Chapter 1 Kings & Queens of Nowhere
Wool's orphanage was a cold, imposing building tucked away on the outskirts of London. From the outside, it seemed like just another relic of the past—large, stone, weathered by time. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dust and mildew, and the floors creaked underfoot as if the building itself was alive, sighing with every movement.
She had no memory of her parents. Her earliest recollections were of the orphanage's musty halls and the monotony of life there.
She arrived as a baby, left in the night with no note, no explanation.
She had been named by the matrons, a word plucked from a passing thought and given to her like a secondhand coat. She was Katherine because they had decided she was.
The only thing she knew for certain was that she had been abandoned, and the orphanage had become her world.
The building itself was large and unwieldy, with towering stone walls and an overgrown courtyard where the children sometimes played, though not often. The orphanage was far from the idyllic homes she had once dreamed about.
The head matron, Mrs. Cole, was the iron fist of the orphanage. She was an older woman with sharp features and an even sharper tongue. Her gaze alone could silence any child, and her rules were absolute. She had been in charge of the orphanage for as long as Katherine could remember. Some of the older children said Mrs. Cole had been there for decades, a fixture of the building as much as the stone itself.
She rarely spoke to Katherine directly, keeping her distance, but Katherine could always feel the weight of her disapproving eyes. There was something about her that made her uneasy, something in the way she never seemed to miss a thing, every twitch, every glance, every movement was observed.
And then there were the other children each of them a part of the orphanage's fractured family.
Eleanor was golden. Golden hair, golden skin, golden girl. Even in the dim candlelight of the orphanage, she seemed to glow, a warmth that didn't come from kindness but from something sharper, something brighter. Her curls framed her face in soft, angelic waves, but her eyes, sharp and shrewd betrayed the illusion. They were a pale, icy blue, the kind that saw everything and forgave nothing.
She tilted her head when she spoke, like a cat watching a trapped bird. Her lips curved at the edges—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. The other children were drawn to her, orbiting around her like she was the sun, as if they didn't realize she could burn just as easily as she could warm.
Her dresses were always a little cleaner than everyone else's, her ribbons tied just right, even when they were fraying. She carried herself like she was meant for something more than this place, like she already belonged somewhere else, somewhere better.
Katherine wasn't sure if she wanted to be her or destroy her. Maybe both.
Clara was quiet, the kind of quiet that made people forget she was there until she spoke. Her voice was soft, careful, like she was always afraid of saying the wrong thing. But Katherine had learned that Clara was not timid. Just watchful. Thoughtful. She didn't push or demand like the others. She simply existed, slipping through the cracks of the orphanage like a whisper, unnoticed by most.
Her hair was a dark, mousy brown, always a little tangled no matter how many times she combed it. Her eyes were big and dark, like the sky just before a storm, always full of something unspoken. There was a fragility to her, something delicate in the way she held herself like a bird that knew its wings were too thin for the wind.
She never fought for a place at the table, never took more than her share. The others ignored her because she let them. But Katherine saw her. Saw the way she lingered by the windows when she thought no one was looking. Saw the way she smoothed her hands over her worn dress, as if remembering something softer. Something from before.
Clara was not like the rest of them. Not hardened. Not cruel. And that, more than anything, made her feel out of place.
Maggie is a storm in the calm, a spark of colour against the drab backdrop of the orphanage. She moves with a reckless energy, her messy curls bouncing with each step, as if they're alive and refuse to be tamed. Her clothes are always a riot of mismatched hues, not the clean, neat things the others wear, but vibrant and wild, as though she's daring the world to try and put her into a box. Where the others walk with caution, Maggie strides as if she's already in a world of her own making, and nothing else matters.
Her face is often lit by that maddening, bright smile—a smile that never seems to fade, not even when things are hard. It's a smile that says she knows something you don't, like she's in on some secret game, and it makes Katherine feel like she's always just a step behind. Her eyes are wide and full of mischief, holding a glimmer of hope that Katherine can never quite understand—something too pure, too naïve for the world they're stuck in. There's something in Maggie's way of looking at the world that feels like it could break the mold of everything Katherine's come to accept. It's both irritating and mesmerizing, like a challenge Katherine doesn't want to take, but can't ignore.
Then there are the boys.
