“Look, Father!” Edward beams at dinner. “I made a mini snowman!”

 His father’s spoon drops into his soup, splattering splotches against the white tablecloth.

He grins wider as he presents the snowman proudly in his palm. “Isn’t it cute?”

His father regains his composure seconds later, moving very slowly as he motions for Edward to give it to him. He does, watching carefully for his father’s approval.

“…How did you manage such a feat, Edward?”

Frowning, he pauses to think. “Um…I don’t really know. I just thought it was too hot, so I wanted something cold. Then I could see lots of weird squiggles and lines everywhere and I could sort of understand and, and… And, well,” he quiets, “I’ve always wanted to make a snowman too. I’ve seen the other kids doing it, but—”

His father nods, but the vacant look in his eyes as he stares at the un-melting mini snowman in his hands tells Edward that he isn’t really listening anymore.

“—you always tell me I can’t,” he mutters under his breath. Instead, he has to sit through a lot of classes taught by people he doesn’t know and doesn’t really care about. If that wasn’t bad enough, his father would also return at the end of the day to train him in some form of martial art that he can’t even pronounce. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t very good, honestly.

He finishes his soup in silence alongside his father. Maybe I shouldn’t have shown him—

His father reaches out and ruffles his hair, giving a small smile—it looks a little sad, but why?

“That’s remarkable, Edward.”

A small spring of joy bubbles up inside of him as he gets up suddenly. “I’ll make more! Then you won’t be sweaty in the summer. And for James too. And William. Oh, Eliza too! She’s so nice to me—”

His father chuckles before his expression settles into something more serious.

Likewise, sensing the change in mood, Edward quiets too and sits back down. His father’s gone really quiet and it makes his gut clench with anticipation…and it scares him a little, too.

His father opens his mouth to speak, but there’s a gap before any words come out. “Don’t ever do that again, Edward.”

His heart deflates as his father’s stony face cast in dying red summer sun burns harshly into his mind.

Edward’s eyes open to a draping canopy of velvet above him as his body falls back into itself. At least it feels like he was falling, which means he must’ve had one of those dreams again. Those dreams feel really important, almost as if they make him complete. They’re always really vivid, or so he thinks. But nevermind that. He groans, feeling its contents slip away the more he tries to grasp at it.

Although he can’t remember what they’re about, those dreams always leave behind a…flavour of color each time. This time, it was a hazy orange-red, sort of like sunset skies. And a feeling of gentleness that he hasn’t felt in a while. It’s kind of nice, whatever that dream was about…and soft—no wait, that’s just my pillow.

Edward turns, forcing himself to sleep and hopefully remember just what was so important that he keeps forgetting. It could be nothing at all, but it would still be nice to get rid of the niggling curiosity at the back of his mind.

Rising sunlight pierces past his closed eyes. “Ugh… Great. Thanks, Mother Nature. Can’t even sleep if I wanted to…”

Sighing, he throws the covers off.

“Good morning, young master,” one of the maids say.

“G’morning, young master.”

Another.

“Beautiful day, young master.”

And another.

Edward greets all the servants bowing at his sight. “Good morning everyone!”

They beam at him before hustling and bustling down the long halls and past the corners with various items in their arms. Folded clothes, dirty laundry, fruit baskets and vegetables in their hands, dusters and broomsticks…

Noticing William, the head butler, Edward eagerly asks running up to him, “Can I help out?”

William only smiles and dips his head. “That would be inappropriate, young master. But thank you for the offer.”

“Oh, okay,” Edward sighs.

Just as William rounds the corner, a towel drops from the laundry pile in his arms.

“William,” Edward starts, rushing after to pick it up. But before his very eyes, the towel floats up and trails off after William.

Edward’s eyes widen and he covers his mouth. No way! Sparkling excitement and fantasies of magic brim at the back of his mind. It’s happened again!

Then, he frowns, scolding himself. No, don’t even think about it.

Some topics were taboo in the Blackwood household. His father always avoided talking about anything related to his birth mother, for example.

He’s caught some impossible things happening around the manor before, but whenever he tried to ask, it always ended abruptly without any answers. His father would tell him he had to prepare for a meeting and that would be the end of it.

Edward notices the lady’s maid, Eliza, rushing down the halls with a few books under one arm and grocery bags in the other. “Eliza! Can I—”

“No,” Eliza laughs, cutting him off. “But thank you anyways.”

“Oh, come on! You didn’t even let me finish this time!” Edward whines.

