‘But –’ and here Fletcher pointed his large nose at Tom, beetling his brows together ‘– if, whilst you are here under my guardianship over this holiday, I find any evidence of anything – anything – that might point to the truth of these rumours, I need leave you in no doubt that school rules will apply.’ He paused significantly. If his eyebrows could get any closer together, Tom thought, they might join up and become one. ‘You will be considered for expulsion.’ He let the word hang in the air. His tie flapped, as if in emphasis. ‘For the moment, though, you will be gated and can only leave the school grounds with adult’ – a word he unnecessarily stressed – ‘supervision. Last chance, Swinton. Last chance.’

Tom thought about the half bottle of whiskey that he and a friend had snuck in half a term ago one Saturday afternoon. Fletch must have smelled it on them at roll call before dinner. He gave his best ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ grin.

‘Sir – it’s the holidays. Aren’t I even allowed to go into town on my own for a kebab?’

Fletch furrowed his brow even further. ‘No, Swinton, you are not allowed to go into town for a … kebab. Go on healthy walks. Admire the rolling countryside. Perhaps even you, Tom Swinton, could find it in yourself to use the extensive sports facilities. And always, always, always sign in with me, after breakfast, at lunch, at 6.30pm and at 10.30pm. Do you understand me?’

A giggle sounded behind him, and Tom knew that the Fletcher boy was hanging about outside, listening in.

Prison wasn’t too strong a word. ‘That’s …’

‘That’s that, Master Swinton. I can’t have you causing me trouble during the holidays as well as during term time. Now I’ve got to write these bloody reports. I’ve done yours already, before you ask.’ With a gesture, he left Tom in no doubt as to the content, turning it into a dismissive motion, and Tom departed with as much dignity as he could hope to muster.

The Fletcher boy was hanging about in the corridor. Tom resisted the urge to glare at him.

He remembered the letter in his pocket and turned round to knock on the door again. Could he show it to Fletcher? It was a way out, after all.

One look at the third-former picking his nose firmed his resolve.

Chapter 3

16th April, 1846

They have many names for themselves. Sometimes they are the Storm, sometimes the Deep. When the Wildlord rides, they are the Wildmark.

— From the diary of Margaret Ravenswood

Back in the housemaster’s office, Fletcher took and read Tom’s letter carefully. ‘This looks like you concocted it in the art room.’

‘It was in my pidge, sir,’ said Tom, knowing he couldn’t tell the truth about the strange boy with his tie askew and the way that time had seemed to stop.

Had stopped.