Simon was small for his age, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in cunning. He had sharp little features narrow nose, pointed chin, quick, darting eyes that always seemed to be calculating something. His hair was an unremarkable shade of brown, always messy, always falling into his face, but his smirk was what people noticed most. It was the kind of smirk that made Katherine's teeth clench, like he knew something no one else did.
Simon didn't always fight with fists. He fought with words, with whispers, with the kind that took root before you even realized it was happening. He was the one who started rumours, the one who turned people against each other just to see what would happen. He was smart, too smart but he had no real power. Not like Eleanor. Not like Tom. He was just a scavenger, picking at whatever scraps of control he could find.
Peter was different. If Simon was a snake, Peter was a dog— loyal, eager, desperate to belong. He was bigger than Simon, broader, with a round face and a dull sort of expression that made people think he wasn't all that clever. But he was clever in his own way. Not with words, not with schemes, but with knowing where to stand and when to shut up.
He followed Simon, always a step behind, always waiting for direction. He didn't need to be in control he just needed to be close to it. Close enough to share in the spoils without taking any of the risk. He laughed at Simon's jokes, carried out Simon's orders, and when Simon whispered in his ear, Peter would do whatever was asked of him.
Katherine didn't mind Peter as much as she minded Simon. Peter was predictable. Simple. But simple boys were often the most dangerous, because they didn't need a reason to follow. They just did.
Simon would taunt her during meals, sneer at her when she walked through the halls.
Simon's shove sends Katherine stumbling back into the wall, her shoulder smacking against the stone. Laughter ripples through the group of boys behind him. Not loud, but enough. Enough to let her know they don't just tolerate it—they enjoy it.
She doesn't react. Won't give them the satisfaction. She rolls her shoulder back like she barely felt it, expression carefully guarded.
"You think you're something special, don't you?" Simon sneers. His lip is split from some other fight, his knuckles already bruised. "Just because Riddle lets you follow him around. But he doesn't care about you. Nobody does."
She smiles, slow and sharp. "And yet, here you are. Talking about me."
Simon's jaw tightens, but he doesn't push her again. Not yet.
A flicker of movement catches Katherine's eye. Eleanor stands near the stairwell, arms crossed, watching the exchange. But she doesn't interfere. She doesn't come to Katherine's defence. She just watches, cool and detached, like she's weighing whether it serves her to get involved.
She makes her decision quickly.
She turns and walks away.
Katherine swallows down the bitterness creeping up her throat. A tightness in her chest that she refuses to acknowledge. She had always known Eleanor would only ever protect something that belonged to her. But it still burns, just a little.
Simon steps closer, close enough that she can smell the stale bread on his breath. "Maybe we should take you down a peg. You act like you're better than us, but you're just—"
"Go on." Katherine tilts her head. "Finish that sentence."
His mouth opens, but then—something shifts.
The air feels thicker, like pressure before a storm. The shift is subtle at first. A stillness, a pressure building in the space around her. The laughter falters. The shadows stretch unnaturally long against the walls. A presence, unseen but felt, coils in the silence like something breathing just behind her.
Simon's breath stutters. His hand, half-raised, wavers. The others behind him shift, suddenly uneasy, their eyes flickering past her.
Katherine doesn't need to turn to know who it is.
Simon lets out a breath, too quick, and takes a step back. "Forget it," he mutters, shoving past her. "Not worth it."
But Katherine doesn't move, her heart beating too loud in her ears. Because for just a second—just a second—she had seen it.
The fear in his eyes wasn't for her.
It was for whatever was standing behind her.
And when she finally turns, Tom Riddle is watching her his face was a perfect mask of indifference.
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE
Tom Riddle was a shadow in Wool's orphanage. Even when he wasn't there, his absence coiled around them, heavy and suffocating. The children whispered about him still, in the dark corners of their cramped dormitories, in hushed tones after Sunday service when the priest spoke of sin and damnation.
The orphanage, despite its run-down state and the eerie silence that often haunted its halls, had one constant ritual, Sunday mornings. The matron, with her stern face and severe glasses, insisted the children attend the small, humble church down the street. It wasn't a choice; it was an obligation. And it was during these mornings that the unease surrounding Tom Riddle became something tangible, something palpable in the air.
