Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

WRITERS NOTE

< This story features a minor cross-over with the game Assassin’s Creed - more precisely some of the concepts and factions within it.

Familiarity with it is not necessary to read this story, but it might add extra context. This is not posted in the cross-overs section because it would severely limit its visibility. >

Peaceful places often hide the deepest secrets.

Avonlea, it turned out, was no exception.

The train hissed and shuddered to a halt at Bright River station, its steel wheels groaning under the weight of the journey. It was half-past five in the afternoon, the late summer sun still high. As the doors creaked open, passengers spilled out like water from a cracked dam, eager to escape the stifling heat within.

Among the last to emerge was a boy of fifteen, dragging two worn trunks that seemed far too large for his frame. His face was flushed, his breath shallow, and his sandy blond hair—tousled and stubborn—kept falling into his eyes.

Behind him came a man, older - grey at the temples, face weathered, one hand gripping a crutch as he limped forward with thinly veiled impatience.

“Do get on with it, Thomas,” the man urged, voice roughened with fatigue. “We haven’t the luxury of time.”

Thomas gritted his teeth and hauled the trunks onto the platform, the muscles in his arms taut with effort. His father paused only long enough to sweep the platform with a practiced wariness, as though each passerby might pose a hidden threat, before continuing on without so much as a backward glance.

Left alone, Thomas allowed himself a moment. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, breathing in the humid air, thick with the scent of warm iron, dust, and distant hayfields. 

But the moment’s peace didn’t last.

One of the trunks toppled over, jarring against the wood of the platform.

“Oh! I’m sorry—terribly sorry!”

The voice was light and breathless and entirely unprepared. 

He turned.

There, crouched beside the fallen trunk, was a girl. She looked to be his age, maybe younger, with wild red hair gathered into two thick braids that bounced against her shoulders. Her dress was plain, her boots scuffed, and her freckled face was flushed from the heat or embarrassment - or both.

“I didn’t see you—I wasn’t—” she stammered, fumbling for the handle of the trunk.

She glanced up at him then, and for the briefest instant, their eyes met. Hers were a sharp, unguarded blue - vivid and too bright for the dull tones of the station. 

And then she was gone - murmuring another apology and darting off toward the station doors, the red of her hair like a ribbon weaving through the muted browns and greys of the other travelers.

He watched her go, blinking once, his brows slightly raised. But the moment passed just as quickly as it had come, and the crowd had already swallowed her up.

“Thomas!”

The voice snapped like a whip through the din of the station. His father was already waiting at the front, standing beside a horse-drawn wagon with the same sour impatience etched into his face.

Thomas hoisted the luggage into the back and climbed onto the seat beside him without a word. The wagon lurched forward with a creak, wheels crunching over gravel, and together they disappeared down the long dirt lane.

The journey was quiet, save for the occasional distant bark of a dog or the lowing of cattle in the fields. Thomas sat with his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The sun had begun its slow descent behind them, casting the landscape in amber hues. 

Six miles passed in that wordless quiet before his father finally spoke.

“Not far now,” the man said, his eyes on the road ahead. “This place is called Avonlea.”

A noncommittal grunt was all Thomas could muster in response.

“There’s a small manor by the creek,” his father went on, tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “It belonged to my uncle once, before misfortune befell him. It’ll do for now.”

Thomas’s eyes flicked briefly to the side, then back to the road. “I suppose it’s too late to get back on the train,” he said flatly.

His father’s jaw tightened. “You forget yourself, Thomas,” he said, his voice turning cold, brittle. “You know quite well we have no other choice.”

Thomas sighed. “You’re right, father. My apologies.”

But the words rang hollow in his mouth, an echo of old lessons drilled too deep to forget. The countryside, while not unpleasant, failed to stir anything in him. It felt like a painting he had seen too many times - rolling pastures, thin lines of trees, the shapes of farmhouses smudged by distance. The same world, only quieter.

Still, the quiet was a mercy. Silence, at least, asked nothing of him.

It wasn’t long before the village of Avonlea came into view.

Tucked among sloping hills and golden fields, it was a modest place. Neatly kept fences bordered quiet homesteads, and narrow dirt roads wound between them like threads stitching the community together. A scattering of chimneys sent wisps of smoke curling into the late afternoon air.

As they passed through the heart of town, Thomas’s father pointed out various households and landmarks, naming names as though he belonged here - though as far as Thomas knew, they had never once set foot in the place.

“The Barrys live there,” he said, nodding toward one of the households. “The Gillis place is just past that bend. And that one… that one belongs to the Cuthberts.”

Thomas barely registered the words. He stared ahead, his thoughts elsewhere. A flicker of unease passed through him. How did his father know so much about this place? And more importantly - why had he never mentioned it before?

Soon they veered off the main road and followed a narrow trail running beside a shallow creek. The trees pressed closer here, filtering the sunlight into golden fragments that danced across the wagon’s path. After a time, the woods opened up into a small clearing.

There, perched at the highest point of the slope, stood the manor.

It wasn’t grand—not in the way Thomas imagined manors should be—but it was taller than the farmhouses they had passed, with a gabled roof and broad porch. The white paint on its clapboard siding had begun to peel, exposing pale grey wood beneath. Time had gnawed at the place, but it remained standing, stubborn and silent. Beside it, the stable was intact, but bore the wear of long seasons without care.

“Charming,” Thomas muttered as they approached, his tone dry. “If you’re into rot and regret.”

His father ignored the remark. He guided the horse to a stop and swung his bad leg down with a groan, steadying himself on the crutch as he landed. Thomas followed, dragging the trunks and casting a slow glance around the property.

The place looked as though it had been waiting for years for someone to return - and now regretted it.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dust and old wood. The front door opened with a long creak, revealing a narrow hallway and a kitchen beyond, anchored by a large stone hearth that hadn’t seen fire in years. A draft stirred from somewhere unseen, and a chill chased up Thomas’s spine.

To the right, a stairwell climbed upward into shadow.

His father made for the table and lowered himself into one of the chairs with a tired grunt. He gestured loosely toward the stairs. “Take our things up. Choose a room for yourself.”

His voice was quieter now, but still carried the weight of command. “There’s much to be done. We mustn’t delay.”

Thomas didn’t argue. He reached for the trunks, his muscles aching from the weight of too many days like this one. He began the slow climb up the staircase, counting the steps out of habit. 

Twenty-one. The nineteenth groaned under his heel.

At the top, the hallway stretched before him - long and silent, lined with closed doors. 

One by one, he opened them. Some rooms were clearly untouched - blankets still folded, curtains drawn. Others looked as though someone had left in a hurry years ago, drawers half-open, a chair knocked slightly askew.

Eventually, he found a corner room that felt... tolerable. It overlooked both the front yard and the stable, and from the second window, he could just make out the winding creek behind the house, glinting softly in the late light.

It wasn’t much.

But it would do.

Before Thomas could even reach for the latches on his trunk, the door creaked open behind him.

His father stepped into the room with little ceremony, casting a cursory glance at the furnishings before settling his gaze on his son.

“We’ll need to remain here for some time,” he said. “Long enough to make this place livable again… and to be sure we weren’t followed.”

Thomas straightened slightly, his expression tightening.

“We’ve been in the clear for three months now, no?” Thomas asked. “The last two places were quiet. You laid false leads in both, didn’t you?”

His father crossed the room in measured steps and came to a stop by the window, resting one hand on the sill as he peered out toward the trees.

“Quiet doesn’t mean safe,” he said, after a pause. “They have patience, Thomas. We can’t afford to be careless now.”

Thomas didn’t argue. He knew better. Still, the weight of it settled in his chest like a stone.

After a pause, his father continued, “Once the manor’s in working shape and I’m confident we’re in the clear, you’ll begin attending the local school.”

That made Thomas glance up. “Any particular reason why?”

His voice was neutral, but laced with quiet suspicion. He’d been in and out of schools before - never long enough to make friends, never long enough to matter. Most of his learning had come from books and the occasional lesson by firelight, courtesy of his father. The idea of walking into a classroom here, of pretending to belong, filled him with a vague unease.

His father turned slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Because the less suspicion we draw, the better. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Thomas didn’t speak right away. The answer was obvious, and pointless. He studied the face before him - worn, rigid, always calculating.

He let out a quiet breath. “Of course.”

His father gave a curt nod, as though checking off a box.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’ll need to step up. I wish it were otherwise, but...”

He glanced down at his crippled leg—just briefly—before his gaze drifted back toward his son. “You know the road ahead won’t be easy.”

It might have been a statement. Or a warning. Or a question.

But Thomas wasn’t really listening anymore. His eyes had wandered to the same window his father had just stood at, to the glimpse of creek beyond the clearing.

When he looked back up, the doorway was empty. His father had left without another word, footsteps fading down the stairs until only the silence remained.

After unpacking what little he had left, Thomas descended the stairs and stepped outside into the hush of early evening. The air was cooler than it had been earlier - still warm, but edged now with the sharpness that hinted at autumn.

He made his way toward the stable first, ducking his head beneath the low arch of the door. The air inside was stale with old straw and dust.

It was more or less what he’d expected.

A workshop stood at the far end, tucked behind a weather-worn door that groaned on its hinges. Inside, he found a scattering of half-forgotten tools - some rusted, others still sharp. It looked as if someone had once begun repairs, or perhaps preparations, only to abandon them halfway through.

Drawn by the distant sound of running water, Thomas turned toward the creek that curled along the edge of the treeline. The grass thinned as he approached, and soon the forest canopy opened above him, casting dappled patterns across the glimmering surface.

Without hesitation, Thomas undressed down to his underclothes and waded in. 

The cold gripped him instantly, biting at his skin - but he didn’t flinch. He was used to this. The jolt of it steadied him in a way nothing else could.

He waded deeper until the current brushed his ribs, then took a breath and sank beneath the surface.

The world above vanished. Under the water, everything slowed. Light filtered in from above in fractured shafts, flickering and broken, painting the creek bed in shifting gold. Tiny air bubbles slipped past his ears. The silence pressed in, soft and heavy, and for a moment—just a moment—he let himself float in it.

When his lungs began to ache, he broke the surface with a slow, steady breath. He pushed his wet hair from his face and caught sight of his reflection in the water.

It gave him pause.

His face looked paler than he remembered. His features had grown sharper, leaner. A few faint freckles still dusted the bridge of his nose - half-faded remnants of boyhood. But it was his gaze that unsettled him. His steel-grey eyes, usually sharp and alert—were tired, weary beyond his years. The kind of fatigue that no amount of rest could soothe.

He stared at the boy in the water he no longer recognized. The image blurred and broke as a ripple passed through the creek.

A voice called out—his father’s—sharp, distant, carried on the wind from somewhere near the house.

Thomas lingered for only a second longer before stepping out of the creek. He dressed quickly, the wet fabric clinging cold to his skin, and made his way back up the slope through the growing dusk.

The house loomed ahead, grey and quiet and waiting.

Creekside Manor.

Avonlea.

The days that followed passed in a blur of hammering, hauling, and sweeping. 

The manor was still a skeleton of its former self, but under their efforts, small signs of life returned - a window unjammed, a stair fixed, a hearth that breathed warmth again. Father said little as they worked, and Thomas didn’t push. The silence was familiar. Expected.

One afternoon, a cart arrived from Carmody, laden with lumber, nails, and other supplies. The wagon pulled up just past the clearing, the clatter of hooves and shouted greetings breaking the hush that had settled around Creekside Manor.

Thomas lingered nearby, his sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back from the effort of lifting a loose floorboard. He watched as two men climbed down from the cart - one older, with a thick beard, the other wiry and sun-burnt.

“Delivery for Rockport,” the bearded man called out.

Thomas froze mid-motion.

His father approached the wagon with a nod, exchanging coin and confirming the inventory without hesitation.

“Mr. Rockport, we left the spare hinges in the back,” the wiry one said, motioning toward the cart bed. “Wasn’t sure if you’d need ‘em, but figured better safe than sorry.”

“That’ll do fine,” his father replied, his voice even.

Thomas watched the exchange in silence, something tightening behind his ribs. Only once the cart had creaked back down the trail and vanished into the woods did he finally speak.

“So,” he said, brushing sawdust from his palms, “we're using our real name again?”

His father didn’t look at him. “It depends. If we’re going to settle here for the time being, some truths are unavoidable.”

Thomas stared at him for a moment, then spoke—quiet, but firm. “But only some truths, right?”

His father turned, irritation flashing behind his eyes. “You’ve never been one to ask foolish questions, Thomas.”

A beat passed. He exhaled through his nose, then added, more composed, “You’ll start attending the local school tomorrow. I left some things for you upstairs.”

Thomas nodded and turned back inside, boots thudding softly against the steps.

The nineteenth one no longer creaked beneath his foot.

Upstairs, the room was cleaner than he’d left it - dust swept from the floor, the bed freshly made, the window cracked open to let in the evening air. A few pieces of new furniture had been added: a modest desk near the corner, a shelf beside the bed.

Laid neatly atop the blanket was a bundle of school supplies: a shoulder bag, a slim stack of books, and a slate with a chalk stick wrapped in paper.

Thomas sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the items for a long moment.

Another new place.

Another new beginning.

Tomorrow would be his first day of school in Avonlea.

Chapter Text

That Friday morning, a crisp breeze stirred Thomas awake. He blinked against the chill, stumbling out of bed to shut the window. The once pleasant warmth had faded, replaced by the bite of autumn. Beyond the glass, the trees blazed in hues of amber, gold, and red, a patchwork of fire stretching toward the creek.

Despite his love for learning, the weight of nervous anticipation still pressed against his chest. First days were always the same. New place. New faces. New lies, carefully chosen.

He dressed quickly: dark trousers, a clean white shirt. A red cravat around his neck, tied with practiced ease. It was a small thing, but it set him apart.

Downstairs, his father was already seated at the table, coffee in one hand and a folded letter in the other.

“Morning,” Thomas muttered, pouring himself a glass of water.

“Good morning,” his father replied without looking up. “Pack your lunch?”

Thomas froze. “Uh—no. Forgot.”

His father glanced up just long enough to gesture toward the far end of the table, where a small bundle of sandwiches lay wrapped in brown paper. “Don’t get used to it.”

Thomas eyed it with suspicion. “They’re not shrimp paste, are they?”

“Guess you’ll find out.”

He stuffed the bundle into his bag and headed for the door, muttering a farewell. Breakfast could wait - his appetite was nowhere to be found anyway. On the way, he paused by the creek, splashing cold water on his face, the chill shocking him fully awake.

He raked a hand through his hair and checked the watch in his pocket. Cutting it close.

Time to go.

Thomas followed the path his father had vaguely described the night before, boots brushing through damp undergrowth, the smell of earth and fallen leaves thick in the air. The narrow trail wove alongside the creek, flanked by thinning trees that filtered the morning light in golden shafts.

Before long, the Avonlea schoolhouse came into view - a modest white structure perched at the edge of a clearing, its small bell tower rising above the roofline. Faint sounds of chatter and laughter drifted out on the breeze, rising and falling like birdsong.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, drew a deep breath, and climbed the front steps.

Inside, the school was simple but tidy. 

A small coatroom met him first, crowded with hats and jackets hanging from hooks. Beyond it, the main classroom opened up - neat rows of desks flanked a central aisle, girls seated to the left, boys to the right. A wood stove crackled near the center, casting a gentle heat through the room. At the front, two chalkboards—one large, one small—hung behind a stern-looking teacher’s desk, still unoccupied.

He barely had time to take it all in before he felt eyes on him. The shift was subtle at first—shoulders turning, elbows nudging—but soon the whispers spread like ripples on water.

Thomas lingered in the doorway for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then, squaring his shoulders, he stepped into the room.

Silence fell.

A group of girls near the left side of the room whispered behind cupped hands, stealing glances his way. On the right, several boys straightened in their seats, casting appraising glances his way.

Thomas stood tall, his posture calm and deliberate. He met their stares head-on, scanning the room. He was used to this part - the scrutiny, the sizing-up, the need to make an impression before anyone else did it for him.

Two boys rose to meet him.

The first was shorter, round-faced, a mop of dark hair and a cheerful sort of presence. He approached with an easy smile.

“Hi there. You must be new,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Moody—Moody Spurgeon.”

The second boy followed, taller and more reserved, his hair a shade lighter than his own, “Cole Mackenzie,” he said, nodding once.

“Thomas Rockport. Pleased to meet you,” he shook their hands, managing the faintest curve of a smile.

Before more could be said, another voice cut through the room.

“Making friends already, are we?”

A lanky boy ambled over, slinging his satchel onto a desk as he approached. His tone was teasing, but there was no real edge to it.

