Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Harry
The light of the fire makes everything seem more bearable.
As the fire grows, Toby’s breathing evens out. He’s sitting so close to me that I can feel the subtle changes in his breathing as he begins to relax.
“I’ll sharpen some more sticks for us in case they come back,” I say.
Toby’s breathing stutters, but then he rallies. “Good idea.”
I collect some sticks and whittle away the top to sharpen them. Toby watches me shave off curls of wood with the penknife.
“So, this bushcraft thing you’ve got going on, you learned all of it at boarding school?”
I don’t pause in my whittling. “Yes.”
“What boarding school did you go to?”
I keep my voice steady as I answer. “I went to a place called Dentworth.”
Toby’s forehead furrows. “Dentworth? Isn’t that one of the schools where there was an inquiry into the running of it?”
My mouth is suddenly dry. “Yes. There was an inquiry. It was spearheaded by my father, actually.”
The memory is back in my head. The one time I’d ever seen my father shaken was when he’d read the report that summarized the interviews from my classmates.
My father has never been one for overt affection, but he’d emerged from his study and come straight to me, clasping my shoulder tightly, and I knew how rattled he was by everything that had transpired.
“We’ll make sure they pay. You have my word.”
“What was the inquiry about?” Toby asks.
I put down the multitool so I can rub my forehead.
“It was about the abusive treatment of students by the headmaster and teachers.”
Toby watches me, waiting for me to continue.
“My father had been at Dentworth under a normal headmaster. But the headmaster who was there when I was there…” I swallow the thick feeling in my throat. “He wasn’t so normal. A lot of abuse happened.”
How to describe Angus Pritchard? He looms large in my memories, like a giant.
“What age did you go to boarding school?” Toby asks.
I clear my throat. “I was six.”
Memories slide back into my head. The candlewick bedspreads. The smell of disinfectant mixed with the sweat of young boys. The code of silence that was preached to us: never complain.
“That’s a really young age to send your child away from home,” Toby says quietly.
“Yes, it is.” I look over at him. “But it’s what’s been done to children of the aristocracy for generations.”
Only two days ago, I’d told Toby I didn’t want to talk about boarding school. But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop the words from pouring out of me.
Maybe it’s because the appearance of wolves reminded me of how precarious our situation is. Maybe it’s because Toby is staring at me in the flickering firelight in a way that makes me feel seen. And some part of me seems to desire being seen by this man.
So I tell him.
I tell him about the prefects, only boys of nine or ten, and the ever-present threat from them to whip you with their belts.
I tell him about the forced endurance trials in the middle of winter, how we had to go out in the freezing weather and run around barefoot, and if you dared to show you were hurting, you were punished for your weakness.
I tell him about the gauntlet run, where the younger students had to run through a gauntlet set up by older students where they would douse us with freezing water, throw rotten food at us, and even use us as human targets for their archery practice.
The humiliation was unbearable, but we had to endure it with gritted teeth and a stiff upper lip.
To complain, to protest, to even whimper, was to invite ostracism and ridicule from our peers and our tormentors alike.
Toby keeps his weight pressed against me as I talk, as if he understands how important it is for me to have physical contact right now as I stumble through my memories.
But although he remains silent, I can tell by the hitching of his breath at certain points how my stories affect him.
I tell him how the whole school could get caned for one person’s offenses and how assembly every week turned into a public shaming ceremony, where the principal would not only list the crimes people had committed but also describe how they had taken their punishment.
Any emotion shown was ridiculed. The headmaster would say things like, “Alistair and Frederick took it like upstanding men, but Timothy blubbered like a little girl who’d lost her teddy bear. ”
Toby’s expression grows even more horrified. “But wasn’t caning made illegal by then?”
“Corporal punishment was banned in state schools in 1987 but wasn’t banned in all private schools until 1998,” I say in a flat voice. “Private schools didn’t face the same scrutiny as state schools. So much of the abuse was swept under the rug.”
I poke at the fire with one of my sharpened sticks, prodding at the logs burning at the bottom.
“I think part of the trauma came from the knowledge our parents actually paid for us to be there,” I say.
I lift my gaze to his. “I know what you’re thinking, poor little rich kids, right?”
Toby's throat works. “That’s not what I’m thinking, actually. I’m just finding it hard to understand how none of your parents kicked up a fuss.”
“It’s difficult to explain the code of silence. They screened all the letters, and it was constantly preached that what happened in school stayed in school.
“One time, we returned from a half-term break and discovered one of my classmates had complained to his parents, and we were all punished. And the headmaster was clever. He knew exactly how to push the boundaries so what was going on sounded similar to the usual traditions but with his own sadistic edge.”