One Sunday, she remembered vividly, the priest had lingered on a passage about the power of darkness, about the signs of the Devil in the world. The matron's eyes had lingered on Tom with an icy chill, and Katherine could see the slight tremor in her hands as she gripped her bible. She never said anything, of course, but Katherine had learned to recognize fear when she saw it.
She'd often overheard the matron muttering to the caretaker about Tom, how he was cursed, godless.
Once, the Mrs. Cole's teacup shattered in her hand when she looked at him too long. Another time, a boy who had mocked him woke up screaming about something slithering in his bed.
And the more the children saw, the more they believed it.
Things happened around him—things no one could explain. Snakes sought him out. Animals watched him as if they knew something the children didn't.
It was as though Tom Riddle didn't belong in their world, as though he were some force that the universe had mistakenly allowed to exist.
Tom had no interest in the church, no interest in the priest's prayers. He never knelt for communion, never said the words of prayer the others did. The children spoke of this in hushed voices, terrified of what it meant. They thought Tom was evil, cursed. They thought he was a child of the Devil.
When he was away, it was easy to let their resentment fester. He had escaped, hadn't he?
"A special school," Mrs. Cole said.
A school that wanted him the Devil's spawn.
And yet, even as they hated him, they feared him. Because they all knew, come summer, he would return.
For Katherine, the void he left behind was both a relief and a sickness.
Tom had been her shield once, in a way. The orphanage without him was suffocatingly predictable—safe, but in the way a prison is safe. The boys tormented her, the girls whispered behind her back, and the adults turned away. But nothing ever changed. No sudden, unexplainable things. No dark eyes watching from the corner of the room. No one who understood.
When Tom was here, things happened.
And she hated herself for missing
Late Spring, 1936
The orphanage attic was off-limits.
Which, of course, meant Katherine and Tom spent a lot of time there.
The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the attic, casting long shadows over the dust-covered floor. It was their kingdom—hidden away from the others, from the rules, from the world. Katherine perched herself cross-legged atop an old trunk, the trunk creaking with the movement. Her fingers absently twisted a loose strand of dark hair, which fell straight and sharp, catching the light like ink on paper. Her dress, once a deep red, had faded to an ashen maroon, its fabric fraying at the edges. She looked like someone who had been made for a different world entirely—one of grandeur and refinement, not the rough-hewn, colourless walls of the orphanage. She seemed far too delicate, too ethereal for the space she occupied. Her grey-blue eyes—stormy and ever-shifting—darted around with an intensity that contradicted her carefully composed exterior. They were the only part of her that truly betrayed her thoughts, revealing the sharpness of her mind, the depth of her restlessness.
Tom, was pacing nearby. His dark green eyes were always sharp, alert, like a predator's—dangerous and calculating. His hair, perpetually neat despite his tendency to get lost in his thoughts, was dark, and his features were chiseled, not unlike a sculpture too beautiful for its own good. His clothes were more cared for than Katherine's, more pressed, a reflection of his neat disposition.
There was an unsettling power that radiated from him, an unspoken command that Katherine couldn't quite place.
Tom's gaze, always assessing, never missed a detail. It flickered over Katherine as though he were cataloging her every movement, his mind always working in overdrive, always five steps ahead. He noticed how her lips naturally curved downward—an almost imperceptible frown—as if disappointment or boredom was the default expression her face wore. He watched the subtle shifts in her face, her body language, the way she breathed in rhythm with the silence between them.
Her nose was sharp, aristocratic in a way that made her seem out of place among the other orphans. It was straight, with an almost regal tilt, and her high cheekbones caught the light in a way that made her look like someone out of a portrait, someone who belonged in an entirely different time. Her skin, pale and porcelain-like, was only broken by the small constellation of freckles that dotted her face. They were the only marks of warmth on her, the only things that made her appear real—alive, even. They darkened in the sun, a natural response to the light, like a reminder that she couldn't remain untouched forever.
Her lips, curved in a perpetual frown, were full and pale, and they parted slightly as she spoke, but her words carried a weight beneath them. She always looked as though she was holding something back—like a secret, or maybe even a part of herself that she couldn't let go of.
"You're taking this far too seriously," Katherine mused, resting her chin on her palm. "It's just a game."
Tom shot her an unimpressed look. "That's what people say when they know they're going to lose."
She scoffed. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm prepared."
"You're insufferable."
"I'm winning."
