25. Venetia
Venetia
T he courtyard feels like an amphitheatre, but I’m not performing for the masses.
This is careful, calculated diplomacy, one family at a time.
Eleven families have assembled outside our gates, each representing decades of criminal enterprise and carefully cultivated power.
They want their children back inside St. Sebastian’s, but first, we need to establish that there’s actually a functioning academy for them to return to.
Power. Water. Food. The holy trinity of survival, and right now we’re running on emergency generators and bottled water while rationing snacks like we’re preparing for the apocalypse. Which, given our circumstances, isn’t far from the truth.
A man approaches, his grey suit immaculate and expensive, his son striding next to him. “Miss Corbyn-Hale. David Hutchinson. My son, Peter.”
“Mr. Hutchinson. I assume you’re here because you want Peter back inside the academy.”
“Among other things,” he replies carefully. “I understand you’re planning some form of response to the Graduate situation.”
“Before we discuss Peter’s return, we need to address immediate practical concerns,” I say, gesturing towards the darkened buildings behind me.
“The academy is currently running on emergency power, which limits our operational capacity significantly. We need a full electrical restoration, and we need it done without involving official channels that might compromise our security. We also have a contaminated water supply and food we can’t trust. Where can you help? ”
“I can get this building back onto the grid in a matter of hours,” Hutchinson says slowly, his eyes scanning the academy’s infrastructure with professional assessment.
He notes the generator housing, the power distribution points, and the main electrical entry systems. I can practically see him calculating load requirements and implementation challenges.
“Generator backup systems?” he asks, though his tone suggests he’s already identified the limitations.
“Functional but limited. We’re operating essential systems only.” I keep my tone businesslike, avoiding any suggestion of desperation. “What would you require to restore full power?”
He pauses, calculating. “We’re talking about a facility that was designed to accommodate two hundred students and staff, plus all associated systems. That’s a substantial system.”
I can see him working through the technical challenges, and I appreciate the professional competence. This isn’t someone making promises he can’t deliver.
“And the cost?”
“For equipment and installation? Quarter million pounds.” His expression remains neutral, but I can see him evaluating my reaction. “But that’s not really what you’re asking, is it, Miss Corbyn-Hale?”
He’s right. This isn’t about money—it’s about establishing the terms of alliance. The Hutchinson family could afford to restore power to St. Sebastian’s as a charitable donation if they chose to. This is about what they get in return for committing their resources and expertise to our cause.
“What do you want in exchange, Mr Hutchinson?”
“Peter returns to the academy with full student status. Your operational planning includes consultation with Hutchinson’s technical expertise—not just electrical, but security systems, communications infrastructure, surveillance capabilities.
” He pauses, considering his next words carefully.
“And when this conflict resolves, the academy maintains discretionary electrical services for Hutchinson business interests.”
The last part is the real negotiation. He’s asking for future considerations—the kind of ongoing relationship that would give the Hutchinson family access to academy resources after the Graduate threat is resolved.
It’s a reasonable request, assuming I can give it to them.
Who the fuck knows what’s going to happen after the trafficking operation is taken care of?
But I lie with a smile on my face. “Of course. Peter can return immediately. I trust you will move on this rapidly.”
Hutchinson extends his hand, and we shake on the agreement. His grip is firm, professional, and I get the sense that the Hutchinson family honours their commitments. One down, ten to go.
As David Hutchinson walks back toward his vehicle, leaving Peter behind, a woman approaches from a white van. She’s dressed practically in work boots, dark jeans, and a jacket that’s seen actual use rather than fashion. A teenage girl trails behind her, looking uncertain.
“Miss Corbyn-Hale,” the woman says, her accent carrying the kind of working-class authority that comes from solving problems with practical solutions. “Sandra Walsh. This is my daughter Emma.”
I look between them, waiting. The woman seems to expect me to know who she is, but I don’t have the luxury of pretending familiarity with people I’ve never met.
“Ms Walsh,” I reply carefully.
“Water systems,” she says, getting directly down to it.
