The lesson Wesley was working on today, had been working on for several days already, was understanding how others had influenced his mind. Oh, he knew that they did—this was no shock to him. However, the dalhari method for doing just about everything was methodical, and it wasn’t good to skip steps because they seemed simplistic. So, on this fine day, Wesley was going to look at how he’d allowed his parents to alter who he was. That didn’t mean he was supposed to reflect back on his childhood, dredging up every single instance of interaction between himself and his parents. Rather, he was to consider key points, places where he’d allowed his parents to hurt him, or help him, or in some other way change who he was.

“Hmm,” Wesley hummed, tapping his fingers on the pages. “I’d certainly say that being sent away to school had an effect on me.”

“Wesley! If you do not cease dawdling, you will be late, and I refuse to bear the humiliation of having to escort my ill-behaved offspring into the headmaster’s office to explain why he could not bother to arrive in a timely manner!”

Wesley cringed and moved down the stairs with greater speed. His father was absolutely correct; he had been dragging his heels. The idea of going away to school, of living somewhere else year round, scared him. Where would he go when the pressures of being around other people became too much? Would his roommates bully him because of his small build and feminine features? Would he encounter Ralph Weston, the child of one of his father’s closest friends? Ralph hated Wesley with a passion and would revel in the opportunity to inflict harm upon the smaller boy. “I’m ready, father,” Wesley said quietly as he reached the last step.

“The driver is waiting. He will fetch you again for winter break.” With that announcement, the older man walked off, back to his library and his precious research. Wesley stared after him until the butler coughed discreetly. The boy’s attention jerked back to the task at hand and he obediently went through the open front door. School waited for no one.

Three months later, Wesley stood waiting for his father’s driver to arrive to take him back to the family estate for Christmas. The headmaster glared at him, unhappy to be made to wait until the last, and least favorite, of his pupils was taken off his hands. They stood in the frigid winter air until nearly sundown. Finally the headmaster gestured for Wesley to follow him as they returned to the school proper. “Call your father, Wyndham-Price. I will not stand outside a second time.”

Wesley used the phone in the headmaster’s secretary’s office to call his father’s house. The butler answered, the familiar clipped tones actually warming the boy’s chilled heart. “Ronald?” Wesley murmured. “Is father at home?”

“No, young master, he and the lady are away in Paris on holiday,” Ronald replied.

“Oh. It is winter break; there was to be a car sent for me,” Wesley added.

“I was not made aware of any such arrangements,” The butler stated. “The driver is with your father and mother, as is the car. Are you sure you were not to stay over for the duration?”

Wesley slumped down in his seat. His father wasn’t sending for him, wouldn’t be doing so any time soon. “I suppose I am,” The boy said after a minute. “I apologise for the bother.” He replaced the phone on its stand and went to find the headmaster.

“Well?” The forbidding man asked. “When will you be gotten?”

“I am to stay over until classes begin again,” Wesley said timidly.

The headmaster glared hard at the boy. He was not happy about this inconvenience. As much as he would like to thrash the boy bloody for it, though, he restrained himself. “I see. You will be the only boarder this winter, then. I do not see any reason to bother the staff with only one student, so you will take care of yourself. There is enough food in the kitchens for the entire break and the maintenance staff will be on hand to keep you out of trouble.” The headmaster began to gather his belongings for the drive home. “Perhaps you should take this opportunity to improve your studies. I believe you are almost a month behind the others in your year.”

Wesley opened his eyes, a bit surprised to see grayish stone in front of him. The memories of his times at school were vivid, almost so real he felt he was actually there again. Perhaps it was because they had been so repressed, forced into a tiny pocket of his mind. They’d had all that time to distill, to concentrate and boil down. Now they were pure pain. “I was such a nancy,” He said to himself. “I let them walk all over me—father, mother, Headmaster Darcy. I could’ve ordered Ronald to have the gardener come pick me up. What did I do? I apologized to him and lived on stale bread and kippers for a month!”

“But I survived,” He reminded himself. Indeed he had made it through. Ten years of beatings by Ralph and his cronies, a decade of teachers constantly berating and belittling him; in the end he had graduated just like the others. So he’d had to work twice as hard—not because he was half as smart, but because he was always doing his own work in addition to that of three or four other students. And he was usually doing that work while nursing a sprain or bruise, once even a broken foot, from where Ralph had dropped a fifty-kilogram weight onto it. True, he’d been a weakling, the laughingstock of the school. When they’d gone out to visit with the girls at a nearby school, they all giggled and pointed at him, laughing derisively at the odd, girlish Wesley. So he hadn’t gone out on a single date all through school. That meant little to him, either then or now.

Although he didn’t like to admit it, suffering all those years taught him a lot. He was a rigorous, effective and efficient researcher, despite what had happened with Connor. If anything, his mistake there was in doing his work too well. After all, he had translated everything exactly as it was written. No one knew, of course, that the demon had changed the prophecies. But that aside, he was damned good at what he knew.