“You always ask the same thing every morning, young master. It’s not difficult to guess.”

“Please? Just once. I won’t tell Father. Or Adelle.”

Eliza taps him on the nose. “You’re a very nice boy, Edward. But your father’s waiting for you downstairs. You’d best get dressed properly”—she pauses, straightening Edward’s shirt—“and meet him soon.”

Edward watches her leave along with the others. And just as soon they came, they’re gone without a trace of their vivid whirlwind colors. The glowing sunlight flickers through the tall glass windows in the silent echoing halls of Blackwood Manor, casting small rainbows across the walls.

“Better not keep Father waiting,” he mumbles, consciously patting down the wrinkles of his shirt.

Edward sighs for the fifth time this morning.

When he descends the winding staircase to the dining hall, he can already smell the warm aroma of fried eggs and bacon—and apple tart? Mentally, he thanks James for making his favorite. Humming happily as he nears the bottom, his father comes into view…

And who’s that kid? Edward blinks.

“Edward,” his father greets, smiling curtly. “I thought you’d like to meet Oscar, our newest hall boy. He’s starting today and I hope you’ll get along well.”

“It’s nice to meet you, young master,” Oscar bows before raising his head.

The first thing Edward notices is that Oscar’s at least a head taller than him. “Darn,” he mutters under his breath.

“Edward!” his father chastises.

“S-sorry!” Edward startles out of his thoughts, quickly waving in denial. “No, I mean, I didn’t mean that—” Wait. He notes the suppressed twitching at the corner of Oscar’s mouth. He’s laughing at me! Edward freezes, scandalized. He musters out a forced grin. “It’s nice to meet you too, Oscar.”

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” his father continues, putting on his long black coat. “But don’t take too much of Oscar’s time, Edward. He’s got a lot of things to do on his first day.” With that, his father leaves.

Edward turns back to Oscar, a bit of wonder in his gaze. The last hall boy that was around left as abruptly as he came. His father said something about keeping only the right kinds of people around Blackwood Manor. Whatever that meant. But all the hall boys in the past left really quickly… How long will this one last?

Oscar’s got hair almost like platinum gold compared to his own caramel, and eyes the color of cerulean skies. “He’s thin…does he eat well?”

“Please don’t worry about me, young master,” Oscar says, bowing slightly with his hand over his heart.

Oh no. I said that out loud. Oops. Edward’s mind scrambles for words. “U-uh, I meant that you could have breakfast with me if you’d like?”

“As much as I’d be honoured to, that would be inappropriate, young master.”

Oh. No. He’s already been brainwashed by William. Edward shifts uncomfortably. “Oh, okay.” Quick, think of something to say! “Uh, how old are you?” Maybe there’ll finally be somebody my age here.

“I just turned twelve.”

Edward beams. “I’m twelve too! When’s your birthday?”

“November twenty-fifth.”

“Ha! I’m older than you! Mine’s May fourteenth.” He laughs. I may be shorter than you Oscar, but I’m older! Tie. He mentally adds a point for himself.

“You’re really weird,” Oscar mumbles under his breath.

“That’s the spirit!”

Oscar’s eyes widen in equal parts terror and shock. Immediately, he bows deeply. “I-I’m sorry, young master. Please for—”

Edward hoists Oscar up, forcing him to raise his head. “Don’t worry, Oscar. It feels weird to have you speak so formally to me anyways. We’re, like, the same age.”

Oscar eyes him with suspicion.

“I’m serious,” Edward whispers conspiratorially. “I have a theory that I’m the only human living here and everyone else is just some machine that looks like a human. They go, ‘Hello, young master’, and ‘What can I do for you, young master’. All. The. Time. Like they can’t say anything else.”

Edward can tell that Oscar is judging him hard right now. The other boy’s blank stare makes Edward weep at his own social awkwardness.

“Oh, okay?” Oscar responds after a long, agonizing pause. His brows are furrowed, and he looks like he’s trying to figure out Edward’s brain.

Edward clears his throat. “W-what I meant is that it would be nice to have somebody to talk to here who doesn’t put me up on a pedestal. Just call me Edward.”

Oscar is still standing rigidly like a statue.

“When we’re alone,” Edward adds quickly. “I won’t tell anybody, and you won’t either. It’ll be our little secret. I don’t want to get you in trouble, y’know? My father can be a stickler for”—Edward quotes the air—“‘propriety’, I would know.”

