Chapter 1
A not very special boy
Mrs Catalyn Crawford of 16 Chestnut Avenue was about as fine as the middle class would allow. She had been a widow for six years following a brief marriage to the director of one of Birmingham’s leading textile factories and now lived as a proud woman in her prime.
Every weekday morning around half past seven, her respectable middle-class car would pull up in front of St. Peter’s Academy.
From the front passenger seat emerged a tall, handsome boy with a sharp jawline, his fine shirt neatly tucked into his linen trousers, and his blond hair immaculately combed.
This was Stephen Crawford—Mrs Catalyn’s cherished son—who was always sent off with a warm, motherly kiss planted on his already apple-red cheek.
From the back seat on the right, a slightly smaller boy would step out. His hair was dark as liquorice, and his eyes, blue as azurite, lent a quiet gentleness to his expression.
Unlike the prominent boy in the front seat, this one was sent off with a modest smile.
This was Varyn—Stephen’s cousin.
Varyn’s surname was Stone, after his mother, and he had lived with his aunt and cousins since he was barely five years old.
He knew little about his parents—only that his mother, Catalyn Crawford’s younger sister, had died giving birth to him, and that his father, whoever he might have been, had remained so absent that no memory of him lingered to stain the family name.
After dropping off her prince and his cousin at school, Mrs Crawford would continue on to the reputable financial firm Barclay & Finch Associates, where she served as senior secretary to Mr Brown, the firm’s top executive.
Mr Brown was a stocky man with a slightly curled moustache, and the ever-reverent Mrs Crawford naturally knew which buttons to press to secure his favour—and perhaps a particularly generous Christmas bonus.
Despite her unwavering pride, Catalyn was willing to do whatever it took to secure a princely life for Stephen and his older brother, James—and managed to provide a reasonably acceptable one for her dark-haired nephew as well.
At home, Varyn had a fairly decent room on the first floor at the end of the hallway, next to the bathroom, though of course it did not quite match the elegance of his cousin’s.
Last year, James had been admitted to King’s Crest Academy—the finest boarding school in the region. This alone had elevated him to near-sainthood within the Crawford household.
A sainthood, it was said, supported by a grade point average likely a bit lower than what Catalyn reported to her social circle.
But with James no longer living at home, Catalyn could now lavish all her affection on her darling youngest—and, on special occasions, allow a little of it to spill over onto her nephew.
Varyn found himself in no position to complain.
He had always longed for the kind of parental connection other children seemed to have, but his aunt gave him more than could reasonably be expected for an orphan.
Though most of his belongings were hand-me-downs from his cousins, he always had clean, appropriate clothes to wear, enough food in his stomach, and a room decorated with the toys he had received on his birthdays.
Aunt Catalyn rarely scolded him—as long as he behaved properly and refrained from trying too often to take the ball from his cousin during football matches.
She made sure Varyn felt reasonably accepted—but just as surely, she made certain he never felt quite special. Whenever he came home with a C on his tests, she was quick to assure him it was an excellent grade—at least by his standards.
What she never considered telling him, however, was where not only his own school fees came from, but also those of his cousin.
When Catalyn had agreed to take care of Varyn, she had also accepted responsibility for managing the rather generous inheritance his mother had left him—an inheritance meant to be passed on once he came of age. That particular detail, however, she had quietly chosen never to mention—despite the gratitude she expected in return for everything he was given.
Today marked the first true highlight of the year. It was April 17th—Cousin James’s birthday.
On this occasion, James returned home for the weekend, and Aunt Catalyn had naturally decorated the villa for a royal celebration befitting the return of her glorious son.
James, clearly eager to match his surroundings, had refined his vocabulary in a somewhat forced manner—graciously thanking everyone for the fine gifts that now suited his more noble character.
‘I think you’ve had enough, young man,’ said Aunt Catalyn as Varyn rose to get another soda—just like Stephen, who had already had three. ‘There must be something left for the others as well.’
Varyn nodded, slightly embarrassed, while the others watched in silence, their glances quietly disapproving.
‘Since you’re done,’ Catalyn continued, ‘why don’t you be a good lad and go check the mail?’
The mail? A flicker of excitement rushed through Varyn’s veins. Of course—how could he forget? Today might very well be the big day—when he and Stephen would receive their school admission letters.
He could not help but wonder if Aunt Catalyn had timed the moment deliberately as an extra highlight of the celebration. With nerves rising, he made his way toward the mailbox.
He did not need the best of the best. If he could just get into a place like Northborough or Southmere Secondary, he would be more than grateful.
With hands that were almost trembling, he scanned the addresses on the stack of letters as he made his way back to the large banquet table in the living room.
When he reached the bottom of the pile, he examined them again—more carefully this time—until he stood directly in front of the table.
‘Alright, let’s have them,’ said Aunt Catalyn with an expectant smile, taking the letters from Varyn’s hands.
It almost looked as though she already knew that none of them were addressed to him.
‘Where’s mine? Where’s mine?’ Stephen cried impatiently, snatching the letters from his mother’s hands.
Catalyn merely smiled appreciatively at her darling son’s enthusiasm.
Stephen tore open his envelope like a fat child devouring his goodie bag, his eyes glued to the letter inside.
‘YES!’ he shouted, jabbing Varyn in the ribs with his elbow as he turned to boast. ‘Look, Mum! I’ve been accepted to Beaumont Manor!’
Catalyn clapped her hands in affectionate delight—as if it were an outcome she had long anticipated.