It was when he ventured beyond that that he found himself in trouble. When he was alone with his books and scrolls, Wesley was in heaven. He’d long since discovered that the best conversationalist a person could have was their own mind. Other people only served to distract and worry Wesley. That was part of why he’d failed as a Watcher. He couldn’t relate to other people, on any level. He didn’t read them well, staying aloof when they wanted comfort yet trying to get closer when all they wanted was space. It was surprising he’d gotten as far as he had.

•••

“Is there some occasion about which I was not informed?” Wesley asked Rraiec. “I do not recall the hall being quite this popular.”

Rraiec smiled. “There is to be a bonding today. You are seeing the participants, mostly those who will attack.”

“I see,” Wesley replied. He’d read a bit about bondings; they seemed to be a bit brutal. He shrugged and began to eat. “I’ve been reading,” He said between bites.

“Did you find any of the books helpful?” Rraiec inquired casually.

“Hmm,” Wesley hummed, chewing on a thick chunk of verdrin. “Yes, actually. Although, of course, I must admit that the entire process is quite painful and not something I would recommend to anyone.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that,” Rraiec admitted. “It should not be that way.”

“Perhaps,” Wesley agreed. “Then again, if it wasn’t uncomfortable, I would suspect I wasn’t doing it right.” After all, he was working with the most disturbing parts of his mind. There was no way to make such activities pleasant.

“Very true,” Rraiec agreed. “Uvu inquired after your health.”

Wesley brightened at the mention of his friend and straw boss. “And how is the wall-building?”

“I believe they miss your dedication to accuracy,” Rraiec said lightly. “You have quite a reputation for it, you know. Uvu laments the loss.”

“Perhaps I will return,” Wesley murmured. “I found wall-building rather relaxing.”

“So long as relaxing is why you chose to perform the task,” Rraiec warned. “Unlike your reasons for taking it up in the first place.”

Wesley cringed a little, hating to be reminded of that particular evasive maneuver. “I know. To change the subject a bit, how is Rinhe? I haven’t seen her around lately.”

“She is away from the hold at the moment. I believe she joined an elder from Xo’pa for a trek to Adaes Der. The Disiaron called for a meeting of elders,” Rraiec explained. “Nothing serious, or so I’m told, but important enough to require the presence of one of the hold’s elders.”

The green dalhari polished off the last of his meal and rose to leave. “As much as I enjoy seeing a throng of excited wedding-goers, I believe I shall retire to my studies again.” Rraiec watched him leave, winding his way through the crowds of dressed-out dalhari that roamed the hall. He wished that they had had more time to discuss Wesley’s progress, but he also knew that the younger man wasn’t fond of crowds. Regardless, their brief conversation had assured Rraiec that Wesley was improving—his attitude towards his healing was both realistic and positive. Rraiec counted it as a blessing that Wesley hadn’t developed extraordinarily high expectations about the speed of his recovery. The man would suffer setbacks, some of them severe; those times would be far worse if he only expected good things out of his self-administered treatment.

A glance at the window told the green man that the foul weather he’d woken up to hadn’t stopped, or even slowed. No, if anything the rains were falling harder. Despite being midday, the light in the room was murky; he’d had to light a candle to write by. “I suppose a refreshing walk through the fields is out of the question,” Wesley remarked to himself. If the wind didn’t try to bowl him over, he’d stumble into a drainage ditch and get washed down the mountain. Yes, walking was definitely not an option.

However, Wesley didn’t want to stay in his quarters. He spent far too much time there already. He ran through his options. There was always the library, but he’d been either reading or writing so much lately that he suspected that any more books would send him into convulsions. There were bound to be elders lounging in front of the fire in the main hall, as always discussing this and that. They were often quite good company, either for their valuable insights or for the sheer humor of listening to ancient souls argue about inane subjects. He’d once sat for four hours listening as they debated whether red-orange or orange-red glass was superior for brightening the moods of dyspeptic prhang. He still got a chuckle out of that one.

Of course, the kitchen staff was always happy to have a pair of extra hands about. He felt a bit guilty for not working there very often; he ate their food—either cooked by them or by himself after procuring it—but he did nothing in return. The fact that food was part of dalhari life and that residents did not actually have to pay for it didn’t matter to Wesley. Logically, he knew that there was no shame in being what he would consider a domestic; for the dalhari such jobs were not low-prestige. People had to eat, so someone cooked. Those who were good at it usually made it their life’s work. But he still felt bad.

So on this most rainy of days, Wesley pulled on and laced up his less-dressy leather vest and tightened his boots before striking out for the kitchens. He wasn’t much of a chef, but he could peel yimkia as well as anyone else. Besides, the staff would leave him alone after giving him a job and he could listen to the gossip. It was an excellent way for him to fine tune his ear; although he’d gotten very good at the language, just listening to normal conversation helped him with his understanding. And it was fun. If he never went to places like the kitchen, he never would’ve found out about the time Rinhe had demanded po’infal out of season and ended up with a bellyache from eating the fruits green. To hear the cooks describe it, the elder had thrown up for days. After that, she never asked for the fruit again. She wouldn’t even touch it.