“Charlie Sloane. My brother mentioned there was someone new coming.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

Charlie just shrugged. “We don’t get many strangers out here. Word travels.”

Moody, sensing the attention Thomas was drawing, stepped in helpfully. “Why don’t we show you around a bit before class starts?” he offered.

Thomas nodded. “Lead the way.”

The boys filed out of the classroom together, chatter picking up behind them as the rest of the students resumed their whispers - though Thomas could still feel a dozen eyes pinned to his back.

As they toured the grounds, some of the initial stiffness began to ebb, although Thomas could sense the countless questions still lingering in the air.

Moody spoke easily, pointing out the lower classroom tucked around the side of the building where the younger children studied, and the small supply room beside it.

Finally, they led him to the creek that ran along the property’s edge.

“We put our lunch milk in there to keep it cold,” Moody explained, gesturing toward a cluster of stones that created a shallow pool beneath the bank. 

Before he could say more, the sound of footsteps behind pulled their attention.

“I heard there’s a new kid,” came a voice - confident, a touch too loud.

A boy strolled up with the swagger of someone who knew the terrain all too well. He didn’t stop until he stood just close enough to invade Thomas’s space without touching him, posture loose but unmistakably assertive. His gaze swept over him like a measuring tape

There was a challenge in his eyes, a readiness to establish the pecking order that had long governed the dynamics among the boys.

“Billy Andrews,” he said, lifting his chin slightly. The way he said it suggested the name should mean something.

The shift in the air was immediate. Moody fell quiet. Cole stepped back half a pace.

Thomas met Billy’s stare without flinching. “Thomas,” he replied, calm and steady.

Billy narrowed his eyes, circling just slightly, as if testing for weakness. “Thomas, is it? Just so you know, we’ve got our ways around here. Don’t expect to waltz in and have it easy.”

Thomas tilted his head slightly with an amused sort of detachment, like someone who had heard this song before and knew how it ended. The kind of look that quietly asked, Is this really the road you want to go down?

Billy’s smirk twitched, just slightly.

For a moment, he appeared to reconsider. The false bravado that had carried him this far began to lose steam under Thomas’s unshaken composure. 

The silence stretched.

Then Billy looked away first.

“Just make sure you keep up,” Billy muttered finally, the bite in his voice dulled.

“I intend to,” Thomas said, his voice even and cool.

With that, the spell broke. Billy turned on his heel and strode off, Charlie trailing after him with a poorly concealed glance over his shoulder.

Moody let out a low whistle. “Well. That went better than expected.”

Thomas gave a faint shrug, but said nothing. He wasn’t looking for fights. But he didn’t run from them either.

As the dust from the brief confrontation settled, Thomas found himself the centre of a different kind of attention.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a group of girls whispering among themselves near the schoolyard steps, their heads bowed close, eyes flicking toward him with growing interest. Their curiosity piqued by the new boy's poise, they gathered their courage to approach first.

Thomas straightened his posture and took a steady breath, settling into the version of himself he knew people liked best.

The one in front—with dark hair and a brightness in her eyes—came first.

“Hello,” she greeted, her smile warm and sure. “I’m Diana Barry. It’s not often we get new students here.”

Thomas offered a small, polite bow of the head. “Then I’ll try not to disappoint,” he said, his voice smooth. “Thomas Rockport. It’s a pleasure, Miss Barry.”

Diana’s smile widened. “Oh, just Diana’s fine.”

Behind her, a girl with golden hair and wide, glimmering eyes took a small step forward. “And I’m Ruby,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, soft and breathless, as though she were meeting a storybook character brought to life. “It’s… very nice to meet you.”

Thomas met her gaze with a faint smile. “The pleasure’s mine, Ruby. That’s a lovely name.”

Ruby’s eyes widened a fraction more, and she looked as though she might forget how to speak entirely.

Next came a girl with a sprightly grin and a faint mischievous glint in her eye. “Jane Andrews,” she said, giving him a firm nod. “Good job dealing with my idiot brother.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ll try not to hold the name against you.”

The final girl lingered at the edge of the group. She was sharper than the rest - shoulders pulled back, chin slightly raised, gaze cool and assessing.

“Josie Pye,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “Guess you like to make an entrance, huh?”

Something about her manner was different - more pointed, more deliberate. She looked at him like she already had him figured out. The practiced response Thomas had been offering the others faltered for just a second. 

He offered only a short, polite nod. “Josie.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, as though she’d noticed the shift.

Luckily, before the moment could stretch further, the bell rang.

The girls exchanged a few parting glances and began filing toward the schoolhouse, their laughter trailing behind them like ribbons.

Thomas remained still for a moment, exhaling quietly. He wasn’t fond of crowds - too much noise, too many eyes. Charm, when he chose to use it, was a mask. And like any mask, it grew heavy if worn too long.

The exchange left him unsettled. Their attention—curious, appraising, and unfiltered—was far more difficult to navigate than Billy’s challenge. He could read a threat in a man's stance. But this?

It was clear his arrival had stirred something more than idle curiosity.

Back in the classroom, Thomas found an empty desk near the middle. He set his slate down and drew slow breath, trying to refocus.

Just then, someone slid into the seat beside him - a boy with dark, curling hair and an easy grin.

“Seems I’m a bit late today,” the boy said, casual and friendly. “Didn’t expect to see a new face in my usual spot. I’m Gilbert Blythe.”

Thomas turned to shake his hand. “Thomas. Moved here recently.”

“Welcome to the fray,” Gilbert said, eyes flicking with curiosity. “Moved from where?”

Before Thomas could come up with an answer that wasn’t a lie, a sharp voice rang out from the front of the room.

“Quiet down,” came the teacher’s sharp voice, as he strode to the front of the room. His gaze swept across the rows with its usual grim severity - then paused.

Thomas didn’t flinch, but he felt the scrutiny. Mr. Phillips lingered a heartbeat too long on him, as though the mere presence of a new student had already upset the balance.

“Well,” he said, drawing out the word like an accusation, “it appears we have a new student among us.”

“Let’s hope Mr. Rockport can keep up with our curriculum,” Mr. Phillips continued, voice dry as dust. “We wouldn't want him falling behind on his very first day, now would we?”

A few students snickered. Gilbert, beside him, didn’t. Thomas didn’t react.

The lesson began—mathematics—and Thomas tried to focus.

But numbers refused to behave. Normally sharp, he found himself staring blankly at a simple equation, unable to bring the symbols into focus. His thoughts refused to line up. Instead, they skittered off in every direction, tangled in nerves, the weight of the room, and the lingering irritation of Mr. Phillips’ tone.

Then the door burst open.

The room turned, all at once. A girl stood in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat, two braids of red hair falling forward over her shoulders. She was flushed from running, a look of mortified apology on her face.

“Miss Anne Shirley,” Mr. Phillips said slowly, his voice curling with disdain. “How kind of you to join us.”

His eyes narrowed, and he gestured toward the front of the class.

“After your little outburst yesterday, I would have thought you’d learned your lesson. Perhaps standing at the front for the remainder of the day will teach you the importance of punctuality.”

Anne didn’t speak.

A flush of indignation lit her face, but she held it down - barely. Her shoulders lifted as if preparing to argue, then settled again. She gave no protest. No outburst. She simply walked forward and took her place beside the chalkboard, folding her hands before her.

Thomas watched her go, something tugging at the edge of memory.

He’d seen her before.

The train station. His first day in Avonlea - among the strangers and luggage and noise, she had stood out even then.

Now, standing at the front of the classroom, she did so even more.

Her hair, an intense shade of red, gleamed in the morning light that filtered through the windows - fiery, like autumn leaves at their peak. 

Her eyes—striking blue, clear and bright—held a depth that gave him pause. They weren’t the eyes of someone content with small thoughts.

And her freckles—an uncountable constellation across her cheeks and nose—seemed to give her face more texture, not less. To most, they might have been a flaw. To Thomas, they were... oddly captivating.

He told himself to look away. Focus. But the lesson blurred around the edges of his attention, and before he knew it, his eyes had wandered back to her.

She stood with quiet dignity at the front of the classroom, her back straight, hands at her sides, chin held just so. She bore her punishment with a sort of inner pride, as though she had already decided it wouldn’t break her.

And then—her eyes met his.

Just for a second.

Her gaze had been drifting slowly across the room, idle and detached - until it landed on him. She blinked, as if startled, and quickly looked away.

And in that instant, her annoyance at being scolded seemed to evaporate, replaced with something entirely different.

Curiosity.

The new boy.

He was... remarkable.

His hair, the shade of pale gold, tousled in a way that seemed both accidental and artfully done, lent him an air of roguish charm.

And his eyes—good heavens, those eyes. They were deep and stormy, like the sea during a gale. Not just intense, but aware. As though he was seeing through people rather than simply looking at them.

Her gaze dipped lower, tracing the lines of his face. The sculpted angle of his jaw. The shape of his mouth. The faint, thin scar across one cheekbone, barely noticeable. The red cravat tucked beneath his shirt like a brushstroke of rebellion. 

It wasn’t fair, really - how effortless he looked.

Her mind betrayed her with a single, wayward thought: He’s more handsome than Gilbert Blythe.

No—worse. He might be the most handsome boy she’d ever seen.

The thought startled her so thoroughly she nearly took a step back. What a foolish thing to think. She didn’t care about handsome boys, or mysterious glances, or any of that nonsense. She had more important things to concern herself with. She didn’t even like Gilbert and now she was... what? Comparing him to this stranger?

She scolded herself soundly. And yet—despite her best efforts—her gaze kept wandering back.

So did his.

They kept meeting like that - brief, unsteady collisions of curiosity and confusion, neither of them willing to hold the gaze for too long. It was like catching a glimpse of something in a mirror, only to find it gone when you turned your head.

Their silent communication did not go unnoticed.

Mr. Phillips, ever hawkish for signs of distraction, caught Thomas’s gaze drifting one too many times.

"Mr. Thomas Rockport," he said sharply, drawing every head toward the new boy. "Since you seem so entranced by anything but my lesson, perhaps you’d like to demonstrate the solution to this problem."

He gestured to the blackboard, where a complex equation waited like a trap already set.

Anne’s head lifted at the sound of the name—Thomas. So that was it. The name settled in her mind with surprising clarity, a new piece of the puzzle she hadn’t realized she was assembling.

The classroom went quiet, breath held in collective anticipation as Thomas slowly stood.

A knot tightened in his chest. He wasn’t afraid of being watched - but he didn’t like it either. Not like this. Not when he wasn’t ready.

Anne tracked his every movement. There was a quiet grace in the way he walked - purposeful, controlled. His steps barely made a sound on the wooden floor, like someone used to walking unseen.

He stopped at the blackboard a few paces from where she stood. Close. She felt a sudden tension in her posture, a strange, awkward self-awareness. It prickled down her spine, a warmth blooming in her cheeks. She didn’t dare move.

Thomas stared at the numbers. His heart thudded somewhere behind his ribs, and for a moment, nothing made sense.

In desperation, he looked to the side.

Her eyes met his again, caught without preparation. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t frowning either. Just… there. Calm, steady, like the creek behind his house in the early morning. She didn’t look away this time.

Thomas turned back to the board. Something inside him settled.

His hand moved to the chalk, and though the first mark came slowly, the rest followed with growing confidence. He worked methodically—step by step, line by line—until the final number landed like a punctuation mark.

Mr. Phillips gave the board a quick glance.

“Correct,” he said, clipped and begrudging, as though disappointed there was no error to punish.

From the back of the room, a cheer rose - soft at first, then joined by a few others. A few hands clapped. It wasn’t much, but in the tight-ruled world of Mr. Phillips’s classroom, it might as well have been a riot.

Anne’s lips tugged into a grin before she could stop them.

Mr. Phillips’s scowl deepened. He raised a hand, and the noise died with practiced speed, but not before the echo of it left a lasting warmth in the room.

As Thomas returned to his desk, Gilbert offered a pat on the back. Thomas nodded, the faintest breath of relief crossing his face.

He glanced up at Anne again.

And without thinking, without quite meaning to, she smiled.

It was brief. Barely more than a flicker. But it startled her.

She tore her gaze away, chastising herself for the foolishness of it all, her cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

The final bell rang, sharp and resonant. The schoolroom emptied in a flurry of motion and laughter, students eager to escape into the freedom of the fading day.

Anne remained where she stood at the front of the classroom, arms folded in front of her. Thomas shouldered his bag and was about to turn - until Mr. Phillips cleared his throat and gave a pointed nod.

“Mr. Rockport. A brief word, if you would.”

Thomas stepped toward the front, but before he reached the teacher’s desk, a soft voice broke through the air.

“Mr. Phillips,” Anne said, bright and composed, “may I ask when—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish.

“Miss Shirley,” Mr. Phillips snapped, silencing her with a sharp wave of the hand, “I will hear from you when I deem it appropriate.”

Phillips turned back to Thomas, his tone shifting into one of deliberate inspection. “Now then, Mr. Rockport,” he began, leaning back against his desk with arms crossed. “Your educational background. What is it?”

“Private study,” Thomas replied evenly. “Some formal, some under supervision.”

Phillips sniffed. “We’ll see how long that holds up here. This is a school, not a gentleman’s club where one picks and chooses when to pay attention.”

Thomas held his expression steady.

Mr. Phillips leaned in slightly, his tone sharpening. “Such distractions as you provided today are not tolerated in my classroom. I trust this will be the last time?”

“Of course, sir,” Thomas said, smoothly, respectfully. Without flinch or sarcasm.

Phillips stared at him for another beat, as if searching for something to criticize further. Then, with a curt nod, he waved him off. “That’ll be all.”

As Thomas turned to leave, he cast a glance toward Anne. There was a tightness in her posture, a flicker of something bruised just behind her eyes. He offered her a small, apologetic look.

And then he was gone.

Out into the open air.

The harsh light of noon had melted into the gentle warmth of late afternoon, casting long shadows across the schoolyard. The laughter and footsteps of other students faded into the distance, carried on the breeze.

His first day was over.

And yet his mind, scattered and weary, kept circling back to her.

There was something about Anne Shirley that left a mark on him. Not just the red hair or the fire in her posture, but something beneath it.

Back inside, the classroom felt cavernous in its emptiness. Anne remained at the front, standing stiffly as Mr. Phillips continued his scolding - words about punctuality, expectations, behavior. She hardly heard them.

Her eyes were on the door Thomas had passed through. Her thoughts had drifted with him.

Something had shifted today, subtly but surely. A new presence had entered her world, sharp-edged and full of shadows.

She didn’t yet know why.

But she knew he wouldn’t be easy to forget.

Chapter Text

The crisp air of Saturday morning rang with the steady thud of axe against wood. Lift, pivot, strike - motions drilled into Thomas through years of repetition. He worked in the backyard behind the old manor, sleeves rolled, breath misting in the chill. Each log split cleanly under his hands, the rhythm almost meditative.

Until it wasn’t.

The crunch of uneven footsteps broke the pattern. Thomas paused, glancing up.

His father emerged from the shadows of the house, leaning heavily on his crutch. The morning light sharpened the hollows of his face, casting shadows into the lines carved deep by years of hardship - wounds that hadn’t all come from battle.

“Thomas,” his father said, slow and deliberate, “I need you to run an errand.”

Thomas set the axe aside, brushing dust from his hands. The air between them was always thick with unspoken weight, too many things left unsaid.

“I’m listening,” Thomas replied, guarded.

“There’s a farmhouse nearby - Green Gables,” his father continued, his gaze drifting to the horizon. “I’ve heard they might have an old horse cart they’re not using. Go and see if they’d be willing to sell it to us.”

Thomas brushed a hand along his jaw, eyes narrowing faintly. “What use is a cart to us?”

His father’s reply came quick, gruffer than necessary. “We’ll need one if we’re to be self-reliant. I’ll send you into town soon to look for a horse. Might as well start with the cart.”

There was a finality to his tone, the kind that invited no further questions. Thomas gave a brief nod and turned toward the house.

After a quick wash in the creek and a change of clothes, he set off toward Green Gables, the manor fading behind him like a shadow dissolving in the morning light.

The walk was pleasant, the fields and trees of Avonlea steeped in the golden hush of late morning. Birds chirped lazily from the branches, and the breeze carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and earth.

As he crested a small rise, the farmhouse came into view.

Green Gables.

It stood pristine and inviting, its white-painted wood framed by the soft green trim that gave the home its name, its windows gleaming in the autumn sunlight. Surrounding it were fields of green, stretching out like an endless sea. 

It was the kind of home people built when they planned to stay. The kind that held stories, not secrets. It radiated warmth in a way Creekside Manor never had.

He stepped up to the door and knocked.

It creaked open to reveal a tall, stern-looking woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense posture. Her eyes swept over him with an assessing look.

