There are many things I hate about myself. And the sole reason for my hatred is the fragile control I possess over them. One of those things was anger and for not having the power to stop my brain from plotting strategies of ravishing and humiliating the source of my fury until they developed the habit of waking up screaming at my sight in their dreams.

  I had returned to my room, and the sight of my warm bed made my blood boil. I paced to the window and flung it open, letting in the bone-chilling wind of winter. I was trying my best to cool the fire in my veins; that was why I had taken the path through the garden, to be exposed to the elements. I stood at the window for fifteen minutes before moving to my study table where a glass of water sat. I picked it up and poured it all over my head.

  I let the cold water wash over me. My hair got drenched, and the trail ran from my wet shoulders down to my abdomen—all was soaked. I put the glass down beside my silver spectacles and returned to the window. My thoughts moved like a whirlwind, all leading to how precisely I could cut up Graves into a disdainful, humiliating mess. I stood there until my teeth started to clatter and my jaw tightly clenched. It was a long night.

  Morning arrived. When Zephyr entered the philosophy class, her skin was paler than usual, her nose tipped with a feverish red. She had missed the morning’s first two lectures. I sat in my usual front-row seat, watching her. Her presence did not trigger a fresh burst of fury; I had already spent the night picturing her a thousand times, screaming and begging at my feet. But my calm was pragmatic. Efficiency and control demand perfect timing.

  She took the seat beside me, separated only by the mentor’s aisle. Sterling entered moments later.

  “Oof! What has happened to you both?” Sterling cried softly, looking between us. “You look like vampires, hungry for blood!”

  I had a fever of my own, but I remained silent, refusing to acknowledge his jest or the bubbling bile within me. Graves was equally stoic.

  “Tell me, Graves, what happened?” Sterling pressed.

  “It is the weather, Sir,” she replied, her voice hoarse from coughing. “I apologize for causing you concern.”

  “And you, Markwood?”

  “The weather has turned chilly. Nothing more,” I replied, leaning back with practiced simplicity.

  “Take care of yourselves,” Sterling addressed the class. “It is an ill thing to be sick so far from home.”

  The topic was Epicureanism. Sterling adjusted his desk lamp, his smile electric. “I have read your essays on Stoicism. I was delighted by the depth of your labor. “Especially you, Ms. Graves. It’s a shame you are unwell. I really wanted to discuss this next topic notably with you. I have a hunch that you will associate with it.”

  “The sickness of my body has not reached my mind yet, Sir,” the dark whiskey-eyed replied, mirroring his smile. “But I am afraid to inform you that, by personal regard, I thoroughly dislike this philosophy.”

  The same smile that made my eyes see red in the garden and library crept onto her lips.

  ”What about you, Ms. Beauregard? Do you know about Epicureanism?”

  That blonde girl was sitting just behind me.

  “Epicureanism tells us to find tranquility by doing whatever we want to do and by desisting from pain or fear. But I think it will only lead to a world where there will be no passion, but the silence of never-ending peace.”

  It was the first time I saw that expression on Zephyr's face. She listened to the words coming from behind her without moving her eyes, as if the voice were a soothing melody from the walls. Then, Graves turned her face. Which at first I thought was turning toward me, but she looked past me at the source of the words. Her breath hitched. Her eyes dazed—opened wider than usual, so I could see that faint speck of pigment within the white of her left eye. She was captivated by Beauregard appearance.

  Why? I thought. Are you that hungry for empathy? Are you so starved for beauty that any blonde girl can bewitch you? My head feverishly started to hurt as if struck by needles. I had to strain my eyes through my spectacles.

  “Silence of never-ending peace?” Sterling asked.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Yes,” the blonde girl replied. “Without passion there is only silence. More like just dead, but not decaying. Yet.”

  Graves bowed her head, a soft, private smile touching her exhausted features. I felt a renewed urge to pour a glass of cold water over her head too. She clearly needed to mind her manners.

  It was 1:03 AM when I woke and went for a walk. I had slept since 4:00 PM due to the fever. Now, I felt a lingering weakness, but my mood was no better. Due to some vex sensations, I went to the rear garden, half out of curiosity and half for confirmation.

  There she was, near the orchid beds. I walked toward her, my breath calm under the November moon. When I was fifty steps away, I observed she had a book. Suddenly she turned her head back. To my shock, she recognized me and ran toward me.

  “Markwood!” she shouted lightly.

  I stayed silent, just raising an eyebrow at her manner.

  “I was waiting for you. I wished to speak with you,” she said in an unlikely soft tone.

