AUTUMN 1937
Katherine's eyes fluttered open to the faint light of morning seeping through her window. The day had already started to press in on her, making her wish for just a few more minutes of sleep. She sighed, pushing herself up with an audible groan as the weight of the blankets seemed to cling to her. The cold air of early autumn hit her skin as she sat up, the floorboards creaking under her weight. She didn't need to check the clock—Mrs. Cole's footsteps would start echoing through the halls soon enough, and she'd have to be ready.
Reluctantly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold wooden floor with a soft thud. She stood, her body protesting the movement, and made her way to the window. The world outside was still, the early morning light casting long shadows across the ground.
She approached her bed, Katherine felt the weight of expectation settle over her. This wasn't a personal habit—it was a requirement.
With deliberate care, she gripped the foot of the blanket, its fabric cool and slightly crisp to the touch. In one smooth motion, she yanked it upward, the fabric whispering as it straightened.
Her hands worked methodically. First, she aligned the blanket with the headboard, smoothing it out with a series of precise tugs. Each corner received the same measured pressure—a firm, final tug that snapped the fabric into place with an almost audible crispness. The duvet, stiffened by the morning chill, was folded into a perfect rectangle; every crease was erased under the scrutiny of her practiced fingers.
Katherine's movements were both ritualistic and unyielding. The rules were clear: the bed had to be military style, every fold immaculate, every edge sharp. It wasn't about comfort—it was about compliance. The soft rustling of fabric filled the silent room, a constant reminder that deviation was not allowed, and every imperfection was a breach of protocol.
With deliberate steps, she moved toward her modest wardrobe that leaned against the rough stone wall. Inside, the cool, slightly musty air of donated garments greeted her, each piece a reminder of the orphanage's meager provisions.
She reached for the soft, well-worn nightdress that had kept her company through the night. With a quiet sigh, she slipped it off; it slipped away easily, leaving her exposed to the chill of the early morning. Her fingers then grazed over a donated dress that hung on a frayed hanger—a dress that was too large for her slight frame. Its fabric, though clean, felt coarse against her skin, and a small, stubborn stain near the hem told its own story of past mishaps.
With careful hands, Katherine pulled the dress over her head. The fabric resisted slightly, as if reluctant to conform to her shape, and then draped loosely over her shoulders. She tugged it down and arranged it as best as she could.
Before leaving her room, Katherine knelt by a battered pair of boots resting on the floor. The rough leather, marked by years of wear, offered a reassuring weight as she laced them up with practiced efficiency. The snug fit, though hardly perfect, was all that mattered now.
With her boots secured, she stepped out into the cool corridor. The worn wood underfoot and the soft hum of the early day accompanied her as she made her way to the girls' lavatory. Inside, a mixture of damp air and a faint soapy scent greeted her. At one of the sinks, Eleanor was already present—ever early and immaculate, every movement exact and deliberate.
Katherine turned on the tap and splashed her face with cold water. The sensation was sharp and invigorating. She reached for her toothbrush, the bristles scrubbing softly as she worked, the fresh mint of the toothpaste momentarily overpowering the chill. In that space, the quiet efficiency of Eleanor served as a silent companion to her own routine, a shared moment in the simple start of a new day.
Katherine lingered by the sink, her gaze fixed on the water as it ran in steady, echoing drips. She wasn't ready to exchange words this early, the quiet of the morning still wrapping around her like a cocoon. Before she could pull her thoughts together, she felt a slight pressure on her hand—a presence too familiar to ignore.
Eleanor leaned in without a word, her eyes as cold and merciless as shattered ice, scrutinizing the brutal, ragged lines of Katherine's palms—the jagged scars, the raw, unhealed wounds. Permission was a luxury she never asked for. A small silver tube, gleaming with the stolen marks of its origin, materialized between her fingers. Without a moment's hesitation, she pressed a measured amount onto her fingertip and smoothed it over Katherine's battered skin, the cream's chill clashing violently with the underlying heat.
Katherine tensed immediately. Eleanor's voice emerged softly, almost inaudibly: "You shouldn't let them get this bad." A pregnant silence followed—a moment heavy with unsaid confessions. Then, in an even gentler whisper that betrayed unexpected empathy, "It must hurt."
The scent of the cream—a ghost of floral notes and a hint of sweet decay—wove through the sterile, frigid air of the lavatory as Katherine's breath faltered. She longed to recoil, to escape the invasive contact, yet Eleanor's touch remained insidiously persistent, anchoring her in place.
Eleanor's thumb traced over a particularly deep wound, her movements slowing to an almost hesitant pace. Katherine watched as something shifted in Eleanor's expression—a flicker of... something. Eleanor's breath caught, barely audible in the quiet morning air, and a sudden flush crept down her neck. Her fingers trembled slightly against Katherine's palm, the touch no longer methodical but uncertain.