“Good morning,” she said, her tone brisk but not unkind.

“Morning,” Thomas replied, offering a polite nod. “I’m Thomas Rockport. I was sent by my father. He heard you might have an old cart you’re no longer using?"

Her eyes flicked over him, measuring, before she gave a short nod. “You’ll want to speak with my brother, Matthew, about that. He’s out working at the moment, but he should be back shortly.”

She stepped aside. “In the meantime, you’ll come in for some tea.”

There was no question in her voice.

Thomas hesitated. Hospitality that came without warning usually had strings attached where he came from. But here, in the calm quiet of the farmhouse, her offer seemed less like a trap and more like… routine. He nodded.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The kitchen welcomed him like a wool blanket. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, something baking in the oven, and the soft crackle of fire in the stove. Copper pots gleamed overhead. The table, worn smooth with use, felt lived-in and steady.

Marilla moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done everything herself for years. As she poured tea, she asked him questions - how long they’d been in Avonlea, whether they were settling in all right, what brought them to the old manor by the creek.

Thomas answered with polite vagueness. Enough to satisfy curiosity, not enough to invite more.

Marilla didn’t press. Her manner was brisk, but not cold - just someone who valued practicality over idle chatter.

After a time, she excused herself to tend to some household chores, leaving him alone at the table.

Thomas sat still for a moment, listening to the creak of the old house and the faint rustling of the breeze through the open window. There was something about the stillness that settled inside him like a stone dropped in water. No tension, no alertness. Just quiet.

It was a kind of peace he hadn’t realized he missed.

The sound of footsteps on the porch stirred Thomas from his thoughts.

Assuming it was Mr. Cuthbert, he stood quickly, eager to conclude his errand and be on his way. But the moment he opened the door, he collided with someone coming in. 

The impact sent them both stumbling. Thomas caught himself on the doorframe, but the other figure wasn’t so lucky - she fell back with a startled gasp.

“Sorry—!” Thomas blurted, instinctively reaching a hand out.

The girl scrambled upright, brushing off her skirt with an indignant huff. When she looked up, their eyes locked - and both froze.

Anne Shirley.

She looked just as surprised as he felt, her mouth slightly parted, a hint of color already blooming in her cheeks. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. The awkwardness was thick enough to drown in.

“Didn’t expect to tackle someone today,” Thomas finally said, offering a sheepish half-smile. “I’m Thomas. Thomas Rockport.”

Anne blinked, as if gathering herself. “Yes,” she said, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I… I remember you. From school.”

“I think I caught your name was Anne… right?” he ventured.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice growing steadier. “But it’s Anne with an E.”

“Anne with an E,” he echoed, as though committing it to memory. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Another quiet fell between them, not entirely uncomfortable this time. There was a mutual, hesitant curiosity there - neither one of them quite knowing what to say next. The memory of their brief glances in class lingered in the air like a held breath.

Before either could speak again, the crunch of boots on gravel announced a third presence.

A tall figure was approaching - Matthew Cuthbert, hat in hand, walking with the unhurried ease of someone entirely at home in silence.

Anne, cheeks still pink, ducked past Thomas without another word and disappeared into the house, the screen door snapping shut behind her.

Turning his attention to the matter at hand, Thomas stepped forward. “Sir. I’m Thomas Rockport. I’m here on behalf of my father - we’re looking to acquire a horse and a cart. We heard you might have an old one you’re no longer using?”

Matthew shook his hand with a firm, calloused grip. “Well met, Thomas. Can’t say we do anymore. Sold the old cart off last fall - wasn’t much left of it by then anyway.”

Thomas tried not to show his disappointment. “I understand.”

Matthew nodded, as though that settled something. “We might not have a cart anymore, but we do have a mare that’s not been doing much lately. Come, take a look.”

They walked together across the yard. As they neared the stable, Thomas cast a glance back at the porch.

Anne was gone. But the encounter lingered in his thoughts like the echo of a bell.

Why was she here?

At school, Mr. Phillips had called her Shirley - but this was Cuthbert land. The names didn’t match. The pieces didn’t quite fit.

He shelved the question for now, the answer not urgent enough to voice aloud.

The interior of the stable was dim and quiet, shafts of golden light spilling through the slats in the wooden walls. Dust floated lazily in the air, and the scent of hay, leather, and old wood wrapped around them like an old coat.

Matthew led him to the far stall, where a grey mare stood quietly chewing at her feed.

“She’s the one,” Matthew said, resting a hand on the gate. “Belonged to a neighbor down the way. Poor fella took ill, couldn’t care for her no more. She was in rough shape too - thin, feverish. We near lost her. But she pulled through.”

Thomas stepped closer, his hand reaching out slowly, letting her catch his scent. She didn’t shy away. When his fingers touched her muzzle, she leaned into the gesture ever so slightly, her breath warm and even.

“She’s calm,” he said quietly, surprised. “Too calm for a horse that’s seen hard days.”

“She’s got a good heart,” Matthew replied, watching the pair. “Same as most creatures - just needs someone to see it.”

Thomas hesitated. “I haven’t brought any money with me,” he admitted, glancing back.

“No need to worry about that now,” Matthew replied with a wave of his hand. “You can settle up with us later.”

The words stopped Thomas for a beat.

He was used to agreements written in coin, to bargains that came with consequences if unmet. But this... this was trust, given freely, without proof.

And it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

“Thank you,” he said at last, quiet but sincere.

Matthew nodded once, already moving toward the tack wall. “No spare saddles, though. Sold the extra with the cart.”

Thomas shrugged. “That’s alright. I’ve ridden bareback before. We’ve got saddles at home.”

They led the mare out into the sunlight. Her coat gleamed like silver in the open air.

“I appreciate it. Truly, Mr. Cuthbert,” he said, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable.

Matthew offered a quiet smile, hands folded behind his back. “Take good care of her now.”

Thomas mounted in one smooth motion, settling easily on the mare’s back. She shifted once beneath him, then stilled, as if sensing the steadiness in his grip.

With a final nod, he turned the mare toward the path and gave her a gentle nudge with his heel.

The mare’s steady gait echoed in the stillness as Thomas led her along the fence line of Green Gables, her hooves crunching softly over gravel and soil. His mind was already drifting back toward the manor, the silence that waited for him there - until movement up ahead caught his eye.

Anne sat perched atop a weathered fencepost, legs crossed at the ankles, a worn book resting in her lap. She looked like she belonged there, framed by sunlight, her copper-red hair catching the light like strands of flame. There was something wild and striking about her stillness, the way she stared down at the earth as if pondering some great matter of existence.

But then she saw him - and all that poetic stillness vanished.

She snapped the book shut and hopped down, marching toward him with quick, purposeful steps, braid ends bouncing with each stride.

“Excuse me,” she called, her voice high and accusing, “Just where do you think you’re going with that horse?”

Thomas blinked, reining the mare to a halt. “Pardon?”

“That’s Luna,” Anne declared, pointing with theatrical flourish. “She belongs to Green Gables! And you’re not Matthew, nor are you Marilla, which leads me to believe you have no business riding off with her.”

There was a breathless intensity in her voice, the kind that left no room for interruption - so Thomas didn’t bother trying. Instead, he let her finish, while the horse shifted beneath him, unbothered.

When Anne finally paused to catch her breath, Thomas raised an eyebrow, his voice calm. “I’m not stealing her. Mr. Cuthbert offered to sell her to my father. I didn’t realize there was an interrogation involved.”

She looked him up and down, hands on her hips, suspicious, until the truth in his voice softened her stance. She glanced away, the color in her cheeks rising. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she rocked slightly on her heels, suddenly sheepish.

“Oh,” she muttered, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt. “Well… good. That’s good. Because I was prepared to defend her honor.”

Thomas bit back a smile. “I can see that.”

Anne glanced at the mare, her defiance giving way to a more wistful tone. “I’d grown rather fond of her. She has a quiet soul. I used to read poems to her when no one was looking.”

Thomas tilted his head. “Poems?”

Anne nodded seriously. “I tried to name her something grand -  like Lady Araminta of the Wind-Washed Realm or Silvermist of the Starlight Glen - but Matthew found them excessive. Marilla said they were nonsense.” 

She glanced up at Thomas, half daring him to laugh.

“So we compromised on Luna,” she reached out to stroke the mare’s flank. “Like the moon.”

Thomas watched her, something shifting in him. She wasn’t like the girls who had approached him yesterday - all giggles and hesitant words. Anne’s thoughts tumbled out unfiltered, vivid and strange. There was something about her - not just how she looked, but how she spoke, how she saw things.

“Luna suits her,” he said. “It’s… a beautiful name.”

Her eyes searched his face, as if trying to decide whether he was mocking her. But there was nothing but honesty in his expression, and something softened in her features.

They stood there in silence for a moment. Then, unable to hold the question in any longer, Thomas asked, "Do you live here? At Green Gables?"

Anne hesitated. The question, so simple, carried more weight than he realized. Her eyes dropped to the ground. 

“I do now,” she said after a moment. “The Cuthberts took me in... not long ago. I’m an orphan.”

Her words struck him in a way he hadn’t expected. Orphan. He wasn’t one, not in the technical sense, but sometimes, living with his father, it felt like they were worlds apart. As if the man who raised him wasn’t really there at all.

Thomas could see the way her shoulders stiffened, bracing for the reaction - for judgement, or worse.

He didn’t give it.

“That was kind of them,” he said, simply. “You seem like you belong here.”

Anne blinked, startled by his words. She opened her mouth, then closed it. For all her imagination, she hadn’t conjured a response to this.

“I’ll miss her,” she said at last, gently stroking the mare’s neck. “And she’ll miss me too, even if no one believes animals can feel such things. Luna and I had an understanding.”

“You can come visit her sometime,” he said, almost without thinking. “If you want.”

The words were out before he could stop them, his father's aversion to guests momentarily forgotten. Anne’s face brightened instantly, her earlier sadness lifting as hope blossomed in her eyes. 

“Truly? I might just take you up on that,” she replied. There was something almost fragile about the way she accepted his offer, as if she wasn’t used to kindness from strangers. Just like him.

Thomas nodded, unsure what else to say. Her presence unsettled him - not in a bad way, just… differently.  She spoke and moved like someone who didn’t know how to guard herself - and it was both fascinating and terrifying.

“I should get going,” he said abruptly, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. “It’s a bit of a ride back.”

Anne stepped back. “Well then,” she said, clearing her throat. “Good day, Thomas Rockport.”

Thomas turned slightly in the saddle, meeting her gaze one last time.

“Good day, Anne,” he said. Then, with the faintest flicker of a smile: “Anne with an E.”

Anne smiled back — wide and unguarded — and for a moment, Thomas felt something catch in his chest.

He nudged Luna forward, and they set off down the path. Thomas dared one last glance back over his shoulder.

Anne was already climbing back onto the fencepost, book in hand. But she didn’t open it.

She was watching him go.

As Thomas rode back toward Creekside, the narrow path unwinding beneath Luna’s hooves, he decided to test her mettle. With a quiet nudge of his heel, he urged her faster. The mare responded at once, her strides lengthening, wind sweeping past his face and tugging at his collar.

All his worries—the silence of the manor, the sharp edges in his father’s voice—faded behind him.

She was fast. Light on her feet, smooth in her motion, and attuned to even his subtlest shift in weight. The people at Green Gables had trained her well. Thomas allowed himself a small smile, hand steady on the reins as the manor came into view.

But the smile disappeared just as quickly.

His father stood near the porch, leaning on his crutch, eyes already narrowing at the sight of the grey mare thundering toward the house. Thomas pulled Luna to a halt a few yards out, the mare’s hooves kicking up a spray of dirt and pebbles. His father flinched slightly at the sudden stop, but recovered fast, his scowl settling in like an old habit.

“I thought I told you to get a cart, not a horse, boy,” he barked, his voice cutting across the open space with familiar coldness.

Thomas dismounted in one fluid motion, taking the reins as he approached. “There was no cart,” he said, keeping his tone even. “But you said we’d need a horse eventually. You said - we need to be self-reliant.”

His father stared at him, jaw set tight, the crutch digging into the ground. His eyes, sharp and pale, flicked from Thomas to the horse and back again.

“You’re right,” he said at last. The words came out low and rough, as if dragged out by force. “You’ve done a good job.”

Thomas blinked once. The praise was rare. Almost foreign. But instead of swelling with pride, he felt... hollow. It didn’t soften the air between them. It didn’t erase the years of history.

He gave a quiet nod and led Luna toward the stable. As they reached the doorway, his father’s voice followed him again.

“I’ll handle the payment for the horse soon. We’ll settle it with Cuthbert later.”

“Alright,” Thomas said, not looking back.

Inside the stable, the air was cool and still, dust motes drifting lazily in shafts of sunlight. He led Luna into the last stall, gently removing her bridle and running a hand along her neck. She gave a soft snort and nuzzled his arm, already settling in with a quiet trust.

Thomas lingered for a few moments longer, brushing her down, making sure she was comfortable. There was something grounding about it - the rhythm of the brush, the smell of hay and wood, the soft sounds of an animal at peace.

He looked at her, this horse that had belonged to a different world only hours ago - a warmer one. And now, she was here. With him.

Welcome to Creekside, he thought.

Chapter Text

Monday arrived with the weight of anticipation.

Thomas, after a weekend consumed by chores that left little time for studies, stepped into the classroom to find it humming with the familiar buzz of pre-lesson chatter. He offered a nod to a few of the boys he’d met on his first day, then quietly made his way to his seat.

Further ahead, he caught sight of Anne, seated beside Diana. Without thinking, he gave her a small wave and a nod of acknowledgment. She paused for just a heartbeat before returning the gesture with a shy, almost involuntary wave of her own.

That was all it took.

“Anne!” Ruby Gillis whispered, scandalized and giddy, nearly tripping over her boots to reach her. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Anne asked, cheeks flushing with immediate betrayal.

“That wave! And you waved back!” Tillie gasped, appearing at Ruby’s side like a second gust of wind. “You know each other? You didn’t even meet him the first day!”

In moments, the rest of the girls had flocked to her like birds converging on a dropped crumb of gossip.

Anne shifted, startled by the sudden attention. “Yes. I mean—sort of. He came to Green Gables.”

That earned an audible gasp from Ruby. “He came to your house?”

“What for?” Josie demanded, crossing her arms.

Anne blinked, trying to keep up. “He came by on Saturday. Matthew was out, and Marilla invited him in for tea while he waited. He needed something… a cart, I think. He ended up leaving with a mare.”

The girls exchanged a flurry of looks. Ruby was practically glowing.

Diana leaned in with a smile. “So? What did you think of him? He's certainly... well-mannered. He sounds like someone used to being around grown-ups - and that red cravat? I’ve never seen anyone wear something like that to school.”

“Well, I think he's wonderful,” Ruby swooned. “The way he said my name on the first day. I still hear it when I fall asleep. ‘A lovely name,’ he said. I nearly fainted!”

“You nearly faint when the wind changes,” Jane murmured, earning a snort from Tillie.

“No, truly!” Ruby insisted. “And those eyes. So intense. As if he’s hiding some terrible secret. And that voice! Do you think he’s a poet? He must write poetry.”

“I wasn’t even there that day,” Tillie lamented. “Now I’ll never get a proper introduction.”

“There’s still time,” Jane assured her.

“Is there, though?” Tillie groaned. “I bet he already has a favorite.”

The group turned almost in unison to look at Anne.

Anne sat straighter. “What?”

“You did wave at each other,” Ruby teased.

Anne threw her hands up. “We spoke once. And not even at school!”

Then Josie cleared her throat.

“I think you're all too easily impressed,” she said flatly, her tone crisp. “He smiles just enough to seem approachable, says the right things, then goes quiet whenever anyone asks something real.”

Ruby blinked. “He was perfectly polite.”

“Exactly my point.” Josie tilted her chin. “Nobody’s that polite without a reason. And what do we actually know about him? He shows up out of nowhere with that strange father of his, takes up residence in that crumbling old manor, and hasn’t said a word about where they came from or what they’re doing here.”

Diana frowned. "Maybe they just value privacy. That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong."

"Not like this." Josie leaned forward, lowering her voice. "You know what I heard? Mrs. Lynde said his father hasn’t even attended Sunday service once. And when people tried to speak to him at Carmody, he hardly said a word. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?"

Anne, who had listened in growing discomfort, finally broke in. “I don’t think he’s trying to charm anyone,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “When I spoke with him, he just seemed… thoughtful. Not like the way you’re describing him.”

Josie turned her gaze on Anne like a needle. “Oh? You must’ve learned a lot in your one afternoon chat.”