James offered his younger brother a mature, satisfied handshake.
Varyn, however, caught the flicker of scorn in his cousin’s eyes as James turned to him and asked:
‘What about you? Haven’t you been accepted anywhere?’
Everyone present fell silent and turned their eyes toward the speechless Varyn.
The quiet hung in the air, interrupted only by the sound of Catalyn’s very large little brother, Earnest, breathlessly chewing his way through the defenceless vanilla wreaths.
‘Well,’ said Varyn, scratching his neck. ‘I suppose my letter hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘What letter?’ asked Catalyn.
Varyn frowned.
‘My admission letter.’
Aunt Catalyn offered him a closed-lipped smile.
’Oh, don’t be like that, Varyn. Of course you’ll get into the perfect school for you—but that doesn’t require a letter. The Municipal Militia School always has room for a tenacious boy like you.′
‘The Municipal Militia School?’ Varyn asked quietly. ‘But… but you’ve always said it was a terminus for untalented children with poor parents.’
Stephen and James exchanged glances, both trying not to laugh.
‘Oh, enough of that nonsense,’ Aunt Catalyn said, her tone abruptly sharper as she turned to ask which guests would be staying for tea.
The guests resumed their conversations, as if Varyn had now said enough. But Varyn was far from ready to accept the idea of attending the Municipal Militia School.
‘I don’t want to go to that school,’ he said.
Aunt Catalyn turned to him with an expression of outrage—but before she could respond, Varyn’s older and ever-perfect cousin James stepped in.
‘How dare you show such despicable ingratitude after everything our mother has done for you?’ he said. ‘You should have the decency to play the cards you’ve been dealt, rather than flaunting your petty, self-centred hunger to steal today’s attention for yourself.’
Uncle Charles took a sip of his tea and turned his long face away from Varyn in quiet contempt for his audacity. Varyn felt so angry, so disappointed, so humiliated, that a single tear threatened to surface.
But he would not give in—not with the way his aunt was now looking at him. The next sign of insolence, he knew, would send him straight to his room.
Around him, the conversations resumed—especially between his cousins, who chattered loudly about fine schools and bright futures.
Varyn said nothing. He simply turned and walked toward his chamber.
The further he went, the heavier his steps grew, until he reached the edge of his bed and threw himself down with a muffled scream of rage into his pillow.
When the worst of the tearful anger had passed, he lay still, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed, lost in thought.
Oh, how he hated the idea of going to that dreadful school.
He had already heard enough ominous rumours about the place—especially from Red Henry’s older brother, Mathias, who spoke of it like some arena for vile tyrants.
All of Varyn’s hopes for the future now lay in ruins. And when the guests had finally gone home, he was expected to go downstairs and humbly apologise to Cousin James for having made such an ungracious scene on his birthday.
The rest of the summer at 16 Chestnut Avenue was hard to enjoy—unless you were Catalyn or Stephen Crawford.
For them, the remainder of the holidays felt like one long continuation of Christmas Day, wrapped in chronic self-satisfaction.
Nearly every morning, Stephen could be found standing with his chin held high, admiring the sight of himself in the mirror—his broad jaw set proudly beneath the crisp collar of his new school uniform—while Aunt Catalyn lingered in the doorway, one arm folded as she admired her son.
Then she would prepare a few scones with clotted cream and jam—or whatever His Lordship requested—before he trotted off to brag to his mates at the football field. Varyn, on the other hand, spent most of his time trying to distance himself from his spoiled cousin—mentally rewriting the story of what lay ahead.
While the thought of the Municipal Militia School did not exactly give him butterflies, he eventually managed to frame it as something vaguely cool—at least when speaking to his friend Red Henry and Henry’s older sister, June, who lived just down the road.
‘Yeah, like they’re accepting kids into the army,’ said June, circling them on her bike, her classic bowl cut bouncing with each turn.
Varyn admitted he probably would not be going to war just yet—but he would definitely be trained for it. Still, he had to acknowledge that his noble, greasy cousin Butter-Hair had been right, despite all his arrogance. He had to play the cards he had been dealt, and before he knew it, summer was nearly over—at least for those who were bound for the Municipal Militia School.
‘What time is the taxi coming?’ Varyn asked.
Now that his departure for the Municipal Militia School was imminent, he felt oddly eager to get going—though it was clear his aunt was not really listening. Stephen’s new cufflinks were, apparently, far more important.
At last, the taxi pulled up outside the house.
‘So, this is it,’ Varyn said, grabbing his backpack in a quick, purposeful motion. Aunt Catalyn rose from her chair.
‘Hold on,’ she said, rummaging through her purse as she approached.
She placed a ten-pound note in his palm and gave him a closed-lipped smile.
‘That should cover the cab. Now pop it in your envelope and give your auntie a hug.’
Varyn gave her a grateful hug.
‘Thanks, Aunt Catalyn.’
‘Now make sure to be a good lad and behave-’
‘Come on, Mother!’ Stephen cut in, tugging at her clothes. ‘I’m thirsty!’
The front door closed right in Varyn’s face, and a new chapter lay at his feet. When he reached the taxi, he turned for one last glance at the house. No one stood there waving, but through the kitchen window, he could just make out Stephen, on the verge of tears because his lemonade was not sweet enough.
‘Off we go, lad,’ said the taxi driver, tossing in his backpack.
The engine rattled like a French bulldog with smoker’s lungs. Varyn leaned back with a sigh. Surely the Municipal Militia School could not be that bad.