Katherine felt the change in the air between them, though she couldn't quite name it. Eleanor seemed to realize how close they were standing, her ice-blue eyes widening slightly before she pulled back. The flush deepened across her skin as she straightened, her usual composure fracturing for just a moment.
Then, as abruptly as it had softened, Eleanor's expression hardened. Her jaw set, and her voice came out brittle and cutting. "Honestly, Katherine, your hands are an utter disgrace. Do you ever take care of yourself?"
A torrent of heat surged across Katherine's face as the cream, once cool and soothing, became an oppressive, unwanted stain. With a violent jerk, Katherine wrenched her hands free, the abrupt motion causing Eleanor's fingers to twitch in reluctant protest. Without a second thought, she mercilessly dragged her sleeve across her palms, erasing every trace of Eleanor's touch in frantic, desperate strokes.
Her voice, laced with bitter sarcasm, broke the silence, "You always know just what to say to lift a girl's spirits." The mockery in her tone was a fragile armor against the searing sting of humiliation.
Eleanor's footsteps rang out sharply on the cold tiles as she turned away, her departure as frozen and unfeeling as the cutting words she left behind.
In the quiet dining hall, early morning light filtered through high windows, casting pale streaks over the long wooden tables. The weak sunlight did little to warm the chill that seemed permanently settled in the stone walls, and the air hung heavy with the acrid scent of burnt porridge and over-steeped tea.
Katherine sat across from Tom, her posture rigid as if bracing against an unseen storm, shoulders drawn tight and her head bowed in defeat. Her hand gripped the chipped rim of her bowl like a lifeline, each pale, thin finger curling around the rough ceramic as though ready to tear into it, even though her face remained a mask of controlled indifference. The porridge inside was a sad, lumpy affair—more paste than sustenance—and she watched it congeal with a mixture of resignation and disgust.
Tom regarded her with predatory intensity, his gaze fixed as though he were a beast awaiting the next desperate move from his quarry. His own porridge lay untouched before him, the spoon dangling uselessly from its rim, abandoned in favor of dissecting her turmoil. Steam rose from his tea in lazy curls, temporarily forgotten as he studied the subtle tells in her posture, the way her fingers twitched against the bowl, the slightly too-sharp angle of her shoulders.
"You look..." His voice slid out, deliberate and smooth as a venom-dipped whisper. "More agitated than usual."
Katherine's eyes stayed downcast as if she were immune to his probing, letting his words pass over her like a cold gust slipping under closed doors—sharp, unwelcome, yet dismissed with icy detachment. The dining hall's usual morning clamor seemed to fade around them, leaving only the sound of her spoon scraping against the bowl's bottom with unnecessary force.
"Nothing's wrong," she finally replied, her tone an eerily calm admission of the lie.
Tom's head tilted ever so slightly—a subtle yet infuriating habit that betrayed his certainty when lies hung in the air. A curl of a smile played at the corners of his lips—neither warm nor entirely mocking—but loaded with unnerving certainty. His fingers traced the rim of his teacup with surgical precision, each movement calculated to draw her attention.
"Liar," he whispered, the term edged with an odd fondness as if she were a puzzle he longed to solve.
Her hand jerked in response, the movement betraying a storm brewing beneath her composed exterior. Across the hall, Eleanor sat with her own tea, her posture as impeccable as ever, yet a subtle red blush had crept along the curve of her ear—a trace of vulnerability in her carefully maintained armor. Katherine's eyes flickered toward her for just a moment before snapping back to her bowl.
"You're one to talk."
A shadow passed over Tom's eyes—a flash of something dark, razor-sharp, and all-knowing. He leaned in, his face caught in the dim light that carved hollow shadows along his cheekbones, sculpting a picture of quiet menace. The movement was slight, yet it seemed to compress the air between them, making it harder to breathe.
"You forget, Katherine," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the clamor of the dining hall, "I know you."
At his words, she met his gaze with eyes of stormy grey clashing with his unsettling green. For a long, charged moment, silence stretched taut between them, heavy with unspoken accusations and darker truths.
"And if something had happened?" her voice emerged softly, almost too gentle for the charged air.
His expression remained unmoved, calm yet laden with controlled fury. "Then I'd like to know."
She exhaled a long, measured breath—a release of tension that belied the turmoil beneath. "It's nothing."
Tom hummed low and deliberate—a sound that slithered and coiled venomously between them. He stirred his porridge with a lazy, detached precision, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that refused to break. The spoon clinked against the bowl in a rhythm that felt almost like a countdown.