Anne stiffened but said nothing more. Her heart beat a little faster. She didn’t like the way Josie looked at her - as if daring her to speak again.

“I think he’s just quiet,” Diana offered, though her tone was unsure now.

“Quiet like a fox,” Josie muttered. “Mark my words. Boys like that aren’t good news. And their families? Worse. I’m just saying - if you don’t want to end up tangled in something unpleasant, keep your distance.”

Tillie shifted uncomfortably. Jane's brow furrowed, clearly considering the implications.

Anne clenched her hands at her sides. She remembered the quiet sincerity in Thomas’s voice when he told her she could visit Luna - how he hadn’t looked at her like she was strange or bothersome. It didn’t match what Josie was saying.

She wanted to argue. Wanted to say that she, of all people, knew what it was like to be misjudged by whispers and speculation. But she had fought so hard to earn her place among the girls. They had only just begun to truly accept her. She didn’t want to be on the outside again.

So she said nothing more.

“Well,” Ruby said finally, in a tone meant to lighten things, “even if he is a little strange... he’s very handsome.”

They turned, as one, to look across the room. Thomas was shaking hands with Gilbert Blythe, who had just arrived.

The topic shifted after that. But the shadow of doubt — quiet and curling — had taken root.

Meanwhile, Thomas was having a quiet conversation with Gilbert, who had the kind of easygoing openness that made him disarmingly likable.

“You never did mention where you’re from, originally,” Gilbert said, leaning back in his seat. “I’ve heard a few different guesses already.”

Thomas hesitated, caught between the impulse to deflect and the exhaustion of withholding.

“Halifax,” he answered at last. “Amongst other places.”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. “Oh wow. Man of the world, then,” he said with a grin. “Must be quite different, living in a big city.”

“You can’t imagine,” Thomas replied, his gaze drifting. His voice had gone quieter, the words hollowed out by something deeper.

Gilbert chuckled. “Well, you’ll find this place a bit slower-paced. Our biggest scandal last year was when Mr. Barry’s pig got loose and wandered through the church.”

Before Thomas could respond, Mr. Phillips’s voice cut through the classroom, calling everyone to attention. The morning lesson was about to begin.

Thomas listened closely as the teacher launched into a swift review of last week’s geography material - none of which he’d been present for. The rhythm of the classroom felt both familiar and distant, like stepping into a life he had almost forgotten how to live.

As the review ended, Mr. Phillips began calling on the students. Moody Spurgeon was first and offered a muddled answer that earned him a curt correction and a smattering of quiet laughter. Gilbert responded smoothly, confident and precise. Then Anne spoke, her voice sure and clear, her answer so thorough it left little room for follow-up. Thomas watched her, noting how she spoke without hesitation - like someone who wasn’t afraid of being heard.

Then Mr. Phillips turned his gaze to him.

“Well, let’s see what our newcomer has to offer.” 

Thomas rose from his seat, trying to ignore the way heads turned. The question posed was a difficult one, and not something covered in the brief recap. He stood still, sorting through what little he knew, gathering fragments and facts like kindling.

Finally, he spoke.

“I only know part of the answer,” he admitted, voice steady. Then he recited what he did know - clean, sparse, but honest.

A few quiet snickers rippled from the back of the room. Thomas didn’t acknowledge them. He kept his eyes on Mr. Phillips.

To his surprise, the teacher gave a small nod of approval.

“Although you don’t know the full answer, I do appreciate you not turning to guesswork - like some other students might,” he said, glancing meaningfully toward Moody, who wilted in his seat.

Thomas sat back down, exhaling the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

As the lesson moved into new territory, he leaned forward over his slate, scribbling notes, focusing harder than before. He knew he was behind—behind on content, behind on expectations—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t catch up.

And he would.

Lunchtime offered Thomas a brief respite from the weight of the morning. He stepped out into the chill autumn air, uncertain of where to go. He had just begun toward the edge of the yard when a voice called out behind him.

“Hey, Rockport!”

Thomas turned.

Billy Andrews was waving him over. He was seated beneath a crooked tree not far from the creek, surrounded by Charlie Sloane and a couple of other boys Thomas hadn’t yet learned the names of.

“We’ve got room if you don’t mind muddy boots,” Billy said.

It wasn’t exactly an olive branch, but it wasn’t a threat either. Cautiously curious, Thomas accepted.

For a minute or two, the conversation was easy - bits of gossip, jokes about Moody getting a date wrong in geography, some half-hearted grumbling about homework.

But then, as Thomas had suspected, the real reason for the invitation emerged.

“So,” Billy began, just loud enough to quiet the rest. “That place you’re living in - the old manor by the creek? Bit grand, isn’t it? For someone who just appeared out of nowhere.”

Thomas didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the water, where a single leaf floated along the current. “It’s an old family property,” he said. “My father inherited it.”

Billy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? Funny how no one around here’s ever heard of a Rockport family before.”

Thomas gave a faint shrug. “Not all roots run shallow.”

A couple of the boys exchanged glances. Billy, undeterred, leaned in.

“Your father doesn’t seem to be around much. Doesn’t show his face. Strange, isn’t it?”

Thomas’s jaw tightened a fraction. “He prefers to keep to himself.”

“Oh, I’m sure. So he just sends you out to do everything?”

“I can handle it,” Thomas said evenly, meeting Billy’s gaze.

There was a beat of silence. Billy’s smile tightened. “It’s just… unusual. People here like to know who their neighbors are.”

Thomas didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out his water flask, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink.

Billy watched him, eyes narrowing. “Well, maybe it’s a city thing. Like that.” He gestured at the flask. “What is that anyway? Fancy water from Halifax?”

Without missing a beat, Thomas offered the flask across the space between them. “Want some?”

Billy blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’ve been eyeing it the whole time,” Thomas said mildly. “Figured you were thirsty.”

A few of the boys chuckled. Charlie looked away, hiding a grin.

Billy scoffed and waved it off. “I’m fine. I like milk. Like a normal person.”

Thomas nodded. “Of course.”

The air shifted again, just slightly.

But Billy wasn’t done. “What’s with that thing around your neck, anyway?” he asked, pointing toward the cravat knotted neatly under Thomas’s collar. “Trying to turn heads or something?”

Thomas froze - only a second. He could almost feel the brush of his mother’s fingers as she tied it for him years ago, the memory threaded into the fabric like a secret.

“I suppose we all have our ways of being noticed,” Thomas said at last. “Some wear red. Others talk loud enough to make sure no one forgets they’re there.”

That landed.

The boys burst out laughing, nudging one another, Charlie the loudest. Billy opened his mouth to respond - but no words came.

Thomas rose to his feet, brushing grass from his trousers. “I’ll leave you to your milk, then,” he said evenly.

And with that, he turned and walked away.

The schoolyard offered little in the way of peace. Too many students, too many conversations. His eyes scanned the edge of the grounds, searching for a place untouched by noise.

Then he saw it - a tall willow tree by the path, its drooping branches swaying like a curtain in the wind. Something about it called to him.

Without hesitation, Thomas climbed it. The movement came easily, fluid and practiced. He found a wide, sturdy limb, leaned his back against the trunk, and settled in. From there, he could see the whole schoolyard, but no one could see him.

He ate in silence, and let the sound of the breeze in the leaves carry him somewhere quieter. Somewhere far away.

When the bell rang, distant and shrill, he began his descent.

As his feet touched the ground, a sudden cold kiss brushed his nose. He looked up.

Snow.

Thin flakes spiraled from the sky - light, fleeting, beautiful. He raised a hand, catching one on his palm. It melted instantly, gone without a trace.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

Winter had always been his favorite.

As the final bell rang and the classroom began to empty, students spilled into the coatroom in a flurry of boots and scarves, voices raised in laughter and plans for the evening. Thomas moved slowly, half-distracted, until he caught a glimpse of red in the coatroom - a familiar pair of braids, a familiar posture.

Anne.

She stood slightly apart from the others, fastening her coat with careful precision. For a moment, their eyes met across the room, and something in her posture changed - just slightly.

Thomas stepped forward, drawn by an impulse he didn’t fully understand.

“Hello, Anne,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I just wanted to say… Luna’s settled in fine. Thought you’d like to know.”

Anne turned toward him. Her expression flickered with surprise—maybe even gratitude, but it faded quickly, replaced by a kind of polite reserve.

“That’s... good,” she said. Her words were careful. Distant.

Thomas hesitated, caught off-guard by the coolness. “I was hoping—”

“Thomas?”

Mr. Phillips’s voice cut sharply through the hallway, halting him mid-sentence. “Come here for a moment.”

Thomas hesitated, glancing back at Anne.

But she was already turning away.

Diana appeared beside her, placing a light hand on her arm. The two girls moved toward the door. Just before leaving, Diana glanced back at Thomas and offered a faint, apologetic smile. Anne, however, didn’t look back at all.

Whatever he had meant to say hung unspoken in the empty coatroom air.

He turned and headed back into the classroom, where Mr. Phillips stood waiting with arms crossed and a sheaf of papers in hand.

“Thomas,” the teacher began. “It’s become clear you’re significantly behind in several subjects. Perhaps you’d care to explain why?”

“My studying has been... irregular as of late,” Thomas said carefully. “There were... circumstances. I did the best I could.”

Mr. Phillips’s expression shifted, registering the vague answer with mild suspicion. In rural schools, missed time for chores was common enough, but Thomas didn’t carry the look of a farm boy.

“You’ll need to put in considerable effort if you hope to keep up,” he said, handing over a folded list. “These are the topics I suggest you focus on.”

Thomas accepted it without comment. The paper was thin and the ink already smudged in places - an afterthought, as though copied from something meant for someone else.

“Thank you, Mr. Phillips,” he said, though it came out flat. He turned and left before anything more could be said.

Snow had begun to fall in earnest now - thick, slow flakes drifting lazily toward the earth, softening the world around him. The road stretched out quiet and white ahead.

He thought of Anne’s sudden coolness. The probing questions at lunch. Mr. Phillips’s glance, measuring him like an equation that didn’t quite add up.

They were watching him.

They didn’t know what to make of him. And they were trying to decide whether he belonged.

If there was going to be a place for him here, he’d have to earn it.

Chapter Text

Winter had settled deep into Avonlea, blanketing the fields in silence and slowing the days to a crawl. But Thomas found little time to appreciate its beauty. Between his relentless efforts to catch up in school and the never-ending work needed to bring their homestead into order, each day blurred into the next.

The classroom, for all its warmth by the stove, was no warmer in spirit. Despite his occasional efforts to be sociable, all of the girls—and more than a few boys—remained oddly distant. At first, he’d tried to puzzle out the reason. But after a while, he gave up. Likely just the usual suspicion toward outsiders.

Still, there were things he’d picked up.

From overheard conversations and quiet observation, her story had begun to stitch itself together in fragments. Orphaned. Adopted by the Cuthberts. Fiercely loyal to her best friend Diana. And above all - utterly consumed by imagination. By words. By books. When it was her turn to read aloud in class, she didn’t simply recite the text - she inhabited it. 

Thomas had been caught off guard the first time, the emotion in her voice so raw and real it pulled him from his own thoughts. The others barely reacted. They were used to it.

One cold morning, Mr. Phillips announced a spelling bee, pitching boys against girls. Thomas sat up straighter at his desk, eager for the chance to prove himself at something straightforward. A contest of skill. No whispers. No past. Just words.

The competition began with familiar energy - teasing from the boys, excited whispering from the girls. One by one, students were eliminated as the words grew harder. “Amorous” undid Tillie, earning a groan from the girls’ side. Then Moody fumbled “Gorgeous,” muttering something about nerves as he sat down.

Only three remained: Thomas, Gilbert, and Anne.

The next few rounds passed in a rhythm of challenge and precision. Thomas spelled each word without hesitation. So did Anne. So did Gilbert. Mr. Phillips began glancing at the clock more often, his patience thinning with every correct answer.

Finally, he cut in with a sigh. “Thomas, you’ll have to take a seat. We could be here until sundown otherwise.”

The words landed harder than Thomas expected. Spelling was something he knew he was good at. Being asked to step down—not because he failed, but because of a stalemate—felt like being shoved off stage mid-sentence.

He opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and closed it again. Without a word, he returned to his seat.

Now it was Anne versus Gilbert.

They traded words with the same determined focus, though Thomas noticed something unusual. Anne, usually so composed, had gone pale. Her eyes flicked downward between each word, her hand clenching faintly at her side. Was she… in pain?

Before he could dwell on it further, Mr. Phillips called out the next word:

“Engagement.”

Gilbert stepped forward, confident.

“E-N-G-A-G-M-E-N-T.”

A beat of silence.

Gasps followed. Mr. Phillips raised an eyebrow. “Incorrect.”

Cheers erupted from the girls’ side of the room as Anne was declared the winner. Gilbert, not looking disappointed at all, turned to her with a half-smile.

“Congratulations, Anne. I should have added an ‘E.’”

Thomas glanced at him, puzzled. The mistake felt off - small, but uncharacteristic. Gilbert’s performance was usually impeccable. But he offered only a faint shrug, as if it didn’t matter.

Thomas wasn’t so sure.

That afternoon, Thomas returned home, the cold clinging to him like a second skin.  He pushed through the front door, brushing snow from his coat and hair with quick, practiced motions. The warmth of the hearth reached him before anything else, flickering gold across the floorboards. His father was there, seated in his usual chair by the fire, a letter held in one hand and a crease of thought carved deep into his brow.

“Afternoon,” Thomas greeted him with practiced nonchalance. 

His father didn’t respond, so Thomas busied himself with the simple task of preparing a quick meal.

As he settled at the kitchen table with a ham sandwich and a cup of water, he became acutely aware of his father's gaze upon him, penetrating and filled with an unspoken gravity. His father finally broke the silence, his voice carrying a chilling note of formality. 

“It’s time you resumed your training.”

Thomas froze mid-chew.

“We’ve been idle long enough,” his father added.

The words came with no preamble. No warmth. Just a flat statement, spoken like something already decided.

A pause stretched between them, brittle as the air outside. Thomas lowered the sandwich to the plate.

“I thought,” he began, then stopped. What had he thought? That they could stay hidden forever? That a quiet life in a quiet town might somehow keep the past at bay?

Thomas let out a breath through his nose. The chair creaked as he leaned back, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the table.

“I understand,” he said. The words tasted like ash.

It wasn’t consent. Not really. Just recognition of inevitability - like watching the clouds gather and knowing the storm was coming, whether he was ready or not.

His father watched him for a moment longer, as if searching his face for resistance. Finding none, he gave a slow nod and rose stiffly, limping toward the hallway with the faint sound of his crutch tapping against the floorboards.

Thomas remained at the table, alone with his thoughts and the cold imprint of duty pressing into his chest like a weight he’d almost forgotten he was carrying.

After a while, he stood. The sandwich stayed on the plate, uneaten.

There were still chores to do. Wood to bring in. Lanterns to trim. 

And beyond that - a weekend he now dreaded more than anything.

On Friday, during lunch break, Thomas found himself not perched in the willow tree — his usual haven — but instead seated on the floor at the back of the classroom, his back resting against the wall. A light flurry had started outside, and he didn’t trust the wind not to turn the pages of his book to pulp.

With his geography textbook in one hand and a sandwich in the other, he tried to divide his attention between chewing and revising - memorizing towns, rivers, and districts in Nova Scotia. He flipped the same page twice before realizing he hadn’t absorbed a word. His mind kept drifting - not to the book, but to Gilbert’s late arrival that morning. The boy had slipped into class quietly, uncharacteristically tardy, yet Mr. Phillips hadn’t said a thing.

Before Thomas could ponder it further, a sharp voice rang out from across the room.

"This is so inconvenient."

Anne.

Thomas glanced up from his book, drawn by her tone - all fire and frustration. The girls had once again erected their lunchtime fort, a makeshift wall of desks and hung sheets that turned the front corner of the room into their private sanctum. Thomas had grown used to the oddity of it by now, even if he still found it baffling.

The moment passed, but it left a familiar thought lingering.

The girls hardly spoke to him anymore. Conversations died when he approached. Eyes turned away. Even Diana, who had once given him a friendly smile, seemed to avoid holding his gaze too long now. Only Josie Pye ever looked at him - and those looks weren’t kind or curious. Just measured. Occasional. Like she was trying to solve a riddle she wasn’t sure she liked.

Thomas sighed and closed his book.

The bell rang.

Afternoon lessons resumed, and with them, Mr. Phillips’s favorite pastime - turning review questions into spectacles of embarrassment. His mood was sour, and his aim was true.

After testing a few of the students about various regions of Canada with mixed success, he turned his attention to Gilbert.

"Which districts comprise the Prairies? Gilbert."