Katherine huffed, but she was grinning now. They had been playing this game since they were small—strategizing imaginary battles with the orphanage furniture as their troops, ruling over a kingdom no one else could see. But Tom had always taken it one step further, moving the chess pieces in his mind, always searching for a way to be better.
Still, she wouldn't make it easy for him.
She plucked a crumpled paper crown from the pile of forgotten treasures and placed it atop her head with exaggerated grace. "Well, if you're going to be a tyrant, I might as well be a queen."
Tom smirked, pausing his pacing to lean against the wooden beams. "A queen?" he echoed, amused. "Bold of you to assume I wouldn't overthrow you."
Katherine gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Betrayal! From my own most trusted advisor?"
"You made me an advisor?" Tom shook his head, stepping closer. "Katherine, Katherine… you never stood a chance."
She lifted her chin. "And why is that?"
Tom was silent for a moment, then—so quick she barely saw him move—he plucked the crown from her head and placed it onto his own.
"Because I take what I want."
Katherine blinked, then scoffed, shoving his shoulder. "Oh, you absolute—"
Tom caught her wrist before she could land another hit, his grip firm but not harsh. Katherine looked up at him, breath catching slightly at how close they suddenly were. His dark-green eyes seemed to pierce through the surface, seeing things others couldn't.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Katherine twisted her wrist free and snatched the crown back. "You wish you were king."
Tom let out a low chuckle, something smug in his expression as he watched her settle the crown back onto her head. "Maybe. But we both know if I wanted it badly enough, you wouldn't stop me."
His words sent something uneasy crawling down her spine, but she masked it with an eye roll. "You're lucky I like you, Riddle. Otherwise, you'd have been exiled from my kingdom ages ago."
He smirked, tilting his head slightly. "And yet, here I remain."
Katherine clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she flopped onto her back against the trunk. The crown falling to the ground.
"You know, one day, I'm going to be queen of something real."
Tom's smirk faded, his gaze flickering over her face. "And what would you rule over?"
She exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling. "Something better than this."
For the first time, Tom didn't have a sharp reply. He only watched her, something unreadable in his eyes, before he finally sat down beside her.
"Maybe," he murmured.
Katherine sighed, stretching, feeling the stiff fabric of her dress dig into her skin. She tugged at it irritably, shifting against the warped floorboards.
"Always so dramatic," Tom teased, though there was a flicker of something softer in his gaze.
Katherine groaned, rubbing at the back of her neck where the collar chafed. "I swear these clothes were made to break spirits," she muttered, eyes scanning the attic, looking for a way to distract herself from the constant discomfort.
Tom smirked, brushing off a speck of dust from his sleeve. "Maybe they think if we're uncomfortable enough, we'll be too miserable to misbehave."
"Oh? And yet, you still manage," she said, standing and stepping over an old trunk as she made her way toward the attic ladder.
Tom followed, rolling his eyes. "I have a talent for defying expectations."
She scoffed, placing a foot on the ladder leaning against the wall. "You have a talent for trouble."
"And you don't?" He raised a brow, coming up behind her "I seem to recall a certain someone slipping salt into Eleanor's tea just last week."
A wicked grin tugged at Katherine's lips. "I thought she might enjoy a little extra flavour."
Tom chuckled, the sound rare but warm. "She nearly spat it across the room."
Katherine gave a dramatic sigh
"Pity. I was hoping she'd choke."
But before they could make their way down, something caught Katherine's eye just beyond a crate.
A pile of trinkets. Stolen goods. Tom's personal stash of treasures, collected over the years. Little bits of jewelry, trinkets, and odds and ends pieces that had disappeared from the other children's rooms, meaningless to anyone but the owners.
Katherine's gaze narrowed as she picked through the pile. A few familiar objects stood out.
The Ribbon,
Once a gift from a woman who came through the orphanage when Katherine was but in diapers—a faded memory in the eyes of everyone else, but a vibrant one for her. She had been the kind of woman who promised to return, the kind of person who spoke in soft, comforting tones and treated Katherine like she was special. But she never came back. The ribbon was the last thing she left behind, a pale blue silk, delicate and soft. It had stayed with Katherine ever since, a quiet reminder of someone who had offered her kindness but never stayed long enough for her to understand why.