"You're in a mood," he remarked with an edge that bordered on irritation. "It's rather infuriating."
Katherine let out a short, humorless laugh—a bitter sound void of mirth. Her spoon stabbed into the porridge with unnecessary force, sending a glob of the grey substance sliding down the bowl's side. "And here I thought you enjoyed my company."
Tom's smile returned—small, sharp, and unsettling—as if every word he uttered was edged with a hidden threat. "I do," he confessed coolly. "Which is why I find it especially maddening when you withhold the truth from me."
The porridge moved in a pathetic, unappetizing jiggle as Katherine stabbed at it again. The weak, over-steeped tea sat forgotten beside her, its steam twisting into the stale air with an acrid bitterness that seemed a physical assault on her senses. She could feel Eleanor's presence across the hall like a weight against her skin, could sense Tom's growing irritation like a storm gathering strength.
"Disgusting," she muttered under her breath, lifting the cup to her nostrils with a mix of revulsion and resignation. The aroma assaulted her—damp, decaying leaves mixed with the sour scent of moldy laundry. "How do they manage to make hot water taste like moldy laundry?"
Tom, entirely unaffected, took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea. "It's an art, really—a lifetime dedicated to incompetence."
Katherine sighed, the sound heavy with despair, and shoveled a dismal spoonful of porridge into her mouth. It clung to the roof of her mouth—thick, tasteless, a grim parody of sustenance, reminiscent of chewed-up paper left to congeal. She chewed as if each bite were a sentence of endless torment. "I swear, if I perish in here, it won't be old age that takes me—it'll be this abominable food."
"Unlikely," Tom countered, methodically tearing a piece of bread with clinical exactitude. "You're too stubborn to be felled by something so trivial." His eyes sparkled with an amused cruelty as he observed her. "Maybe poison, but never porridge."
Katherine scoffed, bitterness lacing her tone. "Oh, if I ever kick the bucket, you'll be the first one they suspect."
"Splendid," Tom replied coolly, spreading a thin layer of butter onto his bread with a surgical precision that bordered on unsettling. "That should keep things interesting."
She rolled her eyes and reached for the bread herself, tearing off a piece with an unnecessary ferocity. "When I come back as a ghost, I'll make sure to knock over your books and whisper nasty things about your hair."
Tom smirked, his tone dripping with sardonic amusement. "A fate that would send chills down anyone's spine."
"You should be worried," Katherine warned, dunking the bread into her tea and watching in dismay as it sank and disintegrated into the murky, bitter liquid. She grimaced at the sight. "I'll ensure your tea turns even more revolting than it already is."
"Impossible," he said, lazily gesturing toward her offending cup. "That concoction is already an abomination against humanity."
"For once, we agree," Katherine muttered, brusquely pushing the cup away with sheer distaste.
Tom took another languid, calculated sip of his own tea, his eyes dancing with infuriating amusement as they never left hers. The morning light caught the steam rising from his cup, turning it golden for just a moment before it dissipated into the chill air.
Katherine narrowed her eyes, the tension palpable. "You're doing that on purpose."
"Of course," he replied smoothly, setting his cup down with a satisfaction that was as irritating as it was deliberate. "It's the only way to make this breakfast bearable."
In a sudden flash of defiant mischief, Katherine huffed and shoved her cup an inch closer to him. "Then go on. Since you revel in it so much."
Tom's gaze flickered from the cup to her, his lips twitching in a half-smile that promised both challenge and chaos. He didn't take the bait further—simply picking up his bread and biting carefully, an unspoken truce settling momentarily amid the charged morning.
Coward, she thought, smirking to herself as she stabbed at her porridge once more.
Across the hall, Eleanor rose from her seat with that perfect grace she wore like armor, but Katherine caught the slight tremor in her hands as she gathered her dishes. Their eyes met for just a moment—stormy grey clashing with ice blue—before Eleanor turned away, her departure marked by the sharp click of her shoes against the stone floor.
Tom's attention sharpened at the sound, his gaze tracking Eleanor's exit with predatory focus before returning to Katherine. Something shifted in his expression—a darkening around the edges, a tightening of his jaw that spoke of carefully contained violence.
Katherine felt the change like a physical weight pressing against her skin. She pushed her bowl away, suddenly unable to stomach another bite of the revolting breakfast. "I'm going outside."
Tom arched a brow. "How reckless."
Katherine rolled her eyes. "Not all of us are content to rot in the common room with a book."
"Then by all means," Tom gestured lazily toward the door. "Go run wild. Try not to get yourself killed."
She smirked. "Try not to bore yourself to death, old man."
