Wilberforce Read Online Free PDF Page A

quad. The House windows glowed, laughter leaked from some raucous study, and puddles lurked in darkness, threatening to tip him arse over elbow onto the cobblestones. He felt feeble, and cold. Alone and half disarmed, he sensed in the quad something sinister, akin to the thing that had attended him in the Tower. But the Tower was already in the past. He was dressed and breathing ordinary air. He did not believe in ridiculous things.
    Footsteps announced Colin slipping out of the gatehouse. Seeing Morgan, he flinched but recovered directly:
    â€”Ah, young Wilberforce. Back from the grave?
    â€”Reports of my death—
    â€”Exaggerated, it would seem.
    Colin crammed a bulky item into his jacket. It was an open secret that Colin and his studymate operated a distillery in their study, one allowed to prosper because they provided liberal samples to the prefects of the JCR.
    â€”Supplies? Morgan asked.
    â€”Nose out, Wilber. What’d you do to the wing anyhow?
    â€”Nothing much. Should be back on form for the Fleas next week.
    â€”Don’t be funny.
    â€”Matron isn’t in charge of the XV, Morgan declared.
    Colin exhaled derisively and headed toward the cloisters.
    â€”What’s that supposed to mean? Morgan said.
    â€”Talk to Barlow.
    â€”I will not talk to Barlow.
    Their so-called Captain of Games was the most unworthy specimen to have held the post in the history of the school. Morgan spoke with him as little as possible, and when he did, most of his energy went to stopping himself saying inflammatory things.
    â€”Spill it, Morgan said, before I get interested in your supplies.
    Colin sighed:
    â€”Barlow’s put Darke in for you.
    Darke was in the Fifth, a part of their circle but no friend of Morgan’s. Morgan and Nathan were the only Fifth Formers on Hazlehurst’s XV, and only just appointed. Of course, Darke would have been waiting to usurp Morgan’s place.
    â€”Barlow can bloody well take Darke out again. I’m playing.
    â€”You might want to keep that to yourself, Colin told him. People are already saying you’ve gone off your dot.
    â€”Does Spaulding say that?
    â€”What’s it to you what Spaulding says?
    They turned into the cloisters, a ghost of a grin on Colin’s mouth.
    â€”Look, Morgan said, sod off.
    The grin materialized:
    â€”Here is me, sodding off. Off I sod. Enjoy your chat with Barlow.
    With that, Colin exited to the classrooms, leaving Morgan alone beside the chapel. His heart pounded beneath the sling. He was supposed to be returning to ordinary life, not dealing with snags ninety seconds after escaping the Tower. People said all sorts of things about him, but normally they did not impugn his sanity. Presumably they questioned his tackle of Spaulding, which might have been quixotic, depending on one’s point of view. He’d own quixotic. He’d even own reckless. But off his dot? Luckily, such an attitude could be vanquished as soon as he played again; unluckily, that would involve shouting sense into Barlow, sod him.
    And if Barlow’s idiocy weren’t snag enough, there was Colin, the central telephone exchange of the Academy. What he said, everyone said. The unwarranted smirk advertised Colin’s doubt: that Morgan’s tackle was perhaps not a failed act of heroism but rather a disordered attempt to throw himself at Spaulding. Throw himself literally and publicly at a boy from another House and year, a boy who possibly didn’t even know Morgan’s name before the tackle (though he did now!). This snag—unfair and untrue—needed unsnagging before it went any further. He swore and went after Colin.
    In the lower corridor, Colin was ducking into the Fifth’s empty form room. It hurt too much to jog—spite and malice—and by the time Morgan got there, Colin was disappearing into the cupboard. Morgan navigated the unlit room without falling over but found, upon reaching the cupboard,