Gilbert stood without hesitation. “The districts of Athabasca, Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Assiniboia.”

“Now that,” Mr. Phillips declared, “is a clever student.” He gestured for Gilbert to sit, clearly pleased with the performance.

Next, his gaze fell on Anne.

"Which provinces comprise the Atlantic Maritimes?" he asked.

Anne rose slowly. Something in her posture wasn’t right - too rigid, too tense. From across the room, Thomas watched her with growing unease. Her face was pale, her eyes unfocused.

"I’m sorry, what was the question?" she asked, her voice fragile.

Mr. Phillips's response dripped with condescension. "Oh, could you not hear me? Was I not speaking loudly enough?" he mocked, amplifying Anne's discomfort.

"I'm sorry, I just..." Anne stammered, attempting to regain her composure, but Mr. Phillips cut her off sharply.

"The Atlantic Maritimes!" he snapped, his impatience clear. "Sometime today," he added, as Anne stood frozen, unable to respond.

Thomas felt a surge of heat behind his eyes.

He had seen this before - not in classrooms, but in alleys, doorways, and homes. People who used power not to teach or lead, but to wound. To control.

His hands curled into fists beneath the desk.

When Mr. Phillips, dissatisfied with Anne's silence, turned to Thomas, the shift was palpable.

“Thomas?” he said sharply. “Perhaps you can enlighten us.”

Thomas stood slowly, his posture measured, composed - but there was no mistaking the shift in his expression. His eyes were steel - locked on the teacher with a defiance that was quiet but unmistakable.

“New Brunswick. Nova Scotia. Prince Edward Island,” he said evenly, his voice clipped and cold - with just enough edge to make clear what he thought of the teacher’s behavior.

Mr. Phillips paused, the corners of his mouth tightening. For a moment, it looked as if he might press further - question the tone, demand something else. But Thomas didn’t look away. The silence stretched thin.

“That would be correct,” he said at last. “Take your seat.”

But he couldn’t help himself.

“The speed of your improvement is remarkable,” he added, his voice laden with animosity. “Perhaps in time you’ll no longer be the worst student in my class.”

A few snickers rippled through the room — low, uneasy laughter, most of it coming from the back rows.

Thomas sat down without reaction. The jab didn’t land. He wasn’t listening to the others. His eyes drifted again to Anne, who had returned to her seat in silence. She was staring at her desk, her hands curled in her lap. Even her shoulders looked smaller than usual - hunched inwards, like she was trying to disappear.

Gilbert cast a look toward her, then another at Thomas - the kind that asked a question without words. Thomas didn’t return it.

The rest of the lesson passed like fog.

He couldn’t focus.

Not on the maps, or the dates, or the sound of chalk scraping against the board.

As the day drew to a close and the final bell rang, the classroom came alive with the rustle of coats and muffled conversations. Thomas moved toward the coatroom, putting on his scarf, when a sudden shift in tone caught his attention.

Across the narrow space, Gilbert stood casually by the door, animatedly speaking to Diana and Anne, describing something called “mnemonic devices” - tricks, apparently, for remembering geography facts.

"Diana, could you please tell Gilbert Blythe that I don't need his help?" Anne's voice, edged with annoyance, cut through the chatter of the coatroom.

Gilbert, ever the embodiment of ease, shot back with a playful retort. "Why don't you just tell me yourself? I'm right here."

"I suppose I just did," Anne snapped, her words laced with a cool disdain that left no room for misinterpretation.

Gilbert lingered a second longer, then gave a low, casual chuckle. “Have a nice weekend,” he said lightly, directing the farewell toward both girls.

Diana offered him a quick goodbye. Anne didn’t look up.

Thomas watched him go, brows slightly raised.

He lingered only a second before pulling on his own coat and stepping outside. The cold hit him like a wall, but he ignored it, lengthening his stride to catch up.

“Hey,” he called after Gilbert, boots crunching in the snow. “What was all that about?”

Gilbert slowed, casting him a sideways glance. His breath curled in the air, white against the deepening blue of the sky. “Ah,” he said, a bit sheepishly. “That.”

Thomas waited, hands tucked into his pockets.

Gilbert gave a small shrug. “It started with a joke,” he admitted. “A stupid one, really. About her hair.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking faintly embarrassed. “Called her ‘Carrots.’ She didn’t like that.”

Thomas blinked. “That’s what started all this?”

Gilbert smiled ruefully. “It’s been a bit of a war ever since. Nothing serious. At least I don’t think so.” He paused, then added with a note of dry humor, “Though she did smash a slate over my head that time.”

“She’s different,” Thomas said, more to himself than to Gilbert.

“She is,” Gilbert said. “She remembers everything. And she has a particular gift for holding a grudge.”

Thomas sighed. “I get the feeling I made a poor first impression.”

Gilbert chuckled. “Anne can be unpredictable. Don’t take it too personally. If she really didn’t like you, you’d know it.”

Thomas hummed in reply.

“You ever been on the wrong side of someone like that?” Gilbert asked.

Thomas hesitated. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t tend to get close enough for it to matter.”

Gilbert glanced at him. “Is that by design?”

Thomas gave a noncommittal shrug, gaze fixed forward. “Doesn’t always feel like there’s much choice.”

Gilbert seemed to consider that. “Well,” he said finally, “for what it’s worth, you’ve made a decent impression on me. Despite the cravat.”

Thomas cracked a small smile. “And here I thought that was my most charming feature.”

Gilbert laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. The girls are probably just intimidated.”

“Or mildly horrified,” Thomas offered dryly.

“Give it time,” Gilbert said. “Avonlea likes to take its sweet time warming up to anything new. But once it does…” He smiled. “It’s hard to shake.”

“I guess we’ll see,” Thomas replied, a little too quickly.

They reached the fork in the road, the wind biting at their faces.

“Well,” Gilbert said, tightening his scarf. “That’s my turnoff.”

Thomas nodded. “See you Monday.”

Gilbert gave him a brief nod. “Take care.”

As Gilbert disappeared down the lane, Thomas lingered for a moment, watching the snow drift through the trees. Something about the exchange stuck with him. Gilbert had that rare quality - openness without judgment.

It was the kind of thing that could easily be mistaken for weakness. But Thomas had seen enough to recognize it for what it really was: strength.

But it wasn’t the kind he could summon - not for what waited for him this weekend.

Chapter Text

The chill of Saturday morning clung to the windows like frostbite, the cold creeping into Thomas’s bones long before he stepped outside. He descended the stairs slowly, each creak beneath his boots reminding him of what lay ahead. The silence of the manor was complete — no fire, no scent of breakfast, no voices — just the quiet weight of anticipation pressing down.

He ate alone. Bread, water, and little appetite.

By the time he stepped out the back door, the sky was a dull gray, low clouds caught in the tree line. Mist curled along the ground, turning the backyard into a silent stage set for the day's lessons.

His father was already there.

He stood with a commanding presence despite the cane that now replaced his crutch, dressed in his heavy coat, one hand clutching a pair of short wooden poles. They were dulled at the tips but solid, brutal things. Weapons meant for muscle memory. For bruises. For lessons that left marks.

Without a word, he tossed one to Thomas, who caught it with an ease born of familiarity. The cold wood felt heavy in his hand, a reminder of the countless hours spent in this brutal routine.

His father removed his coat and stepped forward.

And so it began.

The first strike came fast — a slash toward Thomas’s head — but he ducked, pivoted, blocked the next blow to his side. The rhythm was familiar, drilled into him years ago. His father moved with a surprising sharpness despite the injury, every motion efficient, merciless.

Thomas kept up. Barely.

The flurry of strikes forced him backward, his boots slipping slightly on the icy grass. A sudden jab to the shoulder jolted him, followed by a sweep to the back of the knee that sent him tumbling. The cold ground hit hard.

“Pathetic,” his father muttered, turning away.

Thomas gritted his teeth, breath fogging as he pushed himself upright.

“I expected better.”

The words cut deeper than the fall. It wasn’t just critique - it was contempt. Thomas steadied himself, but his hands were already shaking, his body remembering too much.

The next round came just as fast. His father moved like a shadow — and Thomas couldn’t keep up. His focus slipped. His emotions surged. He lashed out — too wild — and his father punished the mistake, striking Thomas’s hand with the wooden stick.

Pain burst across his palm. Blood welled. He flinched.

And that was all it took.

His father stepped in, used Thomas’s own momentum against him, and sent him sprawling again - a heap of limbs and breathless frustration in the frozen mud.

“You’re not focused,” his father said, tone clipped. “Your mind is elsewhere. That makes you vulnerable.”

Thomas didn’t move.

Focus. That was always the lesson. The thing drilled into him. Not just skill, but the ability to become a blade in motion - no thoughts, no fear, no hesitation.

But how was he supposed to focus when every breath out here smelled like memory? When every movement echoed a childhood he’d rather forget?

“It seems I may have been wrong to send you to school,” his father continued, voice low but cold. “A distraction. Trivial.”

That snapped something.

School had been his one reprieve - imperfect, yes, but a life where he was simply a boy, not a weapon. To hear it dismissed so easily, like a mistake… Thomas rose slowly, breath steadying.

And something shifted.

Not in his body, but in his bearing.

He no longer looked like a boy defending himself - he looked like someone choosing not to break.

He met his father’s gaze with clear, quiet defiance. No words. Just readiness.

This time, when the bout resumed, it was different.

Thomas matched each strike with control. He absorbed his father's rhythm, anticipated the movements. He didn’t rush. He didn’t panic. He simply moved - smooth, relentless.

And then came the feint.

A high slash meant to draw his defense upward, followed by the real attack - a sweep at his legs.

Thomas didn’t fall for it.

He spun, pivoted, leapt - the wooden pole passed under him as he twisted in midair, landing solidly behind his father.

For a moment, there was an opening.

And Thomas took it.

He surged forward, forcing his father back with a rapid flurry of blows. The strikes were no longer angry - they were calculated, fluid, disciplined.

Then - a clean disarm.

His father’s stick flew from his grasp and landed with a soft thud in the snow.

Thomas halted the tip of his own weapon just inches from his father’s throat.

His father's reaction was not what he had anticipated. A smile, rare and enigmatic, crept across his father's features, confusing Thomas. Then came the utterance, a single word laden with implication: 

“Hesitance.”

Before Thomas could register the word, his father's cane swept beneath his feet with a swift, unexpected motion, toppling him once more.

Thomas landed hard.

Again.

The cold soaked through his back. His bloodied hand throbbed. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.

“Improvement,” his father said. “But far from acceptable. We’ll continue another day.”

With that, he turned, retrieved the sticks, and limped back toward the manor.

Thomas lay in the silence, watching the mist roll across the ground. His hands were trembling - from pain, yes, but also something deeper.

He sat up. Examined the cut on his palm. Blood still welled in the center — angry, bright.

Eventually, he got to his feet and made his way to the creek.

The water was cold — shockingly so — when he dipped his hand beneath the surface. The blood turned pink and spiraled downstream.

It grounded him, somehow. The pain. The stillness.

Then —

“Allô?”

A voice, clear and curious, floated across the water.

Thomas turned his head toward the sound, water dripping from his fingers.

Someone was watching.

Chapter Text

Thomas jolted upright.

Across the creek stood a boy about his age, dark-haired and narrow-shouldered, his Aegean cap askew over one ear. Beside him stood a large black horse, its breath misting in the morning air. The boy looked small next to it, almost swallowed by the size of the animal.

“Allô,” the boy called again, his French accent softening the word. “Are you alright?”

Thomas didn’t answer right away. He shifted, subtly moving his injured hand out of view, keeping his weight balanced. His gaze swept the treeline. Nothing moved. Still, the tension from earlier hadn’t left him.

“I’m fine,” he replied, too sharply. “Who are you?”

The boy blinked, unfazed. “Is this Creekside Manor?” he asked instead, scanning the grounds. “I’m looking for... Rocksports?”

“Rockport,” Thomas corrected flatly. “How can I help?”

“I am Jerry Baynard,” the boy said with a slight bow of his head. “Mr. Cuthbert sent me. There is… a wagon? For sale, nearby. He thought maybe you want it.”

“A wagon?” Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Seems strange, coming all this way just to tell me that.”

Jerry hesitated. “Oui... I mean, yes. Strange maybe. But Mr. Cuthbert, he cannot come himself. So - he sent me.”

Thomas glanced toward the manor, weighing the moment. His father’s warnings pressed at the edges of his thoughts—stay cautious, trust no one. And yet... Jerry didn’t look like a liar. And something in the earnest way he stood there, shifting awkwardly in the snow, disarmed Thomas more than he liked to admit.

“Alright,” Thomas said at last. He motioned downstream. “The creek’s shallow a ways that direction. You can cross there.”

Jerry nodded and began leading his horse toward the crossing.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Thomas called after him. “Let me fetch some money.”

Back inside the manor, Thomas rifled through the drawer where his father kept coin. As he saddled Luna, unease tugged at him again. The timing was still odd. Too convenient.

But when he returned to the yard, Jerry’s face lit up at the sight of the mare.

“Ah! Luna!” Jerry exclaimed, stepping forward. He reached up to stroke her muzzle with a familiarity that startled Thomas. “I know this one, oui. She is—was—ours, with Mr. Cuthbert. I fed her - every day!”

Some of Thomas’s suspicion thawed. The joy in Jerry’s face was unmistakable, and his recognition of the horse only made his story more believable.

“I forgot to introduce myself,” Thomas said after a beat. “I’m Thomas.”

He extended a hand. Jerry hesitated only a beat before shaking it with quick enthusiasm.

Thomas mounted Luna and glanced down the road. “Alright,” he said, gesturing forward. “Lead the way.”

As they travelled the winding country road, Thomas kept a cautious eye on the tree line. Though the adrenaline from training had faded, the nagging suspicion still lingered at the back of his mind. His instincts, sharpened through years of careful instruction, warned him not to let his guard down too easily.

But Jerry made it difficult to remain wary.

The boy talked almost without pause, leaping from one topic to the next, his words tumbling over each other in imperfect English. He told stories about the animals at Green Gables, about Marilla’s quiet sternness and Matthew’s gentler presence, about how he’d fallen off the roof once while trying to fix a gutter—“Only small fall,” he added, holding up fingers to show how “not tall” the barn was.

Thomas listened in silence, his responses brief, but not unfriendly. Bit by bit, Jerry’s chatter began to chip away at his tension.

He caught the shape of Jerry’s life in the gaps between words - big family, little money, too much work for someone so young. It struck a familiar chord.

And every mention of the name Green Gables brought Anne’s voice to the surface of his thoughts: her sharp wit, her steady confidence, her odd flashes of imagination that had startled him more than once in class.

A question itched at him. Something about Anne. It hovered at the edge of his lips more than once.

But he kept it there. Silent.

Up ahead, the outline of a farmhouse emerged from the pale light of the winter morning. Its weathered stone exterior blended into the muted landscape, chimney smoke curling faintly into the sky.

Thomas dismounted wordlessly, handing the reins to Jerry. He approached the door, boots crunching over frost-hardened ground, and knocked twice—firm, measured.

His breath puffed in clouds, rising and vanishing in the cold air as he waited.

The door creaked open to reveal Gilbert Blythe, his familiar face framed by the warm glow of the hearth behind him. 

He blinked, surprised. “Thomas?”

Thomas blinked back. “Gilbert?”

A beat passed.

“What brings you by?” Gilbert asked, stepping aside.

“I was told you’re selling a wagon,” Thomas replied, voice steady but laced with suspicion.

Gilbert frowned. “We are?”

Something in the tone—uncertain, confused—made the hairs on Thomas’s neck stand on end. Instinct surged—this had to be a setup. He turned sharply, eyes scanning the yard. His body shifted automatically into a guarded stance, ready for whatever trap lay waiting.

But there was nothing. Just Jerry, beside Luna, humming softly as he scratched behind her ears. Completely oblivious.

Thomas’s stance eased, though the tension didn’t leave him entirely. Gilbert looked at him with a raised brow, clearly unsure what to make of his behavior.

“I… uh, I’ll check with my father,” Gilbert said, before disappearing inside.

Left alone on the porch, Thomas exhaled slowly, trying to dispel the static in his nerves. He listened to the faint murmurs of conversation drifting from inside the house, broken by an occasional cough. After a minute, Gilbert returned, a trace of disbelief on his face.

“Turns out we are selling one,” he said, his tone tinged with resignation. “I didn’t know my father had put out a word.”

He led Thomas around to a nearby shed, where a modest, well-worn wagon sat waiting. The paint was faded and the wood creaked as they pulled it out, but it looked sturdy enough.

Jerry brought Luna over and began hitching her up with the practiced ease of someone used to doing this sort of thing alone.