Tom's lips twitched, but he only picked up his spoon again, dismissing her with practiced indifference that did nothing to mask the predatory gleam in his eyes.
She could feel his gaze following her as she walked away, heavy as a physical touch against her spine. The morning air called to her through the high windows, promising escape from the oppressive weight of his attention, from the lingering ghost of Eleanor's presence, from the suffocating walls of the orphanage itself.
The morning was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves and the mournful cry of a crow perched atop the orphanage's slate roof. The world felt still—too still for the restless energy thrumming beneath Katherine's skin. She wanted to shake it off, to let the wind tear it from her like the brittle leaves that now littered the ground. But it clung to her, stubborn and intrusive as the memory of Eleanor's touch.
She had barely noticed how far she had walked until the orphanage was nothing more than a looming silhouette behind her, its grey stone walls bleeding into the equally grey sky. The wrought-iron fence that marked the edge of the property stood before her, rusted and half-swallowed by creeping ivy that twisted through the bars like grasping fingers.
Katherine hesitated. She could climb it—had done it before—but the last time had earned her a thrashing that had left her unable to sit properly for days. She wasn't in the mood for Mrs. Cole's particular brand of discipline, not today. Instead, she pressed her hands against the cold iron, letting the chill seep into her fingers, grounding her in the present moment.
What was she even trying to run from?
The sound came soft but unmistakable—measured footsteps on fallen leaves. Katherine's shoulders tensed, but she didn't turn. She didn't need to. She knew those steps, knew the precise way Eleanor placed each foot, as if even walking required perfect control.
When Katherine finally turned, Eleanor stood like a statue carved from winter air. Her chin was lifted in that proud way of hers, though the wind pulled loose strands of golden hair across her face in defiance of her usual immaculate appearance. She had composed herself since their encounter in the lavatory.
Almost.
Her skin still held the warmth of something unspoken, a faint flush creeping along her cheekbones that had nothing to do with the autumn chill. Her lips parted as if to speak, but she hesitated, studying Katherine with that sharp, assessing gaze—like she was a puzzle to be solved, a code to be broken.
Katherine exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening slightly at her sides. The late morning air pressed cool against her skin, but Eleanor's gaze was a weight of its own, heavier than the silence between them.
"If you're here to insult me again," Katherine said, letting a dangerous smile play at her lips, "at least make it interesting this time."
Eleanor's eyes narrowed, a muscle in her jaw working as she bit back what might have been a sharper retort. "You always assume the worst of me."
"Well," Katherine said, her lightness belied by the steel beneath, "I do have evidence."
Eleanor scoffed, crossing her arms against the bite of the wind. Her fingers drummed against her sleeve, a restless pattern that betrayed her agitation. "You're being dramatic."
"Am I?" Katherine's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Because I seem to recall you treating me like some wretched stray dog you were forced to touch."
Eleanor's fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve, knuckles white with sudden tension. Something flickered across her face—remorse, irritation, something deeper that she couldn't quite mask. "I didn't—" She cut herself off, exhaling sharply through her nose. Her grip on her own arms tightened before she forced her shoulders to relax. When she spoke again, her voice was colder, more measured. "I shouldn't have said what I did."
Katherine tilted her head, bitter amusement curling at the edges of her irritation. "Is that your way of saying you regret it?"
Eleanor didn't answer right away. The silence stretched between them, taut as a pulled thread. She shifted her weight slightly, fingers twitching at her sides, like she wanted to shove them into her pockets but couldn't quite allow herself the indignity. Then, finally: "I regret losing my patience."
Katherine let out a low, humorless laugh. "Of course. The real tragedy isn't what you said—it's that you lost control."
Eleanor's jaw tightened. Her arms dropped, hands flexing like she needed something to do with them. Then, she took a step forward, closing the space between them with deliberate grace.
"You twist things," she said, voice lower now, quieter. The words carried on her breath, visible in the cold air between them.
Katherine didn't move away. "And you say things you don't mean."
Eleanor's eyes flickered. A hesitation. Her throat bobbed with a swallow. Then, she took another step.
The space between them had shrunk to something dangerous.
A hush settled over them, thick as fog. The air carried the scent of damp earth and something faintly sweet—citrus, soap, the ghost of morning tea on Eleanor's breath. Katherine barely moved, but suddenly she was aware of everything: the slow rise and fall of Eleanor's chest, the delicate tremor in her fingers as if she wanted to reach out but thought better of it, the flicker of her gaze as it dropped to Katherine's lips for the briefest second before snapping back up.
"I meant it," Eleanor said finally, voice barely above a murmur. "I meant that you need to take better care of yourself."
Katherine's breath hitched, but she forced her expression to remain impassive. "And what's it to you?"
