Afterwards, still breathing heavily with the exertion, he explains it to me. That they sneaked into his room that afternoon and stole his cigarettes; that they broke one and lay it topmost, in order to let him know. He is pale with his anger. A handsome boy, always was. I run a bath for him, so he can scrub off the Soot. While he sits and soaks, I tidy the room. The cigarette case stands open. I close it and lock it away.

He does not share his cigarettes with me. Each of these, he often says to me (he likes to handle them, point with them, stab one at your face: a scarecrow’s finger, stuffed and bent, bleeding tobacco from its tip), each of these is worth two years of your salary. For five your own mother would sell you to the hangman.

I object.

I have no mother, I say.

It never fails to make us laugh.

What will you do? I ask him when I tuck him into bed. How will you punish the thieves?

Discipline, he says. A gentleman does not punish.

I wait until he falls asleep. After some time his features smooth and you can see the boy in him, one hand tucked under his cheek.

Late that night, I burn the clothes. There’s a disused kiln behind the house that’s perfect for the purpose. Mr. Spencer never wears soiled clothing. The lye, he says, makes the fabric coarse. The fire attracts birds. Rooks. My kinsmen. Cawing, they walk the perimeter of light, warming their feathers. I fall into step. They scatter when I approach, then reclaim the space as soon as I turn. It’s almost like a dance.

On the morrow, after a late breakfast, Mr. Spencer sends me to find the butler. Thorpe. Thorpe has his eyes everywhere, Mr. Spencer says. The house is his kingdom and he rules it with spies. Thorpe will know where those boys are spending their time.

Thorpe does. He tells me the boys are taking their exercise in the gym. Main house, ground floor, east wing. He is speaking for Mr. Spencer’s benefit, not mine: his eyes see through me, as through a window, to the man I represent.

I do not like Thorpe. Here’s a man who has never smoked in the company of others. A man without family or tribe.

A lonely man.

The stable hands have it different. They say he’s a man that’s buried children.

It’s an odd thing but they never say: his own.

LABORATORY

LABORATORY

Julius enters the gym while they are still warming up. He is wearing knickerbockers and a blue jersey, and soft boots that are laced above the ankle. A little towel is thrown over one shoulder.