I’ve never told anyone these details, even Prunella. Even with my contemporaries who experienced the same thing as me, we’ve adopted a certain grim humor when discussing boarding school.
There’s a cathartic feeling in laying it all out bare now.
And Toby’s attention doesn’t waver from me for a second.
The light from the flames flickers on Toby’s face as I talk through everything. His expression is filled with a mix of horror and compassion. When I mention the particularly brutal punishments, his hand twitches on his knee as if he wants to reach out to touch me, but he holds himself back.
“Holy fuck, Harry,” he says when I finish.
“Yes, well, it wasn’t the most pleasant experience. But I survived it.”
“You shouldn’t have had to survive it.”
My throat feels clogged. Toby’s weight is leaning into me even heavier now, more supportive. I lean back against him.
We sit there for a few heartbeats in silence.
“My father…he took a stand that could have ended his political career. He knew the headmaster had connections that reached into the highest echelons of the Conservative Party, but he didn’t let that deter him.
He faced smear campaigns and political pressure to drop the matter, but he refused to be silenced.
In the end, his persistence paid off. The headmaster and several teachers were not only fired but faced criminal charges.
It was a watershed moment in addressing abuse in elite educational institutions. ”
“I’m glad he did that for you,” Toby says, his voice quiet.
A noise comes from the forest behind us.
Toby is on his feet in a second, grabbing one of my sharpened sticks and whirling around.
I turn around but remain sitting.
The noise comes again.
“I think it’s just an owl,” I say.
Toby’s body is rigid, his muscles coiled tight like a spring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
I reach up and tug him back down to the ground.
“Relax, Toby.”
Toby’s face is a canvas of fear and exhaustion. His eyes dart back to the forest, his grip on the sharpened stick turning his knuckles white.
When he looks at me, there’s a vulnerability in his gaze that makes me want to reach out and touch him.
“It’s going to be all right,” I say.
The firelight casts dancing shadows across his face that accentuate his worry lines.
“I’m so scared, Harry,” he whispers. “I’m so scared my life is going to end out here. That I’ll never get back home. That I’ll never get to achieve the things I want to achieve.”
He slumps back to the ground, digging his stick into the dirt, not looking at me.
“I’m scared too,” I say quietly. “It wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t scared in this situation, Toby.”
“But you never show that you’re scared,” Toby says. “It’s lonely feeling like I’m the only one terrified.”
“I do show I’m scared,” I say.
“No, you don’t. That boarding school really did a number on you, didn’t it?”
Suddenly, my breath leaves me. I feel almost dizzy.
That boarding school really did a number on you.
Because isn’t that the number one lesson I learned at Dentworth? Not to show emotion? Showing emotion was weak. It meant ridicule. It meant punishment. It was something to be avoided at all costs.
“Thank you for that advanced opinion on my psyche. I appreciate it.” My voice is cool.
Toby’s expression suddenly turns contrite.
He reaches out to touch my leg, his hand heavy and warm.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to throw something back at you that you confided in me.”
Emotion swirls inside me as I stare at him, taken aback by the sincerity in his gaze.
“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever apologized to me,” I say slowly.
“I’m sure I’ve apologized on your behalf for your terrible policy ideas,” Toby says with a hint of a smile.
I’m fascinated by the quirk of his lips, the way they curve upward, softening his features and making him look younger.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of every detail of his face—the stubble along his jawline, the freckles dusting his nose, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the flickering firelight.
He pokes his stick in the fire. “It’s normal to express emotions, Harry. It’s a healthy, normal part of being human.” He looks at me, his eyes flickering with the reflected firelight. “And sometimes I just need proof you’re not an emotionless cyborg.”
And I can’t resist any longer. I lean forward and kiss him.
It’s a different kiss than the ones from earlier today. It’s softer, sweeter.
I’ve taken him by surprise, and it takes a second for him to kiss me back. But then he does, and our kiss deepens. A rush of heat spreads through my body, igniting in my veins. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing against my stubble, and I lean into his touch.
It’s a kiss that feels like a conversation without words.
I pull back slowly. “Would a robot do that?” I ask. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel.
Toby’s fingers have come up to touch his lips. His eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement as he meets my gaze directly. “I don’t know. I haven’t actually trialed any of those sex robots. But you might be able to tell me from your own experience.”
I can’t help but laugh at this infuriating, intoxicating man.
But I don’t have time to dwell on that before he’s the one closing the distance between us and we’re kissing again.