Eleanor's lips parted, but no words came. Her fingers twitched again—subtle, almost imperceptible—before she clenched them into fists at her sides.
And for the first time, Katherine saw it clearly: the crack beneath Eleanor's polished surface, the quiet, careful concern buried beneath all that sharpness. It made something in her chest twist, painful and sweet.
She smirked, but it felt softer than intended. "You stormed out."
Eleanor stiffened. Her shoulders squared, but her fingers flexed again, betraying the tension beneath her controlled exterior. "I left before I said something worse."
Katherine arched a brow. "That's awfully generous of you."
Eleanor exhaled, slow and measured, but she didn't step back. Instead, she remained there, too close, the morning light catching in her hair like frost on golden wheat. The space between them felt different now—charged with something neither of them could name. Eleanor's breath ghosted across Katherine's cheek, warm despite the cool morning air.
Eleanor's fingers twitched. Just slightly. Like she might reach out, just for a moment. Like she wasn't sure if she wanted to close the distance or put miles of it between them.
Then she saw the leaf caught in Katherine's hair.
Eleanor's hand moved before she could stop herself, reaching up to pluck the dry leaf from where it had tangled in Katherine's dark strands. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but Katherine felt it like a brand against her skin.
A flicker of something passed through Eleanor's expression—uncertainty, something else—and her gaze dipped downward again, fleeting but unmistakable. Her fingers trembled slightly, still hovering near Katherine's hair.
Then, abruptly, she took a sharp step back. A retreat. A break in whatever spell had fallen over them.
Katherine smirked, but her pulse was uneven beneath her skin. "Keep backing away like that and people might think you're afraid of me."
Eleanor stopped mid-step. She exhaled sharply through her nose, then turned back with the slow deliberation of someone who wanted to be annoyed but wasn't quite managing it.
"You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
Katherine's smirk deepened. "Oh, I do. I just enjoy watching you suffer."
Eleanor scoffed, crossing her arms against the crisp autumn air. A gust of wind stirred the dry leaves at their feet, rustling them in restless little spirals. She glanced at them, then at Katherine. "Please. My suffering stems from having to listen to you."
Katherine hummed in mock consideration. "Mm. Sounds like a you problem."
Eleanor rolled her eyes. "You're unbearable."
"And yet," Katherine said, rocking back on her heels, "you remain."
Eleanor didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, she rubbed her hands together, irritation flickering across her face as another sharp breeze bit at her skin.
Katherine's smirk deepened. "You hate the cold."
Eleanor shot her a flat look. "Brilliant observation. Maybe next, you'll tell me the sky is blue."
"Grey, actually," Katherine corrected, tilting her chin toward the overcast sky. "Just like your mood."
Eleanor made a noise of exasperation before stepping forward—too close again, like she was daring Katherine to keep talking.
"Keep talking and I will push you into that pile of leaves."
Katherine arched a brow. "No, you won't."
Eleanor's eyes glinted. "Try me."
For a second, Katherine thought she was bluffing.
Then Eleanor shoved her.
Hard enough that Katherine stumbled back into the thick pile of leaves behind her, landing with a soft 'oof'. The dry leaves crunched beneath her as a few loose ones scattered into the air, catching in her hair like copper stars against dark silk.
For a moment, there was stunned silence.
Then Katherine let out a slow, considering breath and sat up, brushing leaves from her sleeves. "You absolute menace—"
Eleanor smirked, but there was something soft in it, something almost warm. "Oh no, did I accidentally push you?"
Katherine was already moving before Eleanor could react, launching herself forward and catching Eleanor's wrist as she yanked her down into the pile with her.
Eleanor yelped—a sound so undignified it made Katherine's heart skip—as she landed with a satisfying thud beside her, leaves flying in every direction like startled birds.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind stirred through the courtyard, cold against their flushed faces. Eleanor's hair had come partly loose, golden strands tangled with copper leaves. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and this close, Katherine could see the light dusting of freckles across her nose that Eleanor usually tried so hard to hide.
Then Katherine grinned.
Eleanor saw it too late.
Katherine lunged again, shoving her back into the leaves. Eleanor shrieked—not in fear, but in outrage—before she kicked out, knocking Katherine off balance. They tumbled together, all pretense of dignity forgotten as they wrestled in the autumn debris. Eleanor tried to pin Katherine's arms, but Katherine was quicker, rolling them over and burying Eleanor in an avalanche of crackling leaves.
Their laughter rang out in the cold air—bright, breathless, real. Katherine couldn't remember the last time she'd heard Eleanor laugh like this, free and unguarded. It made something warm unfurl in her chest, dangerous and sweet.
Eleanor should have stopped sooner. She knew that.
