled the sudden craze for the books in question amongst the St Mary's girls over the summer. They had overheard the local college girls following the case, and when the ruling lifted the mail order ban, they had all rushed to buy or borrow copies in secret.

"The Post Office was forced to stop confiscating uncensored versions of 'Lady Chatterley's Lover.' " Kathleen smiled as she explained the secretive mail library network the girls at her school had operated over the summer, how the covers had to be changed, and many parcels delivered to alternate addresses due to parents limiting much of the reading material in the girls' homes. The boys listened, equally fascinated and indignant that she had never shared the story before.

"So, you've read it?" Pitts looked impressed.

Kat nodded, blushing, "it seems we had quite a few books from Welton's list in circulation by the end." She bolted up suddenly, "I think I have a few with me!"

"Howl?" The hope in Charlie's tone made her pause.

"No," she replied apologetically, "but we know a few people on the outside who might."

"Ginny!" Neil grinned, "she and Nancy would absolutely pass anything through the gate."

In agreement, they headed up to inspect her bookcase, laughing at the illegal library scheme they wished would take another school by storm.

XXXX

"Cameron?" Kathleen almost tripped over her own feet in her haste to stop. Inches away from the corner she had just turned were a pair of leather shoes. Their tips were highly polished with a level of care that could be attributed to one student alone.

Richard Cameron glanced up, his face glum, and his uniform perfectly pressed in contrast to his body slumped against the Chapel wall. His hands gripped a notebook resting on his outstretched legs.

"Are you alright?" Kat sank to the ground beside him, her knees scraping across the rough floor as she manoeuvred away from the corner. She winced as her voice cut through the hush characteristic of the hallowed hall on a midweek evening.

"Fine," he replied in a voice inflected with sarcasm. "Nuwanda's refusing to continue my clarinet lessons in retaliation to a crime that isn't mine. Therefore, I deserve no punishment but that arrogant, stubborn, show-off is immune to any shred of reason!"

Kat tilted her chin upwards, examining the old, wooden rafters arching across the ceiling as Cameron ranted. She let him vent, breathing in the tang of stone and metal as she admired the similarities found in the oldest part of the school to a medieval village church.

"You could do considerably better," he continued, pulling her from thoughts of across the pond, "if you put some effort into taming your need to rebel. It's quite immature."

She frowned, choosing to ignore the dig. As a scorned man, she supposed he deserved the right to be somewhat melodramatic.

"Cameron, nobody is ever exactly who they think they are. That's the beauty of being human. We all have our reasons, and our stories that no one else can ever fully understand. Those parts of our lives colour everything that we think we know about the world. You have to allow grey areas or you will drive yourself insane trying to fit people into neat little boxes. The world is too messy, humans are too messy. " But upon seeing his unchanged expression, she sighed. "What I'm saying is to cut him some slack, and he should do the same for you. You both mean well, but it's like you're speaking different languages."

"You're saying we misunderstand each other."

"Exactly!" Kat nudged his shoulder with her own. "Discarding today, not everything you each perceive as hostile is intended that way."

"If we are this different than what's the point? We're set up to hate one-another."

"You have the same friends," she stared at him meaningfully as she rose from the floor, "that must count for something."

Cameron slumped back against the wall, his brow furrowed.

Abandoning him to his woes, Kathleen took the scenic route back to the dorms. Heaving open the ancient door, she slipped out into the watery haze of fading daylight. Stones crunched beneath her scuffed shoes. The harsh compression mimicked the impact of Cameron's reproof. Memories of rebellion circled her thoughts; his words chasing her fears and dreams in equal measure. By the time she spotted a light flooding beneath a familiar door a headache pulsed from her temples.

Knocking softly, she gained sanctuary. In one corner of the room sat Todd on the bedcovers with an abandoned car magazine. He waved her over, signalling for Neil to join them from where he sprawled on the window ledge, legs dangling above the ground.

She tucked her legs beneath her, curling up on the quilt beside them. "Do you think I'm taking things too far? Disobeying Nolan at every turn?"

Neil considered her question, his head tilted to one side. "Why do you care so much for his opinion?" Curiosity infused his tone, "especially when your parents disregard it."

"Most of the time he's awful." Her blunt response elicited laughter which dried up as she continued quietly, "but there are some moments when I feel like I'm back in one of the few happy childhood memories I have with him. As quickly as the moments arise, they're gone. He buries them under something else that I struggle to forgive."

She smiled weakly as they reached out to cover her hands with their own. "He makes me question myself," she admitted quietly, "and that scares me."

* 'Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world' - A Defence of Poetry, Percy Bysshe Shelley (written in 1821, published 1840)

* 'Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.' - 'Preface to Lyrical Ballads, William Wordsworth (1798)

* 'The Ghost Sonata,' August Strindberg (1907)

* 'Howl,' Allen Ginsberg (1956)