The Pocket Watch,
Had belonged to a boy named Elijah, passed down from his father, who had died from sickness. Katherine had admired the engraving—Tempus fugit—a reminder of time slipping away. One night, she'd taken it while he slept, feeling the weight of it in her pocket like a piece of a world she could never touch. When Elijah noticed it missing, she'd played innocent, but the guilt had settled deep.
The Ring.
Once belonged to Clara's mother, a delicate band with vines and flowers that seemed to hold the memory of a family lost. Clara had worn it always, never taking it off. One night, Katherine had slipped it from Clara's finger while she slept, her pulse quickening as she hid it beneath the floorboards. She'd never returned it, too guilty, too afraid of what it meant—something precious, but no longer hers to have.
They had been hers first, before Tom's silent fingers had taken them from her when she wasn't looking.
Her fingers itched. She didn't need to ask. She could feel the challenge in the air. Tom had always been the better thief—more methodical, more ruthless. But now, he'd left them carelessly, as if he didn't care, as if she wouldn't notice.
She moved without thinking, her fingers brushing over the pocket watch first. The metal was cool against her palm, the sharp edges biting into her skin as she curled her fingers around it. Quick. Silent. She thought, for a moment, she had gotten away with it.
"Don't," he warned, his voice low, a growl of warning.
Katherine's lips curled into a small, mocking smile. "I'm just getting back what you took from me," she snapped, holding her stolen items close to her chest. "You've had your share."
Tom's eyes flashed with something darker, something measured. His gaze never left her, studying her with a cold, unnerving precision. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating. She could feel it pressing against her chest, each breath coming a little faster. Her heart beat erratically in her chest, but she refused to let her guard slip.
She wasn't ready to back down yet.
The watch in her hand felt heavier with each passing second, its cool surface now warm from her tight grip, the slight ticking almost mocking her. Her breath was shallow, the quiet sound of it sharp in the otherwise still room. Tom's gaze was the only thing she could focus on now, like a weight pressing against her chest.
Tom took a step forward. Slow. Purposeful. His presence filled the space between them, the distance between them now charged with something dangerous. His eyes narrowed, and she felt a flicker of heat crawl up her spine. He knew exactly what he was doing. The space between them seemed to shrink, her mind racing, but her body frozen, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of retreat.
"Everything you take ends up in my hands," Tom said, his voice cold, the words like a dagger thrown effortlessly into the silence. "Maybe you should stop taking things that aren't yours."
Katherine didn't flinch. Her breath hitched, but she refused to back down. She held her ground, though she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical force. "I didn't take them from you. You took them from me," she shot back, her voice sharp with defiance.
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Katherine could feel her pulse in her throat, the tension buzzing in her ears. She wasn't sure how much longer she could hold on. The fight was there, but something inside her stirred, a flicker of doubt, an echo of the way things always ended with him.
Tom studied her. His eyes never wavered, the calculating gleam in them piercing through her like a cold, steady flame. Katherine could feel his gaze digging into her, pulling at her resolve, making her question whether this game had already been decided the moment she had reached for the watch. She wasn't ready to lose this yet, but the seconds ticked by, each one a reminder of how long she could last.
"You think you can win this time?" Tom's voice was almost mocking now, a knowing undertone creeping in. "Remember the last time we played this game?"
"I'm not done yet," she muttered under her breath, though the words were barely a whisper, a challenge she was determined to keep alive.
Tom's lips twisted into a smirk, and he took another step forward, slow and deliberate, his presence dominating the space around her. His smile deepened, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, but it wasn't a smile of triumph. It was the smile of someone who knew the outcome before the game had even truly started.
"You knew this was going to happen," he said, his voice low and steady, but his words sent a shiver down her spine. "You've always known."
The silence between them stretched. Katherine's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, each one a little quicker than the last. Her knuckles were white around the watch, her fingers stiff with tension, but still, she held on.
She could feel him there, in her space, in her mind, controlling the tempo of everything. He wasn't in a hurry—he never was. He knew exactly how long he could let this last before she broke. And the worst part? She knew it too.
The seconds felt like hours. Her skin prickled with the weight of his stare, and she could feel every second stretching out, like the inevitable tick of a clock winding down toward its conclusion. The longer he waited, the more pressure built inside her, the louder her pulse seemed to grow.
Then he moved again. One slow, deliberate step toward her. Just close enough for her to feel his presence, just close enough to invade her thoughts. His eyes never left hers, and her stomach churned, a sick feeling creeping up as the realization hit her that she was trapped.