She was cold. The wind was biting, and the warmth from running and wrestling wouldn't last. But there was something easy about this—something unguarded in the way Katherine laughed, the way the tension had bled away between them like watercolors in rain.
It almost made Eleanor forget why she had wanted to leave in the first place.
Almost.
Breathless, she shoved Katherine off and scrambled to her feet, swiping leaves from her dress with sharp, hurried motions. "Alright, alright! Enough!"
Katherine, still half-buried in leaves, propped herself up on her elbows with a smug grin. Her hair was a mess, leaves tangled in the dark strands, and her cheeks were flushed with cold and exertion. "Oh? The mighty Eleanor surrendering?"
Eleanor shivered violently, wrapping her arms around herself as another gust of wind cut through her thin dress. "I am not surrendering. I am leaving because I refuse to die of exposure with you as my last conversation."
Katherine snorted, rolling to her feet with casual grace. "Mm. Sounds like surrender to me."
Eleanor ignored her, already turning on her heel and marching back toward the orphanage doors, though her steps lacked their usual precise rhythm. Her hair had come almost completely loose now, golden strands whipping in the wind, and leaves still clung to her skirt despite her attempts to brush them away.
Katherine jogged after her, still laughing under her breath. Before Eleanor could step inside, Katherine reached out—just a small tug at her sleeve this time. Just enough for Eleanor to pause, to glance back.
Katherine's smile was softer now, almost gentle. "Race you?"
Eleanor hesitated. A beat too long.
Katherine wasn't pushing this time, wasn't teasing—just waiting, hand still light on Eleanor's sleeve.
Eleanor huffed, but her lips twitched upward. "You'll lose."
"Only one way to find out."
And then Katherine bolted.
Eleanor cursed under her breath but ran after her, their footsteps echoing across the courtyard as they raced toward the warmth of the orphanage. They burst through the doors together, breathless and grinning, the heat washing over them as the autumn cold was shut out behind them.
Eleanor's hand brushed Katherine's as they stood there, catching their breath. Just for a moment. Just long enough for something to stutter in Eleanor's chest.
The moment lingered, just a little longer than it should have. A warmth neither of them spoke of.
Then Eleanor straightened, composing herself like she was donning armor. But her eyes, when they met Katherine's, still held a trace of something soft, something real.
"I still won," she said primly, though her voice shook slightly with suppressed laughter.
Katherine's grin was bright as sunrise. "Keep telling yourself that."
They stood there for another heartbeat, neither quite willing to break the spell. Then Eleanor turned, heading toward the girls' dormitory with what remained of her dignity.
But Katherine saw it—the small smile Eleanor couldn't quite hide, the way her steps were lighter, less measured. It felt like victory, somehow. Better than winning any race.
—
Winter 1937
He moved quietly through the corridors, shadow slipping between shadow, following the faint sounds of conversation drifting from the sitting room.
Katherine and Eleanor.
They had been together more often. Tom had allowed it at first. Katherine had needed something soft, something warm. He wasn't that. But Eleanor was.
That time had passed.
A quiet laugh curled into the hallway. Katherine's.
Tom didn't pause, but the sound caught on something raw inside him. It was light, unguarded—beautiful in a way that didn't belong here, in this place of cold and hunger. It slipped past his defences, warm and fleeting, and for a moment, he hated it.
She had never laughed like that with him.
His jaw tensed, the sharp angle of it cutting against the dim light as he moved through the corridor. His steps were slow, deliberate, though there was a tautness to his gait, something restrained, controlled. His hands flexed once at his sides before stilling, fingers curling inward as if to keep something contained. His breath came evenly, though the muscles beneath his skin were coiled, poised between stillness and motion.
The irritation sharpened, needling under his skin. His emerald eyes, darkened—shadowed by something he would not name. Katherine was not meant to be soft with Eleanor.
If there was warmth to be found in this place, it should have been his to grant, his to take away.
Another laugh—lighter this time, like wind chimes in the dead of winter. The corner of his mouth twitched, not in amusement, but in something else. A flicker of something cold and thin, irritation stretching into something worse. A sound like that should have been precious in a place like this. But to Tom, it grated against his nerves, a jagged edge pressing against something he didn't understand, something he didn't like.
His steps slowed further. His shadow stretched long across the wooden floor, barely flickering beneath the weak glow of the gas lamps. He could step inside now, let his presence settle over them like a weight, like a claim. He could tear that warmth from the air, take it for himself.
And yet, he lingered just outside the doorway, silent.
Because some part of him—aweak,foolish part—wanted to hear it again.
He stepped into the room.