As Thomas passed the payment to Gilbert, the other boy’s eyes fell to his hand - and lingered.

“What happened there?” Gilbert asked, nodding toward the gash across Thomas’s palm.

Thomas instinctively curled his hand, but it was too late.

“Oh. That. Just bruised it… doing some work at home,” he said quickly, but the words came too fast, the tone too flat.

Gilbert didn’t call him on it, but the look in his eyes said he didn’t believe a word.

“You should clean that,” he said plainly. “Wrap it. Otherwise it’ll get infected.”

“I was going to.”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow.

Thomas sighed, relenting. “I just hadn’t gotten around to it.”

“Come on,” Gilbert said. “We’ve got a basin inside.”

Thomas hesitated - but the offer was genuine. No pressing, no pity. Just concern.

“…Alright,” he said.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of baking bread and pine. Gilbert guided him to the kitchen basin, handed him a clean rag, and stood by as Thomas washed the cut. The cold water stung, the memory of training flashing through his mind like a phantom.

Gilbert handed him a linen bandage and helped wrap it, fingers moving with a quiet efficiency. It was a simple act - but one Thomas hadn’t realized he’d needed.

By the time they stepped back outside, the wagon was ready and the sky had darkened a few shades.

As they walked toward the gate, there was a pause in the conversation. Something had shifted - small, but not insignificant.

“Thanks,” Thomas said quietly, flexing his now-wrapped hand. “For this.”

Gilbert gave a brief nod, brushing snow from his sleeve. “I’ll see you at school?”

Thomas gave a faint smile. “Yeah. See you.”

Thomas climbed up onto the wagon seat and took hold of the reins, the leather cold beneath his fingers. Luna gave a small snort, her breath fogging in the late afternoon air. Beside him, Jerry mounted his own horse, settling into the saddle with practiced ease.

As they reached the fork where their paths would split, Thomas gave a brief nod toward the other boy.

“Give my regards to Anne,” he called out, his voice carrying across the wind.

Jerry grinned, lifting a hand in a casual thumbs-up. “Au revoir!” he shouted back cheerfully before guiding his horse toward Green Gables.

Left alone on the winding road home, Thomas felt the earlier warmth begin to fade. The cold crept in again, not just in the air, but somewhere deeper. Whatever flicker of comfort he’d felt began to dissolve, replaced by a tangle of unease that the morning’s bruises had only worsened. 

He felt suspended - between places, between versions of himself. Caught between the boy he was allowed to be at school… and the one his father demanded he become.

He sighed, the sound swallowed by the hush of the winter woods.

Back home, the manor was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire.

His father sat by the hearth, one leg stretched out stiffly, the cane resting within reach. He didn’t speak, didn’t look up. Just sat there, waiting - like always.

“Got us a wagon,” Thomas said flatly, tossing the pouch of leftover coins onto the table with a dull clink.

He didn’t wait for a response. He climbed the stairs without turning back, though he could feel his father’s gaze following him, cold and unreadable as ever.

In his room, Thomas collapsed onto the bed without removing his boots. The ceiling above him was blank, save for the small crack near the corner he’d stared at many nights before.

He closed his eyes.

Despite the ache in his limbs and the bandaged sting in his hand, sleep didn’t come. Not right away. His father’s words from earlier echoed again and again in his mind—trivial distractions, not acceptable, focus.

Thomas let out a long breath, bracing himself for whatever tomorrow would demand.

Another test. Another fight.

And no room for hesitation.

Chapter Text

The return to school on Monday came with a familiar mix of anticipation and routine, but Thomas was immediately struck by Gilbert’s empty desk. A flicker of curiosity nudged at him - had his classmate fallen ill, or was there something else keeping him away? Yet, his musings were quickly interrupted as Mr. Phillips stepped to the front of the room, the usual chatter dwindling under his stern gaze. He marched to Anne’s desk, his tone sharp and cold as he addressed her.

"You are not to fraternise or exert undue influence. Ruby, switch places with Anne," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for protest.

The classroom collectively inhaled at the teacher’s decree. Gasps, quiet whispers, and a few snickers floated around the room as Anne and Ruby reluctantly swapped seats under the weight of Mr. Phillips’s glare. Thomas watched the scene with growing confusion and concern, unsettled by the harshness of Mr. Phillips’s actions. Diana’s face reflected a quiet, wounded disbelief, the pang of losing her closest friend in a single command plain for all to see. But it was Anne’s expression that cut through Thomas - the pain in her eyes spoke of isolation, of an all-too-familiar kind of exclusion.

In that moment, Thomas felt a surge of empathy for Anne, a realization of the constant challenges she faced, from misunderstandings and badmouthing to the direct interventions of authority figures like Mr. Phillips. The separation from Diana, her closest confidant, appeared as yet another trial in a series of obstacles that Anne seemed perpetually forced to navigate.

The reason behind Mr. Phillips's decision remained unclear, shrouded in the authority he wielded without explanation. The lesson began, leaving the classroom in a state of uneasy compliance.

At lunchtime, Thomas once again found himself perched in his willow tree, a refuge that had become a familiar escape - at least when the weather allowed for it. However, today he did not combine eating and revision, his mind too distracted. 

Yet, today he found it hard to settle, his mind preoccupied. He picked at his sandwich absentmindedly until, faintly, the unmistakable voice of Billy Andrews floated up to him.

"...and not to mention, they don't attend the church on Sundays either," Billy was saying, his voice carrying the unmistakable tone of disdain and judgement.

From his hidden vantage point, Thomas's attention sharpened, the realization dawning that he and his father were the subjects of this conversation. As Billy and his group settled nearby, oblivious to Thomas's presence above, the words continued to flow, painting them in a harsh, unforgiving light.

"They’re freaks, I tell you," Billy's voice rang out, the laughter from his audience punctuating the insult. "Just like that ugly trash orphan. Good thing the teacher put her in her place today."

The mention of Anne, paired with Billy's callous insult, ignited a fury in Thomas that could not be contained. With a rush of emotion driving him, he leapt from the tree, landing with a determined thud at its base, his presence suddenly and forcefully announced.

The group startled at his sudden appearance, their smirks and laughter dissipating into a tense silence. Billy, attempting to regain his composure, stepped towards Thomas with a grin that failed to mask the unease of being caught in his cruelty.

 "Ah, we were just talking about you," he said, trying to maintain his bravado.

"You leave Anne the hell alone, or you will contend with me." The threat from Thomas, though barely above a whisper, was cold and menacing. 

Billy, seemingly amused, was clearly unaware of the gravity of the situation - he sized Thomas up, his reply a mix of defiance and mockery. 

"Or what, bud?" he asked, the smugness in his tone was clear.

With an astonishing swiftness that left the bystanders stunned, Thomas was upon Billy, and the quick movement ended with Billy on the ground, the impact resonating with a thud that seemed to echo the shock rippling through the onlookers.

Billy, fueled by a mix of humiliation and rage, scrambled to his feet, his eyes blazing with the promise of retaliation.

"You’re gonna regret that!" he shouted, his voice a mixture of threat and wounded pride as he lunged toward Thomas.

The air was charged, the other boys retreating a step, their faces a mix of excitement and fear. They were accustomed to the rough-and-tumble scuffles that occasionally broke the monotony of school life, but this was different.

Thomas stood his ground, but it was the almost inhuman coldness in his gaze that sent shivers down the spines of the watching boys. This wasn't the Thomas they knew; in this moment, he was something else - something formidable and almost terrifying.

As Billy's fist flew towards Thomas, it was met not with panic but with precision. Thomas's response was almost surgical, deflecting the blow and using Billy's momentum against him, a technique that sent Billy sprawling yet again.

Billy, driven by defiance rather than sense, attempted to rise and continue the fight, but Thomas was already upon him. The power behind Thomas's decisive blows, one to the back and another to the jaw, sent Billy to the ground with a clarity that left no room for doubt. The fight was over.

The boys who had gathered watched in a mix of awe and disbelief. The usual roughhousing of schoolyard fights paled in comparison to the display they had just witnessed. Thomas's gaze, when it swept over the group, was chilling, his eyes devoid of warmth and humanity. 

Turning his back on the scene, Thomas's departure was unchallenged, the crowd parting to let him through, their expressions a mix of fear and respect. The transformation from the reserved boy they knew to the figure of almost mythical retribution he had become in those brief moments left a lasting impression.

As Thomas settled back into the familiar surroundings of the classroom, the adrenaline of the confrontation ebbed away, his hands shaking. He sought solace in deep breaths, trying to steady himself as he awaited the inevitable repercussions of his actions. The classroom slowly filled again, the air charged with the unspoken knowledge of the events that had transpired outside.

The tension rose with the arrival of Mr. Phillips. His anger was clear, sweeping through the room with a severity that left no doubt about his awareness of the fight.

"Thomas Rockport, front of the class, now!" he bellowed, summoning Thomas.

Thomas rose, his expression unreadable, and walked to the front. When Mr. Phillips grasped him by the shoulder and spun him to face the class, Thomas barely restrained the defensive instinct to break free, his mind still wired from the fight. The teacher’s fingers dug into his shoulder as he barked accusations of disrespect and misconduct, punctuating each word with contempt.

“You are to remain standing here for the rest of the day,” Mr. Phillips declared, his voice laced with derision.

Thomas stood tall, facing his peers with a stoic determination, arms crossed behind his back as he fixed his gaze on a distant point. The absence of Billy Andrews from the room was a silent testament to the altercation’s severity, a detail that did not escape Thomas's notice.

The lesson proceeded, but the usual rhythm of teaching and learning was disrupted, the focus of the students scattered by whispers and covert glances.

As the day's lessons drew to a close and the classroom began to empty, Thomas remained stationed at the front. It was in this moment of transition, as students eagerly departed for the freedom beyond the school's walls, that Mr. Phillips directed Anne to attend to the mundane task of cleaning the chalk sponge.

The symmetry of the situation with Thomas's first day at school was not lost on him, although this time he and Anne had switched places. As Anne approached the chalkboard to retrieve the sponge, mere steps from where Thomas was, he finally found it in him to meet her gaze. It was clear Anne wished to say something, but was halted by the watchful presence of Mr. Phillips, who remained at his desk.

With the sponge cleaned and the classroom devoid of other students, Mr. Phillips issued another command to Anne, tasking her with delivering books to Gilbert, whose absence would extend for an unknown period. When she asked about Gilbert’s well-being, her inquiry was dismissed brusquely, the teacher’s response as cold as his treatment of her earlier that morning.

As Anne prepared to leave, she looked back and offered Thomas a smile - a gesture that pierced the veil of recent coldness, a signal that perhaps the trials they each faced could be a foundation for mutual understanding.

Just as Thomas was finally dismissed, he lingered a moment longer, steeling himself before asking about Gilbert’s absence. Mr. Phillips’s response, offered begrudgingly, finally provided clarity: Gilbert's father was severely ill.

Thomas's return home was met not with the silence or solace he might have hoped for but with the stern disapproval of his father, who was already aware of the day's events. The lecture that awaited him was not about the moral implications of his actions but the potential repercussions that extended beyond the schoolyard and into the broader community.

"You fought the Andrew's boy alone, fine," his father spoke, his tone laden with frustration, not at the act of standing up but at the potential fallout. 

"But what happens when he brings some of his buddies along to help? What happens when the town starts asking questions about how my son has fought off and wiped the floor with three, four boys at once?" The concern was not for Thomas's safety but for the suspicions he might rise.

Thomas, though understanding the practicality of his father's worries, couldn't help but feel a sting of injustice. The urge to defend his actions, born from a place of righteousness, bubbled to the surface. 

"Well, you're one to talk, your own actions are raising questions in town," he countered, his voice firm. "Just today, people were talking about how disconnected you are, not attending the church on Sundays, for example. People are gossiping about how you are." he pointed out, mirroring his father's concern with the community's perception with one of his own

His father's response was a huff of dismissal, the mention of their absence from church services a trivial matter in his eyes. Never a religious man, his father's priorities lay elsewhere, unconcerned by the town's murmurs about their spiritual habits. The exchange spiraled into an argument that found no resolution.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it was to smooth things over with the Andrews, and the school? " his father spat angrily “The Andrews are a proud family and they won’t forget this.”

With neither willing to concede, the conversation reached an impasse. Thomas, fueled by a mix of defiance and a growing sense of isolation within his own home, retreated to the sanctuary of his room. His father, left to ponder the stubbornness of youth and the complexities of raising a son in a town where every action was subject to scrutiny, remained below.

Chapter Text

The rhythm of Thomas's life had become a relentless march of obligations and self-imposed isolation. The grueling training sessions with his father, each leaving him more drained than the last, coupled with the ever-mounting pressures of studies left him distancing himself from the other students, not wanting to risk another altercation. Billy seemed to have backed off for the time being. After awhile, Anne and Diana seemed to have renewed their friendship as well, despite whatever had occurred before.

Thus, when Mr. Phillips entered the classroom some days later with news that would halt the day's lessons, Thomas was already engulfed in study, his nose buried in a book.

The announcement of the lessons being cancelled for the day  prompted immediate speculation and concern among the students. Thomas, ever observant, sensed the gravity behind the decision. The news, when it finally came, was a somber revelation that cast a shadow over the entire community.

"John Blythe has died," his father relayed later that day. Gilbert's father, known to most in Avonlea, had succumbed to his illness. The news struck Thomas with a pang of disbelief as he remembered Gilbert’s recent absences and how his friend had become a shadow of himself.

"We will be attending the funeral tomorrow," his father added.

Thomas, taken aback by his father's readiness to engage in this act of communal solidarity, chose not to question the decision.

The funeral service for John Blythe unfolded under a cloudy sky, a mournful grey blanket casting Avonlea in a soft, muted light. Nearly everyone in town gathered by the gravesite, heads bowed in a respectful silence as the minister led the prayers. The shared grief of Avonlea seemed to weave through the crowd, binding them together. Thomas stood toward the back, his hands clasped before him, feeling the weight of the occasion press down on his shoulders. Gilbert was at the front, standing alone, a figure defined by the heavy loss written on his face. Thomas couldn’t help but be moved by the sight of his friend, who now carried a new depth of sorrow.

As the formalities of the service concluded and the crowd began to migrate towards the Blythe household for the traditional gathering, Thomas found himself more an observer than a participant. 

His father, seamlessly integrating with the other townsfolk, displayed a sociability and charm that seemed at odds with the man Thomas knew at home. The disparity between his father's public demeanor and his private austerity was striking, leaving Thomas feeling disconnected from the scene before him.

Seeking a moment of solitude, Thomas retreated to the front porch, the buzz of conversation of the gathering inside feeling somehow distant. Sitting on the porch, Thomas gazed out over the front yard. The ceremony had stirred up memories of his own mother, her absence still a wound that throbbed from time to time, usually when he least expected it. He remembered the quiet after her passing, the way the air seemed thicker, the world dulled - and how everything became worse. Watching Gilbert grieve now, he could almost feel himself slipping back into that darkness, and it frightened him. But beneath the sadness, he also felt something else - a sense of empathy, a longing to somehow ease his friend’s pain, if only a little. In this moment, he felt the weight of what it meant to truly care for someone else’s pain, a realization both new and unsettling. 

It was there, in his quiet contemplation, that he noticed Gilbert's solitary figure making its way back towards the house. He looked drawn, barely holding himself together, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. Thomas tried to think of the right words as Gilbert approached, but before he could say anything, Gilbert hesitated, then turned to leave.

Moments later, somebody burst through the door behind and past Thomas, going after Gilbert. It was Anne. He watched her go, feeling a strange twist in his chest as she caught up to Gilbert, her head tilted toward him as she spoke. He couldn’t make out her words, but he didn’t need to. The way she looked at Gilbert, the care etched into her expression, was clear enough.

An uneasy feeling began to coil in Thomas’s stomach, one he recognized with a pang of guilt. Jealousy? he realized, the thought startling him. Even now, with Gilbert grieving and Anne simply offering kindness, he felt a nagging sting of envy. He could feel a blush creeping into his cheeks, and he quickly looked away, silently berating himself for such petty feelings at a time like this. It was ridiculous, he told himself harshly. Gilbert had lost his father. Anne was just being a friend. Yet, the feeling lingered, leaving him unsettled.

However, their conversation was short-lived, as Gilbert abruptly departed, leaving Anne on her own. Anne’s shoulders slumped slightly before she turned away, making her way in the opposite direction, toward the edge of the forest. She seemed visibly upset, her steps quick and purposeful. Thomas thought to call out to her, to offer some comfort, but stopped himself. He’d already seen how volatile Anne could be when she was in a mood; besides, something told him that whatever she was dealing with, she needed to face it alone.