She shifted uncomfortably, feeling the trap closing in on her. His lips quirked slightly, that infuriating, knowing smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"You can hold on a little longer," he murmured, his voice quiet but unwavering. "But you already know how this will end."
Katherine flinched. His voice, calm and measured, was enough to crack something inside her. A brief moment of doubt, of uncertainty. She had held on for as long as she could, but the pressure of it was wearing her down, like water wearing away stone.
She fought to keep her resolve, but the longer she stood there, the more she felt herself wilting under the weight of it all. Her fingers were starting to tremble, the watch still clutched in her hand, but her mind was beginning to waver. She had already known how this would end.
"Fine," she said, her voice clipped, but the frustration was clear in the way she spit out the words. "Take them back, then."
Tom didn't hesitate. He took the items from her hands, his fingers brushed over hers as he took the items back, the lightest touch that felt like the final nail in the coffin of her defiance. She could have pulled away, could have fought harder, but her body froze in place, the warmth of his hand against hers a reminder that the power had always been his to take. There was only that same cold understanding between them, the silent acknowledgment that this—this struggle, this fight—was always going to go the same way. He would take what he wanted, and she would give it back, because neither of them had a choice.
Katherine's fingers hesitated over the ribbon, the cool fabric slipping through her hands like it was something she wasn't meant to hold. She had always kept it hidden, tucked away where no one could see.
His presence was like a shadow as he moved to stand behind her, close but not quite touching. He reached out, his movements deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.
Tom's fingers brushed against her hair, pushing it aside, the touch gentle yet firm. He didn't ask for permission, didn't need to. He simply took the ribbon from her hands and began to tie it into her hair with careful precision.
The ribbon felt out of place now, a reminder of something she hadn't yet figured out. She didn't know if she hated the way he handled it or if there was something deeper beneath the surface, something she wasn't ready to understand.
Tom's movements were slow, deliberate, the way he knotted the ribbon making it feel like an act of possession rather than tenderness. His fingers lingered too long, brushing against her skin in a way that left her unsettled. He wasn't just tying a ribbon into her hair. He was marking something, something that had once been hers and hers alone.
The sharp tug of the ribbon around her scalp was a quiet reminder of Tom's presence, his control, his power. It wasn't enough for him to simply tie her hair. No, he had to leave his mark, make it clear that nothing in this space—nothing about her—could remain untouched by him.
Katherine's chest tightened. She didn't want to admit it, but the ribbon now felt like a leash—fragile, delicate, but tight nonetheless.
Tom stepped back, and came to stand in front of her, he appraised "Perfect," he said, voice low and smooth, as if the act had meant nothing at all. But Katherine knew better. She knew the way his gaze lingered, how it tracked every inch of her, as if she were his to claim.
There was something in the way it settled in her hair that felt like a symbol of everything Tom had started to take.
And suddenly, she wasn't sure if she could stand to wear it anymore.
She wasn't about to push further. Not today.
With a reluctant glance toward Tom, she took a step back toward the ladder. "We'd better go down before Eleanor starts her search for us."
Katherine and Tom made their way down the ladder, the quiet hum of the orphanage rising around them as they left the attic behind. The soft click of their shoes on the wooden steps echoed in the stillness, marking the shift from their private kingdom back to the more ordinary world of the orphanage. Katherine felt the ribbon in her hair, its cool fabric a stark contrast to the warmth of her cheeks, and the weight of the stolen trinkets now relinquished seemed to lift from her shoulders, though the tension between them lingered in the air.
She didn't speak as they reached the bottom of the stairs, only glanced back at him as they stood in the hallway, the familiar scent of the orphanage's old furniture mingling with the faint aroma of black tea. There was no easy way to return to their usual roles, not now, with the silence stretching between them like a tightrope.
"Well," Katherine said at last, breaking the quiet, her voice surprisingly light despite the undercurrent of discomfort. "I suppose tea waits for no one."
Tom didn't answer at first, his gaze lingering on her with something unreadable before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Lead the way, then."
She hesitated, unsure of what to say next. Her gaze flickered to the dining hall at the far end of the corridor, where the sound of clinking dishes and muffled voices drifted out. Eleanor, no doubt, would be there.