Oscar’s posture relaxes slightly. “Huh, okay… Edward.”

“Yay! Okay, now have breakfast with me. James makes the best desserts in the world! Look,” Edward tells Oscar, dragging him by the sleeve to the long table behind them where the food is laid out in an elegant spread. “James made apple tarts today. These are my favorite. Here, have one!” Edward plops Oscar down in a chair beside him and hands him an apple tart.

Oscar blinks. “Uh, are you sure? You can have them if you like them so—mmph!”

Edward shoves a tart in Oscar’s mouth and watches in anticipation. Sure enough, Oscar’s eyes widen as he bites down. And then he takes another bite. And another. And another.

Wow, he really likes it, huh? Edward notes, watching his new friend chomp away at the tart. But seeing Oscar eat with such vigorousness makes him smile too. He rests his chin on his hand, utterly fascinated.

“It’s”—Oscar says between mouthfuls—“really good!” He tries to cover his mouth but is too entranced by the taste to give thought to his appearance.

“Right? I told you so. Nobody can resist James’ baking! We’re so lucky to have—” Edward stops at the sight of a glistening tear streaking down Oscar’s face. “W-woah, you okay? I mean, I know it’s good, but is it really that good?”

Oscar seems shocked as well, quickly wiping away the tear with the back of his hand. He continues munching on his tart. He’s silent for a moment. “Yeah,” Oscar whispers, so quiet that Edward would have missed it if he wasn’t expecting an answer.

It’s a strange moment for Edward too, as a warmth he’s never experienced before blossoms in his chest, welling up and threatening to spill out. Quickly, he pushes the plate of tarts closer to Oscar. “Here,” Edward blurts. “You can have all of them.”

Oscar looks at the tarts and then at Edward. And back to the tarts again. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I can get James to make these any time.”

“Then, thanks.” Oscar smiles, grabbing another apple tart.

Edward watches as a happy tinge of pink spreads across Oscar’s cheeks. The sunlight’s rainbow rays catch on one of the gold buttons of Oscar’s uniform. Edward grins. You know, I think I can give up these tarts if I can eat with Oscar every day.

Though the dining hall is empty and cavernous, Edward has to admit that the sunlight shining here is much warmer than in the hallways.

***

Alan awakens to an empty room and sunlight blinding him through the flimsy thin curtains. The ceiling rafters seem like barriers, isolating this space from the world outside. Spider webs hang at the corners of his vision. The grey paint is faded and peeling from the walls. But still, it’s much better than before. Living on the streets was much worse than this. It was dirtier, darker, and colder. And it wasn’t that long ago.

To Alan’s surprise, his clothes are laid out nicely on the other side of the bed. His brother must have been in a good mood this morning. Oscar must have passed that job interview he’s been talking about.

Buttoning up his white shirt, he searches the room for his portion of breakfast. On the table, there’s half a breadstick. It’s cool to the touch, so his brother must have left really early. Alan hungrily devours the stale bread, teeth gnawing at the tasteless sponge.

He’s still hungry.

No, I’ve eaten enough already. Don’t cause more trouble for Oscar! They don’t have money to buy more food anyways. That’s why his brother had to get a job now that he’s turned twelve. But Oscar could just keep on—

Alan cuts off his darkening thoughts, wishing in his heart of hearts that he could grow up faster so he can help.

He can’t impose on the nice landlady that let them stay here for free, either. What if she kicked them out? Or rather, he still doesn’t understand why she doesn’t demand payment from them. From what he’s seen, London isn’t cheap, and most adults couldn’t care less about street kids.

Alan pulls apart the curtains, letting more sunlight into the room. He’s just tall enough to peek out the window. The sight of the late morning sun behind the low hanging buildings and distant shipyards makes his eyes widen in wonder. People and families with children fill the wide streets below, some hastily moving about while others walk at a leisurely pace.

Alan watches for a while, turning his back on the silence of the small room. Then, he drags over a step stool and climbs on it. Finally, he can reach the window’s handles. Red marks on his neck jut out against the scenery in the reflection. Subconsciously, a hand reaches up to cover them. Alan twists the metallic knobs, pushing the glass pane outwards.

The noise of the city pours in along with the thick musk of the sea and smog.

“Much better,” he laughs, resting his head on his palms. He gazes longingly at the perfect world outside his little room. “Blackwood Manor... Sounds fancy. Do you like it there, Oscar?”

The only response is the wailing of seagulls masking his own hungry growls.