The fire had burned low in the grate, the orange glow flickering weakly against the walls, casting long shadows that wavered like ghosts. Katherine was curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, trying not to smile as Eleanor regaled her with increasingly outlandish theories about Maggie's supposed kitchen rat.
"I swear," Eleanor said, her usual ice melting into amusement, "next she'll tell us it's wearing a top hat and organizing a revolution in the pantry."
Katherine snorted. "Don't give her ideas. You know she'd try to recruit it for one of her schemes."
Eleanor's laugh was bright, musical—a sound that belonged in drawing rooms and garden parties, not this dreary orphanage "Oh please," Eleanor drawled, shifting closer with that casual grace she wore like armor. "As if any self-respecting rat would join Maggie's crusade for better porridge."
"You'd be surprised. Even rats have standards—"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Katherine felt Eleanor's fingers still on her shoulder, pressing slightly harder now—not in comfort, but in defiance. The air grew thick with unspoken challenge as Tom's gaze fixed on that point of contact between them.
His presence filled the doorway like smoke, dark and suffocating. When he spoke, his voice was soft as silk drawn over steel. "How... domestic."
"Oh look," Katherine said dryly, "speaking of unwanted visitors."
Tom's lips twitched. "Charming as ever."
Eleanor's smirk was sharp enough to cut. "We were having a fascinating discussion about revolutionary rats. Care to contribute your expertise on unwanted pests?"
"Eleanor," Katherine chided, but couldn't quite hide her grin.
Tom stepped into the room, his movements carrying that deliberate grace that made other children scatter. But his eyes held a glint of something almost like amusement. "And here I thought you'd exhausted all possible ways to waste time."
"Not waste," Katherine corrected. "We're planning. Strategizing."
"Of course," Tom's voice dripped with sarcasm. "How foolish of me to mistake your brilliant tactical discussion about rodents for idle chatter."
Eleanor's fingers drummed a light pattern on the sofa back. "Some of us," she said sweetly, "actually enjoy pleasant conversation. Though I suppose that concept might be foreign to you."
Katherine felt the shift in the air—the way Tom's amusement hardened into something colder. She recognized the signs: the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his fingers flexed at his sides.
"Are you finished?" he asked Katherine, his voice carrying that quiet command she knew too well.
Katherine sighed dramatically. "With plotting the rat revolution? Never. With entertaining your mood? Absolutely."
She uncurled from the sofa, stretching like a cat. But as she stood, she felt it—the way Eleanor's hand lingered near her shoulder, not quite touching, but present. The way Tom's eyes tracked the movement, sharp and assessing.
"You always come when he calls, don't you, Katherine?" Eleanor mused, her voice light but carrying an edge.
Katherine turned back with a smirk. "Only because he'd throw a tantrum if I didn't."
"I don't throw tantrums," Tom said evenly.
"No, of course not. You just brood dramatically in corners until you get your way."
Tom's eyes narrowed, but there was that familiar glint in them—the one that meant he was allowing her this small defiance. "If you're quite done..."
Katherine rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. Heaven forbid you be kept waiting." She glanced back at Eleanor, whose smile had turned a shade too sharp. "Try not to let the revolutionary rat stage a coup while I'm gone."
Eleanor's laugh was perfect, practiced. "No promises."
As they left the room, Katherine felt the weight of Eleanor's gaze follow them. Tom's hand found its way to the small of her back—not pushing, just present. A reminder.
"You're impossible," she told him.
"So you keep saying."
Tom's hand found the small of her back as they left, his touch both a reward and a reminder. Mine, it seemed to say. And Katherine, despite herself, despite everything, leaned into it.
But as they walked away, she could still feel the phantom warmth of Eleanor's fingers on her shoulder—a different kind of claim, a different kind of cage.
And she wondered, not for the first time, which prison she had chosen for herself.
As they stepped into the narrow corridor, the comforting warmth of the fire receded behind them, swallowed by an encroaching, icy chill from every direction. The hallway stretched out into a long, foreboding passage, its stark darkness only occasionally broken by the frail glow of flickering wall sconces that cast timid, trembling pools of light along the worn stone. Tom walked beside Katherine, his measured pace deliberate yet underscored by an unspoken, formidable presence.
For a long moment, Katherine remained silent. Tom felt her steady gaze drift toward him, eyes flickering with a search—an inquisition attempting to unearth some hidden truth in the subtle shifts of his face. She sought something that, no matter how intently she looked, she would not discover.
At last, she exhaled, a soft sound laced with a hint of amusement. "You really couldn't stand it, could you?"
Tom did not mask his awareness. "Stand what?"
She hummed, inclining her head in contemplative amusement. "That I was enjoying myself."
A muscle along Tom's jaw pressed in a tight line. Her observation was precise, honed by years of wielding her words like a finely balanced blade—aimed to slice gently but with an undeniable, cutting force.