Days passed, and life in Avonlea resumed its slow pace, each resident returning to their daily routines but with a new, muted solemnity. The memory of the funeral, the quiet grief, and the weight of loss all lingered in the air. But the sight of Gilbert and his hollow expression had stayed with Thomas. Determined to do something, he made up his mind to visit the Blythe household, hoping to offer Gilbert some company or support in any way he could.

However, as he neared the Blythe residence, he realised he wasn’t the only visitor. As he approached, he saw Anne hurrying out of the Blythe home, her face flushed with an emotion that looked all too familiar—grief, anger, frustration all mixed together. Before Thomas could greet her, she shot him a look so intense it stilled his words on his tongue. 

“Leave me alone!” she snapped, her voice tight with suppressed emotion.

Before he could respond, she was gone, leaving Thomas in a confusion of concern and hurt. Moments later, Diana and Ruby emerged from the door. Sensing he might be able to gain some insight, he approached.

“What’s wrong with Anne?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.

Diana exchanged a glance with Ruby, biting her lip. “It’s… complicated,” she said, her tone gentle yet evasive, a phrase that seemed too simple yet too accurate all at once.

Shifting his question, he asked about Gilbert. “And Gilbert? How’s he holding up?”

Diana’s expression softened, though her eyes remained troubled. “It’s hard to say,” she replied, looking toward the house. “He’s not himself.”

Thomas nodded, though his curiosity burned with questions he couldn’t ask. Instead, he offered a quiet thanks to Diana and Ruby before heading toward the door, his nerves growing taut. When he knocked, Gilbert opened the door, his eyes dull and tired, yet he managed a slight nod and stepped aside to let Thomas in.

They sat in the kitchen in silence for a moment, each unsure how to begin. Gilbert took a seat at the table, his eyes fixed on his hands, lost in thought. Thomas, feeling the weight of the quiet, started to pace, gathering his courage to speak.

“I, uh… I lost my mother a few years ago,” Thomas said finally, breaking the silence. “Tuberculosis. I remember after she passed, everyone kept telling me they knew how I felt. That they were sorry. After a while, I started to resent it. It felt like they were just saying it because that's what you're supposed to say, you know?”

Gilbert looked up, meeting Thomas's eyes for the first time, a flicker of interest breaking through his sadness. 

Thomas continued, "The truth is, they didn't know how I felt. And I won't pretend to know exactly how you feel right now, Gilbert.” He paused, ensuring his words were measured, his tone sincere.

 "But, I do know what it's like to keep moving when it feels like part of you has just... stopped. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you need someone to help with anything. No empty condolences, just... whatever you need, I’ll help."

The effect on Gilbert was palpable. The sincerity and understanding in Thomas's approach provided a solace that the repetitive condolences from others had failed to deliver. The visible shift in Gilbert's demeanor, a slight easing of the burden he carried, was the most profound thank you he could offer.

"Thanks, Thomas," Gilbert finally said, his voice low but carrying a warmth that had been absent before. "I... I appreciate that. Really."

The conversation, brief as it was, felt monumental. Thomas had offered not just his sympathy but his empathy, sharing a piece of his own history in hopes of cheering Gilbert up.

As Thomas prepared to leave, giving Gilbert the space he might need, he felt a quiet sense of accomplishment. When he stepped back into the world outside Gilbert's door, the encounter lingered in his thoughts, a reminder of the enduring impact of genuine, heartfelt empathy.

Chapter Text

As Christmas neared, bringing with it a lightness to the atmosphere at school, Thomas found himself caught between two worlds. The festive activities that filled the classroom provided a stark contrast to the responsibilities waiting for him at home. While his peers reveled in the holiday spirit, Thomas's mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the weight of his father's expectations.

That weekend, Thomas's usual routine was interrupted when his father summoned him with a particularly grim expression. 

"We have serious business to discuss," he announced, signaling a departure from the ordinary. Thomas followed him into the study, a room he rarely entered, its dark walls lined with old books and an air of somber purpose. Sitting across from his father, he braced himself. His father's words were direct, leaving little room for ambiguity. 

“I require you to ride to Charlottetown this weekend, to take care of some errands,” his father said, the weight in his tone making the words feel less like an invitation and more like an order.

“I see… what for?” Thomas asked, his curiosity piqued, though a familiar knot of apprehension twisted in his stomach.

In answer, his father opened the cabinet beside him, withdrawing an object Thomas had not expected - a slightly worn lever-action rifle, a Winchester 1873, which he placed on the desk between them. Thomas regarded it with a frown, its meaning clear but unspoken.

"Although we still have money, if we don't want to end up bankrupt, we'll need some income," his father began, laying the groundwork for his plan. 

"This is mainly a farming community, but we've no time for that nonsense," he continued, dismissing the traditional livelihood of their neighbors with a wave of his hand.

"So, you will hunt. Not many hunters in the area, so the butchers in all the nearby towns will pay good money for venison and such. And there is a forest rich with game between here and Carmody." his father finally paused.

The instruction was unmistakable - Thomas would need to hunt to help sustain their finances. The expectation seemed as solid and immovable as the walls around them.

"Which brings us to this," he motioned towards the rifle on the table. "We have some munitions, but you ought to head to Charlottetown to purchase more."

The conversation took a turn as Thomas's father, delving further into the depths of the cabinets behind him, brought out another item.

"And this," he began, a hint of solemnity in his voice as he turned back to face Thomas, "is for your protection specifically."

His father laid another firearm, a revolver - Colt SAA - on the table next to the rifle.

The sight of the revolver stirred something within Thomas, a flash of recognition that brought with it an unwelcome flood of memories. He reached out, his fingers tracing the contours of the firearm with a familiarity. For a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes, an attempt to suppress the memories that began to surface.

When he opened his eyes again, he was met with his father's penetrating gaze, a look that seemed to search for something within Thomas, perhaps an acknowledgment of the gravity of the responsibility being placed upon his shoulders.

His father’s voice broke the silence. “As you already know, these both use the same cartridge, the .44-40,” he said, his voice gentler now but with an edge of insistence. “I don’t want you out there without protection. You know they’re looking for us.”

Thomas nodded, the words laced with unspoken implications. His father’s reminder of lurking threats brought a heaviness that settled in Thomas’s chest. It was an expectation, but also a warning.

“In your room, you’ll find a list of other items I need purchased, along with funds to cover each. Gather what you need and make your preparations; leave as soon as you are able.”

Reluctantly, Thomas gathered both firearms, his grip tightening as he left the study. Back in his room, he examined the list his father had left. Items were marked in precise, commanding handwriting - supplies he’d need for hunting and those for the house. Sighing, he placed the list in his pocket, and with a final glance around, began his preparations.

The half-day journey to Charlottetown was marked by a profound quiet. Snow-covered fields stretched on either side, and Luna’s hooves crunched through the fresh layer of white. The chill in the air bit through Thomas’s coat, but he was grateful for the distraction, focusing on the rhythmic sound of Luna’s gait to stave off the thoughts that threatened to creep in. Reaching Charlottetown at last, he took in the town’s festive atmosphere. Shops glowed warmly against the snow-blanketed streets, wreaths and ribbons decorating doorways, and the faint sound of carolers drifting from a nearby square. Despite the cold, it was a welcome change from the heavy silence of home.

With Luna needing a well-deserved rest, Thomas navigated the streets at a leisurely pace, taking in sights of all the places he’d seen before, now covered in snow.

Arriving at the hunting supply store, Thomas prepared for the transaction that lay ahead. His initial reception by the shop owner - wary and somewhat dismissive due to Thomas's youth - was swiftly transformed when the pouch of money made its appearance. With the transaction completed and the necessary ammunition acquired, Thomas's thoughts turned to the more immediate concern of satiating his hunger.

Charlottetown, with its variety of eateries and taverns, offered plenty of options, but Thomas sought something specific - a place where he could eat without attracting undue attention. His search led him to a tavern that struck the right balance between welcoming and inconspicuous. Deciding it was suitable, he secured Luna outside before stepping into the warmth of the establishment.

Choosing a dark corner that afforded him both a view of the room and a degree of privacy, Thomas settled in, allowing himself a moment to relax in the tavern's inviting atmosphere. The sounds of conversation and laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the comforting aroma of hearty food filled the air.

Thomas’s meal had just arrived when his keen hearing picked up a suspicious whisper from the table behind him. Despite the murmur of the busy tavern, certain phrases from the conversation behind him pierced the ambient noise.

"...and then the money will be ours. It's the perfect plan," one of the men whispered, a sense of illicit confidence in his voice.

"You make this all sound too easy. What if they pick up on it?" the other voice questioned, tinged with skepticism and caution.

"They won't. We just need to find a town gullible enough..." the first man reassured, their voices fading into a conspiratorial hush.

Thomas felt a prickle of unease at the implications of their words. He kept his gaze steady on his plate, resisting the urge to turn around and give himself away. His mind, however, began working quickly, making a mental note of the voices and details he’d overheard. These weren’t the idle ramblings of drunkards, but rather something more pointed, possibly dangerous. He replayed the conversation in his mind as he finished his meal, the sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach as he prepared to leave.

Outside, the cool air was a welcome contrast to the tavern's warmth. After unhitching Luna and taking a moment to reassure the horse with a gentle scratch behind her mane, Thomas's attention was abruptly diverted by a shout from across the street.

"Get away from her!"

The voice, urgent and fraught with tension, cut through the din of the street. Thomas looked up to see a familiar figure—Jerry, it seemed, along with Gilbert... and Anne? The unexpected sight of his acquaintances so far from Avonlea, embroiled in some manner of dispute, spurred Thomas into action.

He carefully guided Luna across the street, pulling the horse to a stop next to the group, startling them briefly. They all looked up towards Thomas with a surprise in their face.

Thomas took in the scene quickly, his eyes narrowing at the fresh bruises on Jerry’s face, including a darkened eye that told of a recent struggle.

"What's going on?" Thomas asked, his voice cutting through the tension as he assessed the situation.

“Thomas?” Gilbert replied, still processing his sudden appearance.

“What happened?” Thomas pressed, his tone betraying the worry he felt as he examined Jerry’s battered face, the urgency of his question clear.

Jerry seemed to struggle for words, so it was Anne who stepped forward to fill the silence. “Some men attacked Jerry... they took the money,” she explained, her voice carrying a mixture of anger and concern that painted a vivid picture of what had unfolded.

The mention of the attackers caused an immediate shift in Thomas’s demeanor that was evident to everyone.

"Where?" Thomas's question was more a demand.

Jerry pointed towards an alley near the stables, and with a nod, Thomas began to steer Luna in that direction. He was halted momentarily by Anne’s voice.

What are you doing?" she asked, her voice tinged with apprehension for what Thomas might be walking into.

"What I can," Thomas replied, his answer a simple declaration of his intent to do whatever was necessary to address the wrongs that had been inflicted upon Jerry.

His next question, practical and forward-thinking, was directed at Anne. "Where can I find you after?"

Anne's response, mentioning they would be staying at Diana's aunt's place, Miss Josephine's, was hurriedly given before her attempt to dissuade him.

"But wait, you shouldn't go-" Anne's plea was cut short, her warning left hanging as Thomas spurred Luna into action, disappearing down the street

The group, momentarily stunned by Thomas's rapid departure, was enveloped in a silence. Anne's realization, voiced softly, "I didn't even tell him the address..." underscored the impulsiveness of Thomas's actions. Her concern for his safety, mingled with the uncertainty of the situation, left her in a state of anxious anticipation.

Determined to find justice, Thomas guided Luna with a sense of urgency, the directions given by Jerry etched firmly in his mind. The alley, shrouded in the shadows of the buildings that flanked it, felt ominously quiet as he dismounted, the silence broken by the sound of his boots crunching in the snow. His keen perception quickly found signs of the struggle that Jerry had faced. The disturbed snow painted a vivid picture of the altercation, along with the small traces of blood within it.

Thomas followed the trail into the stable yard, hoping to find someone who might have witnessed the attack. Despite his inquiries, the people he encountered either knew nothing or chose to say nothing, their responses a mix of apathy and caution that left Thomas frustrated but undeterred.

Retracing his steps, Thomas ventured onto the street near the alley, broadening his search in hopes of gathering any information that could lead him to the assailants. The afternoon waned as he persistently questioned passersby, shopkeepers, and anyone who might have seen something - anything - that could aid his quest for answers.

The responses were few and far between, the descriptions he managed to collect frustratingly vague. "They wore dark coats," one person mentioned. "I think one of them had a hat on," another recalled, their statements adding little substance to Thomas's investigation.

As daylight began to wane, the cold seeped into his bones, and the weight of his efforts weighed heavily on his shoulders. He made his way back to Luna, feeling the bitter pang of having come up short.

Under the cloak of night, with the quiet of Miss Josephine's house enveloping her, Anne couldn’t sleep. As she shifted under the covers for what felt like the hundredth time, a faint glow caught her attention - a flickering light from outside.

She quietly slipped from the bed, so as not to wake Jerry who was fast asleep. Moving quietly, she crept to the window, her breath fogging the glass as she squinted through it. She was surprised to see Thomas, on horseback with a lantern in hand, by the front entrance of the house.

She threw on a robe over her nightgown and quietly slipped outside, creeping down the stairs to the front door. As she exited into the cold air of midnight, she was met by Thomas already atop the steps by the entrance.

“Thomas…” she started, searching his face, words failing her in the rush of worry and curiosity his presence stirred. “What happened?” The question was simple, but her voice brimmed with concern, her brows drawn together as she took in his tired, slightly defeated expression.

He offered her a rueful half-smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I tried,” he said, voice low and resigned. “Didn’t get far, I’m afraid. Just some useless descriptions and dead end leads. Sorry.” 

Anne's reply was swift and sincere, a blend of reprimand and admiration.

 "You have nothing to apologize for, Thomas. What you did was brave." A pause, then, "Stupid. But brave." The gentle rebuke was a testament to her complex feelings about his actions.

This brought a rare chuckle from Thomas, which broke the tension, and Anne couldn't help but smile in return. Her curiosity, however, remained unabated.

“How did you even find us?” she asked, her head tilted in wonder. “I never gave you the address.”

"I have my ways," Thomas shrugged, his answer veiled in ambiguity. He then shared how he’d crossed paths with Gilbert again while searching for the men who had attacked Jerry.

"He told me about your troubles," Thomas continued, referring to the financial difficulties Anne's family was facing, along with Mr. Cuthbert's illness, a revelation that deepened his concern for her.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Thomas's offer was earnest, his willingness to assist clear in his voice.

Anne’s gaze dropped momentarily, moved by his earnestness yet aware of the weight of their reality. “Thank you, Thomas,” she replied quietly, “but I don’t think there’s anything you - or anyone - could do to fix all that.”

They fell into a moment of reflective silence. Finally, Thomas broke it, his voice laced with genuine care as he asked, “Is Jerry all right?”

Anne nodded. “He’ll be fine, just bruised. I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

Thomas smiled, a faint warmth in his eyes, though he let the comment pass without elaboration. In the stillness, Anne found herself captivated by his gaze, the quiet resolve in his expression more visible now in the gentle wash of moonlight. The night cast a silvery glow across her face, highlighting her cheekbones and the soft vulnerability in her eyes, half-shaded and mysterious. Thomas felt his breath catch, his usual composure momentarily faltering under the spell of her presence.

The sudden sound of footsteps behind them, slow but deliberate, snapped the pair back to the present. As the door creaked open, the night's calm was broken by the appearance of Miss Josephine Barry, her presence as imposing as her reputation.

Anne’s mortification was immediate, her cheeks flushing as she stumbled over her words. 

"M-ms. Barry, what are you doing up?" Anne stammered, her voice betraying her surprise and concern at the elderly woman's unexpected appearance.

Miss Barry raised an amused eyebrow, a trace of a smile on her lips. “I’m an old woman, dear. We don’t sleep much.” Her eyes shifted to Thomas, taking in the scene with a seasoned eye.

Anne's attempt at an apology was quickly interrupted, her concern for the late hour and their unintended disturbance clear.

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Barry, I shouldn't have-" she started, only to be interrupted by Miss Barry's unexpectedly gentle response.

That's quite alright, dear. Is this the young knight in shining armor you were telling me of earlier?" Miss Barry's questioned, her voice laced with a gentle teasing. Anne’s eyes widened, her mortification reaching new heights. 

“That- no, I mean - this is Thomas. He’s my classmate.” Anne managed, her gaze dropping to her feet in a mix of embarrassment and humiliation.

"Why don't you head inside, Anne, while I have a word with Thomas here," Miss Barry suggested, her tone firm yet not unkind.

