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The other kids at school loved winter. Wealwell loved it too, but now that he was ten, he realised that he loved it... differently to them.
Wealwell loved the lights. Decorations smattered on every wall and window, badly toeing the line between gaudy and tasteful. The shortening days were made up for by candles and lightcatchers dotted all over like twinkling stars.
Classes were cut a little shorter to make time for singing, and telling festive folk stories, and crafting more decorations to put up in dorm rooms. Cards were passed and swapped, everyone in a deeply generous, contented mood.
The mess hall at boarding school was bright and warm, and one of Wealwell's favourite places to be. Sparkling silver streamers and holly wreaths sprayed with glitter caught every glint of soft candlelight. The scent of oranges and cinnamon and roasting meats drifted out from the kitchens, and the food never disappointed this time of year.
It was at dinnertime that Wealwell found himself caught off-guard. because he noticed, with a mouth full of ham and hot honey, that the conversation around him was all about,
"I can't wait to go home for the holidays!"
He was too busy eating to question it aloud, but the thought stuck to him like a fly.
Did people really think like that? Was that the main appeal of the holidays - going home?
For Wealwell - and, he'd assumed for everyone - that was the worst part. Having to pack up all his things and be driven back through foggy roads, back to the bleak manor. It had nary a light in the window, and no wreath on the door.
The inside was cold in the winter, eleven bodies not enough to warm up the big, draughty house. And Wealwell would pull his luggage upstairs by himself, for no one greeted him at the door.
Going home was miserable and boring. Where were all his friends? The fun activities and parlour games with thirty-odd people running around the hall? Samwell had a job in the city now and didn't play, and the corridors had to be kept quiet for their father anyway.
Mostly, the holidays consisted of Wealwell slinking around the house, making up his own games to pass the time between meals. He didn't mind it so much, unless Hatwell decided to pay attention to him. Then things got bad.
And he just got worse with each passing year. The little jabs and japes, Wealwell could live with, because he didn't often remember them. Getting tripped in the hallway once or twice was no big deal, but definitely a small deal at least.
But a thirteen-turning-fourteen-year-old Hatwell was growing more restless. Shoves down stairways, headlocks, snide comments, doors slammed on Wealwell's face. His personal favourite at the moment was kicks to the stomach, hard and with his shoes still on.
And their father didn't do anything about it. Why would he? What business did he have with them? Hatwell caught Wealwell crying about it once, and never let him live it down.
But the one thing Hatwell did not seem to know, was Wealwell's hiding spot. Second floor drawing room, the coat closet tucked away in the corner. It was warm, and comfortable. Dark. Lonely. Better to be alone than to deal with his family, though.
Maxwell knew about it. Hatwell had kicked him hard in the head once and made fun of him for crying. A classic Hatwell move. Welawell, who had seen from the next room, had taken Maxwell's hand and led him upstairs, and sat with him in the coat closet until he stopped crying.
There were books in there to read by the light of the crack underneath the door. Blankets and comfortable socks. A paper bag full of all the snacks Wealwell could sweet-talk off the cooks. Really, it wasn't half bad. Not much good, but the outside was worse.
And so, after five days of hair-pulling and name-calling and arm-twisting, Wealwell woke up and walked right to the drawing room.
But when he went to sit down behind all the coats, there was something in the way.
A small box, wrapped in parchment paper and stuck together a little messily. Wealwell prised off the paper as carefully as he could.
Inside were a book titled Wildlife of the Pilbian Deserts, a pack of playing cards, and half a postcard. None were brand new, and in fact may have been outright stolen.
Wealwell turned over the postcard and lowered it to the floor, to read the careful, intentional handwriting underneath the light.
Wealwell
i hope this helps to keep you busy and happy
Maxwell
Wealwell traced his fingers over the letters, beaming. If Maxwell came to hide with him later, he'd get the biggest hug.
Settling back down, blanketed by the dark and quiet, Wealwell opened the book and read about birds.