"You think very highly of yourself," he murmured lowly, the words heavy with both admiration and challenge.
A slight smirk tugged at her lips. "You're the one who came looking for me."
Tom allowed her words to hang in the cool, heavy air between them, letting her savor that small victory. There was a curious pleasure in letting her believe she had the upper hand; it cost him nothing.
They ascended a creaking staircase whose ancient wood groaned under the weight of their steps, each creak resonating through the silence. The upstairs halls were even denser with darkness, the heavy air almost suffocating, while the distant, muffled laughter and whispers of other children reverberated behind closed doors.
When they reached the threshold of her room, Katherine slowed her pace. "You didn't have to interrupt," she said softly, her voice a fragile murmur in the dim lighting.
Tom studied her face, its contours softened in the low light. "You would have stayed with her all night if I hadn't intervened."
"And?" Her tone was laced with a gentle reproach.
His fingers reached out and brushed her wrist in a deliberate, unspoken reminder—not enough pressure to confine, just enough to assert his presence. Gradually, his thumb began to trace the delicate lines within her palm, his touch both deliberate and exploratory. His eyes, shadowed with intensity beneath low-set lashes, followed the motion as if memorizing every detail.
His fingers paused at the longest scar—a silent map of old wounds—and lingered there, his touch soft as a whisper. Back and forth they moved in a slow, methodical rhythm.
Katherine did not withdraw, yet she made no move to draw closer. Tom's steady gaze never faltered, and his fingers remained, a quiet challenge etched against her skin. In that tender and charged moment, Katherine's breath caught ever so slightly, her pulse quickening in response to his careful caresses. Yet her expression remained an impassive mask, determined to conceal just how deeply his nearness stirred a mixture of longing and resentment—the same conflicted emotion of being claimed with such force, so casually.
"You're an irritating thing," Tom observed in a low, almost confessional tone, his voice threaded with a blend of irritation and a trace of amusement. "It's almost impressive, really."
Katherine raised an eyebrow in response. "I'm the one who's irritating?" Her lips curved into a smile that danced dangerously close to defiance, her eyes sparking with a fierce gleam. "Don't you think you might actually be the problem?"
At her words, Tom's grip on her wrist tightened ever so slightly. His eyes grew darker, though not yet filled with outright anger—more of a dangerous intensity simmering just below the surface. "I don't think you'd last long if I were the problem," he whispered, so softly it seemed almost dangerous in its quiet intensity.
Katherine couldn't resist a playful challenge; her lips parted in that familiar, teasing manner. "I've lasted this long, haven't I?"
Tom leaned in closer, his breath ghosting across her cheek. "Only because I allow it." The words were soft, almost gentle, but laced with an undercurrent of warning.
Her breath hitched imperceptibly, yet she remained stalwart, unwilling to betray the softening impact of his words—each one slicing subtly, cutting deeper than it perhaps should. It was how he always made her feel: like a complex riddle he had no real desire to solve, yet was irresistibly drawn to push the boundaries until she cracked.
A heavy pause filled the space between them—a silence so thick that Katherine could not tell if she resented its paralyzing weight or if she mourned the unexpected comfort it had grown to provide. Despite her better judgment, she was continually caught in his orbit. Tilting her chin upward, she narrowed her eyes at him, voice firm and resolute. "I'm not some prize to be claimed."
Tom's lips twitched, a dangerous curl forming at their edges as he leaned in so that the warmth of his presence bathed her face, his intense gaze never wavering from hers. "I never said you were," he replied softly, his voice a mix of playful defiance and earnest intimacy.
For a split second, Katherine's features froze, her rapid pulse echoing the unspoken intensity in his eyes. Then, as if realizing too late just how deeply she had been drawn in, she took a half-step back, gently severing the physical contact. It was only then that she became acutely aware of how dangerously close they had been—how his overwhelming presence had nearly engulfed her completely.
—-
Meanwhile, back in the sitting room, Eleanor sat motionless, eyes still fixed on the spot where Katherine had been.
Her fingers curled against the fabric of the couch, her knuckles pressing into the worn threads.
She had known Katherine would go.
She had known, and yet—
The fire crackled softly beside her, the dim glow throwing restless shapes against the walls.
Eleanor exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her golden hair.
"She always comes when he calls," she murmured to herself.
But not always.
Not forever.
Eleanor wasn't sure where the thought had come from. Only that it settled somewhere deep, somewhere quiet, curling inside her like embers waiting for a spark.
She just had to wait.
Katherine would come back.
One day, she wouldn't leave.
And Tom Riddle wouldn't take her away again.
End Chapter