“My family handles water infrastructure for... specialised facilities. Places that need clean supply without official oversight or paper trails. From what I understand, you’ve got contamination problems. Let me be clear.
The Walsh family has been handling water systems for operations that can’t use normal municipal supplies for fifteen years.
Industrial filtration, independent wells, closed-loop systems.”
“And you want...?”
“Emma back in the academy, obviously. But more than that—we want a relationship with whatever you’re building here.”
I study them both. Emma looks competent but nervous. Sandra Walsh looks like someone who’s accustomed to being the practical solution to other people’s problems. The water contamination issue is real.
“What exactly are you offering?” I ask.
“Complete water independence,” Sandra replies immediately. “Emergency filtration systems operational within twenty-four hours. Permanent bore wells and closed-loop distribution within a week. No connection to municipal supply, no vulnerability to outside interference.”
“Emergency water systems begin immediately?”
“Team’s already staged nearby,” Sandra says with a tight smile.
As the Walshes head back toward their van, more approach. This time a stocky man followed by his son.
“Miss Corbyn-Hale,” the man says, his accent carrying undertones of Belfast and business conducted without receipts. “Chris Donovan. My son Sean.”
I wait for him to explain himself.
Donovan seems to appreciate my silent directness.
“Food supply,” he says simply. “My family handles provisioning for operations that can’t use normal suppliers.
Restaurants that aren’t in the guidebooks, facilities that need feeding without questions asked.
I understand you’re in need of resources. ”
It seems that Knight has taken it upon himself to fill these fuckers in. Makes it easier for me, though, so I’m not complaining. Much.
“And Sean’s role in this?”
“Kitchen management, supply chain optimisation, nutritional planning,” Sean replies. He looks more confident when discussing technical aspects.
I study them both. Chris Donovan has the look of someone who’s solved practical problems through applied determination rather than theoretical knowledge. Sean seems competent but uncomfortable with the family business aspects.
“What are you offering specifically?”
“Complete food independence,” Chris replies. “Fresh supplies, proper kitchen equipment, meal planning for however many people you’re housing. No reliance on external suppliers who might be compromised or pressured.”
“Timeline?”
“Emergency supplies today. Full kitchen operation within forty-eight hours. We bring our own cooks, our own equipment, and our own supply chains.” He pauses, calculating.
“Food supplies begin immediately?”
“Trucks already loaded,” Chris says.
As Donovan walks back toward his vehicle, I feel a certain satisfaction. Three essential infrastructure problems were solved through three separate family alliances. Power, water, and food—the foundations of sustainable operation.
But I’m also beginning to understand the broader pattern.
These families aren’t just seeking immediate solutions to the Graduate threat.
They’re positioning themselves for long-term relationships with whatever emerges from this conflict.
They see the academy not just as a temporary alliance, but as a potential institutional structure that could serve their interests for years to come.
Which raises the question of what exactly I’m building here, and whether I can control it once the immediate crisis passes.
Derek Knight approaches from his position near the gates, his expression suggesting he’s been monitoring the negotiations with professional interest.
“Four down,” he says quietly. “Seven to go. How are you feeling about the pattern emerging?”
“Like I’m making promises I might not be able to keep,” I reply honestly. “But we need the infrastructure, and they need the alliance. The rest we’ll figure out as we go.”
Knight nods thoughtfully. “The families are testing you, but they’re also committing real resources. That suggests they believe you can deliver on whatever you’re building here.”
“Or they believe the Graduate threat is serious enough to justify the investment regardless.”
“Probably both,” Knight says and moves off again.
I have to wonder what my dad is doing right now.
Does he know all of this is going down? Is he keeping his distance to give me the freedom to do this my way, or is there another reason?
Either way, it makes no difference. I don’t need him.
I don’t need Knight. All I need are the three guys I can trust and who have done nothing but support me.
It’s time to end these negotiations as quickly as possible so I can get back to them, to tell them how much they mean to me, to show them, and to hopefully rest for a while because tomorrow is going to bring its own shitshow. We are only just getting started.