As they approached the door, Katherine felt herself bracing for the usual performance. Eleanor would be all smiles, all sweetness.
And Tom?
Well, Tom was always something else entirely. His presence felt like an interruption to the ease they were supposed to have, an unspoken weight that carried with it the shadow of their unsaid words.
"Shall we?" Katherine asked, her tone warmer now, attempting to break the frost that had settled between them. She pushed open the door, stepping into the room and immediately feeling the eyes of the other orphans on them.
The boys were gathered at one end of the long wooden table, their laughter loud and grating.
"Look who decided to show up," sneered Simon. He was leaning back on his bench, arms crossed, a half-eaten biscuit in hand. "Thought maybe you two had finally run off together."
A few chuckles rippled through the group.
Katherine rolled her eyes, already unbothered. "You sound disappointed, Simon. Hoping for some peace and quiet?"
Simon smirked. "Hardly. Just wondering if Tom's got you running errands for him yet."
Tom didn't react—at least, not in any way they would recognize. He simply lowered himself into his seat across from Eleanor with an air of practiced ease, the barest flicker of amusement ghosting over his features.
Katherine turned her attention to Clara, who sat a few seats down, stirring her tea absently. Clara offered a small smile, her gaze flicking toward Eleanor before settling back on Katherine. A quiet presence, steady and observant.
"You didn't miss much," Clara murmured. "Same old tea. Same old biscuits."
Katherine smirked. "Good to know some things never change."
She barely had time to sit before Eleanor's voice, sweet and barbed, reached her.
"Well, look who finally decided to grace us with their presence," Eleanor purred, her golden curls catching the afternoon light. "How nice to have the two of you here… together."
Katherine flashed a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was used to Eleanor's games.
"Oh, we wouldn't miss it," she said lightly, lifting her cup and peering at the sad excuse for tea inside.
A scoff from further down the table caught her attention—Peter, leaning forward with his chin propped in his hand, smirking.
"Careful, Tom," he drawled. "Next thing you know, Katherine will be stealing your shoes too."
Simon snorted, nudging Peter with his elbow. "She's already got sticky fingers. Wouldn't put it past her."
Katherine barely reacted, but Clara stiffened beside her, fingers curling slightly around the handle of her cup.
Before Katherine could speak, Tom exhaled lightly through his nose, setting down his tea with careful precision. "She's welcome to try," he said, his voice smooth and unconcerned. "Though I can't say she'd have much luck."
Katherine tilted her head. "I could if I wanted to."
Tom smirked. "You could try."
Simon and Peter exchanged glances, eyes narrowing in amusement.
Maggie, seated across from them, let out a low whistle. "This is either the most pointless argument I've ever heard or a very strange courtship ritual."
Katherine shot her a flat look. Maggie grinned. "Just saying."
The conversation shifted as Eleanor took a dainty sip of her tea, her gaze flicking toward Katherine's ribbon.
"I see you've made a new… accessory choice," she noted, her tone sickly sweet.
Katherine's fingers instinctively reached up, brushing the pale blue ribbon.
"It's an old ribbon."
Eleanor's smile tightened just slightly. That was all the encouragement Katherine needed.
As Eleanor turned to say something else, Katherine's fingers wrapped around the salt shaker. A quick glance confirmed Tom had caught on, his gaze flickering with silent amusement.
Clara, beside her, leaned in just slightly. "Katherine…" she murmured, half a warning, half stifled laughter.
But Katherine was already tilting the shaker, letting a fine dusting of salt slip into Eleanor's tea.
She sat back just as Eleanor took another sip.
It took only a second before Eleanor's expression twisted in confusion, lips pursing at the unexpected taste. Katherine kept her face neutral, but beside her, Maggie stifled a laugh behind her cup.
"What did you do?" Eleanor snapped, her voice sharp.
Katherine raised an innocent brow. "What do you mean?"
Tom leaned in slightly, his smirk barely contained. "Eleanor. It's tea. Just enjoy it."
Simon and Peter, noticing the exchange, chuckled under their breath, while Clara, ever the quiet observer, simply shook her head, a small, amused smile playing on her lips.
"You'll pay for that," Eleanor muttered under her breath, but Katherine didn't believe it for a second.
The tea was terrible, the clothes unbearable, and the orphanage suffocating.
But at least, for now, she had won this round.
End Chapter