  I did not answer; I just dissected her with my gaze.

  “First, I want to say that I apologize for my behavior. I was being insolently rude. I know an apology cannot reconstruct what I have shamelessly demolished, yet I beg for your forgiveness.” She spoke with unfeigned sincerity. “And I want to thank you.”

  A smile crept on her lips. But not for me.

  “When I went to my room after acting arrogant with you, My heard started to hurt and my whole body ached. This whole scenario made my heart painfully perplexed. I don’t like to be ill. So, I started to think where did I went wrong in the whole day. And then I realized my incivility with you. Deep remorse shackled me, and I vowed never to do that again. After sleeping, I felt better and decided to attend class.” Her breath hitched again. “I think because I pledged to be better, I was rewarded.”

  She sighed with pleasure. “This is the mathematics course book referenced by Sterling. It has not reached Bristol yet, but I got it as a gift from my brother. It’s new and untouched. I want to offer this to you as a souvenir of my apology. Kindly accept it.”

  I was so surprised my hand involuntarily reached for the book—not to accept, but to confirm this wasn't a dream.

  “Have a good night, Markwood,” she said, passing me.

  “What reward?” I called out.

  She turned with a smile of the soul. “A glance of beauty.”

  The fury I had suppressed all day exploded. “So, you are a homosexual, Ms. Graves?” My voice was icy and sharp.

  “What?” she cried in shock.

  ”I can’t see any other cause of you being a drooling mess in the classroom and a moonstruck lover right now for one of your female peers.”

  “You are being extremely uncivil, Mr. Markwood!”

  “Am I? Should I too vow to be better otherwise I shall face divine punishment and get struck by a fever? Because if I behave, I can be rewarded just like you.” I spat my words laced with venom.

  “Markwood!” she warned, her eyes flashing.

  I took a step forward, leaning into her space with a brittle, mocking smirk. “Do you not want me to nip the newly formed bud of your first love story?”

  I expected a slap. She seemed to consider it too. It would have been better. Predictable and controlled. But then, her rage vanished, replaced by an unsettling, calm amusement.

  “Did I really look like I was drooling? Do you think anyone else noticed?” she asked, her expression smoothing into a mask of terrible awareness.

  I remained silent. She would have been a devilish vixen as an animal. It was futile to battle her like this from the start.

  “I am sorry for once again getting angry,” a soft smile came on her lips. “I was under the impression that you were accusing me and my visions deliberately even after knowing my ideologies and passion. But then I remembered—how could you ever know the difference between captivation and love? What is beauty and how pleasure works? Of course in the true meaning and not just biological facts.”

  She turned her head away. “But still, I am disappointed.”

  And then turned that innocently mocking gaze back to me: “Yet you can’t blame a wise man for being oblivious.”

  “Disappointed?” I repeated, with a small grin showing my teeth and twin dimples. This was better than the cold water for replacing my anger by a sharp, lethal anticipation “It does not suit an uncertain person to be disappointed by others.”

  “You appear to detest uncertainty, Markwood.”

  “It’s one of the things most detested by me.”

  “Then should I share a question with you? I am sure you would have a certain answer, but don’t give it to me now. I want you to think.”

  “Go ahead. And I am going to keep this book.”

  “It’s yours. And the question is: ‘Is it beauty which makes you fall in love?’”

  “And when shall I answer it?”

  “When you have a certain answer, you will know the time.” She yawned. “Good night then, Markwood.”

  I watched her walk away, a quiet animation taking hold of me. She was captivated by the blonde, yes—but she had not defended her. She was not beholden to her. The thought sent a rush of satisfaction through my veins.

  I had been handed a new equation, one far more exquisite than anything I had encountered in the life I had lived until now, or in all of Sterling’s dusty texts. It was a puzzle of dark whiskey eyes and deceptive smiles—a fascinating, dangerous thing—and I would not rest until I had dismantled it piece by piece to find its absolute, shivering truth.

  Author's note:

  This is my first attempt at a Classical Narrative, a story bound strictly by the shadows and rigid laws of the 19th Century.

  To a modern reader, Markwood’s accusation in the garden might seem like a sharp insult; however, in the 1800s, it was a lethal threat. Homosexuality was not only a social "shame" but a serious criminal offense under the law. By accusing Graves of such "deviancy," Markwood is testing his power to utterly destroy her life and reputation. Furthermore, the Epicurean and Stoic philosophies discussed in class were often viewed with suspicion by the conservative elite, as they favored personal pleasure or internal logic over traditional religious morality.

  To those navigating the 18th-century rot with me: Which schedule best suits your descent?