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interrogations.
    The rector’s question-and-answer sessions could last long into the night; on one famous occasion he worried the sun back into the sky. The focus of the inquiry was always the same. Will. The will of God and the will of His creation. Tristan was sure there were only so many ways the paradox could be approached but the rector was indefatigable. The puzzle of time, the mystery of creation, the problem of evil, the enigma of knowledge, the state of the soul, the vexations of probability theory or the nature of God’s grace, all reduced to a single question. What does it mean, in a world of God’s creation, that man is free to choose between the paths of good and evil? This was not, to the rector’s mind, an unanswerable question, but as he never tired of reminding them, neither was it a simple one. The truth he taught them was infinitely subtle and could be approached only through a lifetime of contemplation.
    Tristan loved the cut and thrust of the rector’s arguments and the giddy moments when the beginning of understanding would writhe and rise within, lured to the surface by a perfectly weighted question. Tristan tried hard not to stand out during these sessions, but it was clear he was one of the top students. Although the other boys did not punish him for his abilities they never forgave him his lowly origins. No amount of schooling could match the sense of social superiority every true collegian learned on his parents’ knees.
    Tristan became a distant planet orbiting the greater social mass, pulled and pulling, and an uneasy balance was established. He did not complain. Every day he gave thanks for the circumstances that had brought him to St Augustine’s. And every night he remembered his father. Although he missed him, Tristan learned to keep his feelings at a proper distance. Restraint, the brothers taught them, was the most noble of the male graces. Once, in a moment of unguarded pride, Tristan boasted that he would never cry again.
    But he cried on the day they delivered word of his father’s death. The rector broke the news himself, kneeling quietly beside the confused boy, trapping him at his pew as the other boys filed out of the chapel.
    â€˜Stay a while longer, Tristan.’
    Tristan’s heart thumped in fear, although he could not think what it was he was about to be punished for.
    â€˜Have I done something wrong?’ he asked. He was eleven years old then, a child set on becoming a man.
    â€˜There are only two who can answer that question,’ the rector replied, ‘and I am not one of them. Have you stumbled, Tristan?’
    â€˜No, rector, I do not think I have.’
    â€˜Well then you have no reason to blame yourself, Tristan. But remember, all but the first mover has its cause. Now, let us bow our heads and give thanks for your father’s life.’
    With those words a great crack opened up in Tristan’s life. He knelt on the cold stone floor while his entire past was sucked into the void. He was an orphan now with no place left to stand.
    Through the roar of confusion he heard the rector’s mumbled supplications, and through his shock Tristan realised his own lips were also moving, giving thanks although he felt no gratitude. A lump grew in his throat, as solid and certain as the thought that greeted it. I should remember this moment, he told himself. Nothing in my life will ever matter more than this. He was wrong.
    It came to him two years later. The night began like any other, with the rector leading the boys in an interrogation. It was normal for the rector to single out one of the boys for particular attention and this night it was Tristan’s turn. Tristan parried the early challenges, hoping the rector might lose interest and seek a softer target, but the rector kept coming.
    â€˜Is it enough to intend to change one’s ways,’ the rector asked, ‘or must we wait until the test of the future has been