"Please don't blame him, this is my fault, I shouldn't have-," Anne hastily interjected, trying to shield Thomas from any potential reprimand, only to be reassured by Miss Barry's understanding demeanor.

"Don't you worry, Anne. Nobody is blaming anyone," Miss Barry quickly reassured, her words meant to ease any lingering concerns.

As Anne prepared to retreat indoors, she paused, turning back to run down the steps to Luna, taking a moment to affectionately rub the horse's muzzle and mane before hurrying back up the steps and into the warmth of the house.

"Goodness, child, get those feet warm, or you will catch your death," Miss Barry called after her, a mix of exasperation and affection in her voice.

"Sorry!" Anne's voice floated back from inside the house, her apology tinged with a mix of embarrassment and haste.

Then, Ms Barry turned her attention to Thomas, her expression shifting to one of curiosity and perhaps a bit of expectation. Under the scrutinizing gaze of Ms Barry, Thomas felt an unmistakable sense of transparency, as though she possessed the ability to discern his thoughts without a word spoken. 

"So, Thomas.." Miss Barry began, prompting Thomas to quickly gather his wits and extend a courteous introduction.

"Ah, yes. Thomas Rockport, pleased to meet you. Ms. Barry, was it?" he replied, striving for politeness amidst the unusual circumstances of their meeting.

"Ms. Josephine Barry," the elder woman clarified, offering her name with a nod that seemed to bridge the formalities between them.

"So tell me, Thomas, would this visit have anything to do with your valiant effort to help Anne earlier today?" Miss Barry's question cut to the heart of the matter, her awareness of the day's events suggesting a closeness with Anne that Thomas had only begun to understand.

Thomas explained his unsuccessful search, a hint of frustration slipping into his tone. “I did what I could, ma’am. But, well…” He trailed off, feeling that his efforts had been lacking.

Miss Barry’s lips quirked as she nodded, seemingly approving of his honesty. “Brutes,” she muttered. “Robbing a child for a handful of money.” She paused, her eyes narrowing with a thoughtful curiosity as she looked at Thomas. “And yet… why did you try to go after them alone? I can’t imagine you don’t know it’s dangerous.”

Thomas, momentarily caught in reflection, was trying to come up with an answer, when Miss Barry continued, preempting his response with her own insight.

"Though I suppose it is not unlike you, is it?" she mused, implying a pattern of behavior that spoke to Thomas's character. "This is not the first time you've stood up for others, is it?"

Caught by surprise, Thomas's questioning glance invited further explanation, which Miss Barry was more than willing to provide.

"Anne told me a great deal about you standing up for her against Billy Andrews," she revealed.

"Oh.. I wasn't aware of how much she knew about that," Thomas admitted.

“Anne knows, and she regrets terribly not having thanked you then,” Miss Barry replied, the faintest twinkle in her eye. “She said you were different. Quite different from her other classmates.”

The layers of unspoken connection between him and Anne seemed to unfold before him in that quiet moment. Miss Barry’s final observation, “It seems you two share a rather interesting, complicated relationship,” seemed to summarize a truth he hadn’t yet fully acknowledged.

"I suppose we do.." Thomas acknowledged, his voice trailing off.

Miss Barry’s stern yet warm gaze softened. “Now then, we have a spare room upstairs, and I imagine you must be hungry after all that gallivanting.” Her tone was laced with practicality, clearly suggesting that he accept.

Thomas, however, offered her a polite shake of his head. “Thank you, Miss Barry, but I really ought to be on my way.”

"On your way? On your way to where, at this hour?" Miss Barry's confusion was clear. The prospect of a late-night journey seemed imprudent to her.

"Back to Avonlea," Thomas stated plainly.

"In the middle of the night? Have you any idea how dangerous that is?" Miss Barry's concern was not unfounded; the night held many uncertainties, especially for travelers.

“I’ll be all right, I can take care of myself,” Thomas replied simply, the quiet confidence in his voice conveying a certainty that spoke of experience.

Miss Barry's scrutiny was intense, her gaze assessing Thomas's demeanor and resolve. 

"Yes... yes, I can see that you can," she finally conceded, recognizing the strength and self-assurance that Thomas carried with him. 

"There isn't much that scares you, is there?" she probed further, curious about the young man's seemingly unshakeable courage.

Thomas's response was a non-committal shrug, preferring to leave some questions unanswered.

"Take some food with you, at least. I will have Mr. Rollings bring it," Miss Barry insisted, unwilling to let Thomas leave without some provision for his journey.

Having received a neatly wrapped bundle of food and expressing his gratitude, Thomas prepared to mount his horse. Before departing, he cast a glance back towards Miss Barry and Mr. Rollings, still standing by the entrance.

"Give my regards to Anne?" he requested, a final nod to the person that had drawn him there that night.

"I will. Be careful on your way back, young man," Miss Barry called out, her voice carrying a mix of farewell and warning.

As Thomas rode off into the night, Mr. Rollings remarked, "What an unusual boy".

"You have no idea," she agreed, hinting at the depth and complexity of Thomas's character, his actions that evening but a glimpse into the young man's mysterious life. With that, the two of them retreated back into the house.

Upstairs, back in her bed, Anne's mind whirled with thoughts of Thomas, a figure who had become increasingly enigmatic in her life. The night's events had cast him in a new light, revealing depths of character and courage she had only begun to appreciate. The more she pondered, the more she recognized the injustice of the rumors and judgments that had swirled around him, especially those propagated by Josie Pye and her ilk. These musings led Anne to confront her own behavior towards Thomas, a reflection tinged with regret for any distance or coldness she had shown in their previous, however rare, interactions.

Thomas had always extended sincerity and kindness towards her, setting him apart from the majority of their peers. Unlike the other boys who found amusement in teasing or taunting, Thomas had never directed such behavior towards her.

Instead, he had emerged as an unexpected protector, not once but twice stepping forward in her defense. In the first instance, which had been twisted by countless retellings, the essence of the story remained: Billy had insulted Anne, and Thomas had intervened on her behalf. 

Reflecting on their recent encounter under the cover of darkness, Anne found herself captivated by the memory of Thomas's gaze, illuminated by the moon's soft light. There was something undeniably compelling about him, a sense of depth and understanding that resonated with her.

The realization brought a warmth to her cheeks and a smile to her lips and she finally drifted into peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

The festive air that enveloped Avonlea as Christmas approached seemed to bypass Thomas's home, where his father's attention remained tethered to the realms of work and necessity, leaving little room for holiday cheer.

The day before Christmas, Thomas, yearning for some semblance of the holiday spirit they once shared, broached the subject of a Christmas tree.

His father's response - a silent gesture towards the small hatchet beside the hearth. His father loved to convey his thoughts to his son in a non verbal manner, leaving Thomas to interpret and act accordingly. It was a tacit permission, or perhaps a challenge, to take the initiative if Thomas so desired.

With a resigned sigh, Thomas understood the message. Dressing warmly against the winter chill, he ventured to the workshop to retrieve  an axe from the workshop, more suited for chopping than the worn hatchet. The woods near their home, a familiar landscape in all seasons, now held the promise of bringing a piece of the Christmas spirit into their home, if only in the form of a pine tree that Thomas could decorate.

As Thomas ventured deep into the snow-blanketed forest in search of the perfect Christmas tree, the stillness of the woods was broken by distant voices. Intrigued and cautious, he moved closer, using the trees as cover to remain unseen. From his hidden spot, he soon recognized the figures as Anne and Jerry, also on a quest for their own Christmas tree.

"Come on Anne, we've been searching for hours," Jerry complained, his voice carrying a blend of fatigue and impatience.

"You are so impatient, Jerry. The tree has to be perfect - its branches reaching out like the welcoming arms of a long-lost friend," Anne retorted, her words painting a picture of the ideal tree she envisioned. Thomas smirked, amused. Only Anne would describe a tree that way.

Jerry sighed, a clear sign that he knew there was no rushing Anne in this matter. Yet, unable to help himself, he ventured another question that immediately felt misplaced.

"Do you think Mr. and Ms. Cuthbert got you a lot of presents?" he inquired, a question born of curiosity but lacking in sensitivity.

A brief silence followed, then Anne responded, her voice laced with a mix of sadness and frustration.

"Obviously not, Jerry. I'll be lucky to get any presents at all, if you had forgotten about our situation," she said, her reply serving as a stark reminder of the hardships her family was facing. "Not that it matters, all I want is for Matthew to get better."

"Oui, sorry," Jerry quickly apologized.

Their search resumed in silence until, at last, Anne selected a tree that seemed to meet her high standards. With practiced movements, Jerry cut it down, and together, they began the slow trudge back towards Green Gables, dragging the tree behind them.

Left alone, Thomas watched them disappear, Anne’s words echoing in his mind. She had been through so much, and her voice had held the kind of determined hope that he rarely saw in others. A thought began to form in his mind - a small way he might bring her a moment of cheer amid her worries.

After returning home with the tree, Thomas took to setting it up in the parlour, transforming the space with a touch of festive spirit. Luckily the house's previous occupants had left behind some decorations, which Thomas used to adorn the tree, instilling a sense of Christmas warmth in their otherwise undecorated home.

Just as he placed the final decoration, his father wandered in, coffee in hand. He gave the tree a brief, indifferent glance, nodded once at Thomas, and shuffled back to his work.

With the Christmas tree now fully decorated, Thomas's thoughts turned to a more personal mission. He climbed upstairs to a small room that was a library of sorts, filled with books on a variety of subjects. Among these, he sought out a specific one, and finally found it - Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

With the book in hand he retreated to his room. Sitting down with a piece of paper, Thomas pondered what to write. After a moment of thought, he wrote a brief note:

"To Anne,

I hope that you find this book interesting. It reminds me of you.

Happy Christmas."

He chose to leave the note unsigned. He carefully placed the note atop the book, wrapping it neatly to preserve the surprise. He quickly scribbled “For Anne” on the package.

The book, a tale of curiosity, adventure, and the surreal, seemed a fitting choice for Anne, whose spirit and imagination often mirrored the novel's whimsical journey.

Dressed warmly again, Thomas saddled up his horse, Luna, and tucked the small package securely under his coat. The ride to Green Gables was brisk and silent, the snow beneath Luna’s hooves muffling their journey. When he reached the gates, he dismounted, deciding to walk the rest of the way to keep a low profile. The sight of Green Gables nestled in the snow under the cold, clear night sky made him pause. He imagined the warmth within, the small family gathered around the hearth, likely unaware of his presence.

Steeling himself, Thomas climbed the steps, carefully placing the gift by the front door. He didn’t want to give it to Anne in person; he worried she might feel pressured to reciprocate, and he wanted this to be something simple—just a gesture, without expectations. After setting the book down, he glanced around, self-conscious.

As he retreated back to Luna, in an attempt to hide his visit, he dragged his feet through the snow, obscuring the footprints he left behind earlier. He mounted up and with a final look towards Green Gables, he set off back towards his home. On his ride back, Thomas wondered how Anne would react upon discovering the gift. He hoped she would like it.

As Thomas returned home, he led Luna carefully into the stable, patting her neck with quiet gratitude for their journey together. When he stepped back out, a strange scent drifted through the cold winter air. Food? Cooking? He stood in the snowy yard, puzzled, trying to recall the last time he’d smelled anything so inviting. Intrigued, he headed into the house.

Inside, Thomas froze, astonished. His father stood in the kitchen, hunched over the stove, focused on something in a pan. The kitchen, usually so still, was alive with the sounds and smells of cooking, the sizzle of food meeting hot oil and the warm, earthy aroma of roasted vegetables filling the air. It was as if he’d stepped into someone else’s home.

His father noticed his shocked expression and smirked. “What?” he asked, stirring the pan without missing a beat. “We deserve something better than your terrible cooking for Christmas. Now, come help me.” There was a lightness in his voice that Thomas hadn't heard in years.

Dumbfounded, Thomas discarded his coat in the parlour, his gaze catching a package nestled under the Christmas tree - a sizable package.

With no time to ponder the gift, he joined his father in the kitchen, embarking on a rare collaborative effort. They prepared the meal together, exchanging the occasional comment but mostly working in comfortable silence. His father’s movements were confident, practiced—a side of him Thomas had almost forgotten. He recalled, vaguely, the days when his father had cooked often, before life had shifted and left them to their quieter, solitary routines.

When they finally sat down, their dinner was simple but far richer than their usual fare. Thomas savored each bite, and though neither of them spoke much, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of the effort, a rare attempt at something resembling normalcy. The night wore on, content and quiet, until a distant chorus of voices broke through the calm. The sound of Christmas carols, carried by the crisp winter air, approached their home, a tradition in Avonlea where folks visited neighbors to spread holiday cheer through song.

Although Thomas’s father didn’t like guests, he opened the door and stepped outside, enduring. Thomas saw a few familiar faces in the group, namely Diana and Mrs. Lynde. And then, more surprising still, as the last notes of the carols faded into the night, his father offered a gruff but sincere "Happy Christmas" to the group.

The next morning, Thomas woke to a strange anticipation. He rarely expected much from Christmas, but the previous night had left him curious. He headed to the parlor and found his father already there, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. His father gave him a quick nod, gesturing toward the package beneath the tree.

“Happy Christmas,” he said simply, his voice low.

Thomas hesitated, then knelt to pick up the package. He hadn’t expected anything and found himself surprised. Tearing through the wrapping, he revealed a guitar, its polished wood gleaming in the soft morning light. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface, smiling as he remembered the guitar he’d left behind long ago, a part of his past he hadn’t been able to bring with him.

“Thanks, dad.” Thomas’s gratitude was genuine.

Thomas’s father only offered a quick nod, taking a sip from his coffee. However, his usually cold eyes had a glimmer in them that had been absent for years.

Over at Green Gables, Anne was unwrapping a surprise of her own. She sat cross-legged on the floor by the fire, carefully peeling back the brown wrapping from a package she had found on their doorstep that morning. She gasped softly as she revealed the cover of a book: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Her face lit up with delight; she’d heard of this story but had never had the chance to read it. She retrieved the note and read it.

“Who’s it from?” Marilla asked, watching her with a smile as Matthew looked on, equally intrigued.

“I don’t know.. It doesn’t say” Anne replied, slightly disappointed.

She read the words over again, smiling at the thoughtfulness of it, but she wished there was a name to attach to this mystery.

“Well, seems like you have a secret admirer,” Marilla teased, raising an eyebrow. Anne dismissed Marilla with a laugh but glanced back down at the note. As she traced her finger over the ink, her thoughts drifted to possibilities, and her heart fluttered at the idea of someone out there, thinking of her. The handwriting was neat, careful, and somehow… familiar. Where had she seen it before?

Chapter Text

As the harsh grip of winter loosened and gave way to the burgeoning life of spring, Thomas experienced a season of personal renaissance. His diligent efforts in catching up with the school curriculum had not only finally paid off but also elevated him to being one of the top students in class. This newfound status was especially noticeable now that Gilbert, previously a constant competitor and ally in academic pursuits, was absent, having taken work on a steamer. The dynamic in the classroom had shifted, placing Thomas and Anne in a friendly yet competitive stance over their studies, each pushing the other to excel.

With the pressure of catching up academically behind him, Thomas found himself with a bit more leisure, a precious commodity he hadn't enjoyed for some time. This allowed him to engage more with his classmates - his acceptance among his peers marked a significant shift from his previous isolation. With Gilbert now gone, his seat beside Thomas was taken by Cole Mackenzie - a reserved boy with a talent for drawing. The two quickly found a comfortable camaraderie, Cole’s quiet disposition a natural complement to Thomas’s own calm demeanor.

One afternoon, after saying goodbye to a few of his classmates at the schoolhouse, Thomas began his walk home, the warm breeze stirring the budding leaves along the path. Just as he rounded a corner, he sensed someone falling into step beside him. He turned to see Josie Pye, her chin lifted, her eyes sparking with a curiosity that felt, somehow, less than innocent. Her presence was unexpected, and he tensed slightly, unsure of her intentions.

“Nice weather we’re having, aren’t we, Thomas?” Josie’s tone was light, but her gaze held a sharper focus, studying him intently.

Thomas nodded, adjusting his pace to match hers. “Better than most days,” he replied nonchalantly.

Josie seemed pleased with his response, and her smile brightened. “I’ve noticed you’ve been doing really well in class lately. You and Anne are practically neck and neck for the top marks.”

“Thanks. We’ve both been working hard, I guess,” Thomas replied, keeping his response casual.

Josie let out a soft, almost dismissive laugh. “It’s a miracle she manages to keep up with you, considering her… imaginative distractions,” she said, her voice lilting but unmistakably pointed.

Thomas caught the barb aimed at Anne, his discomfort evident but chosen to be unvoiced. He recognized Josie's knack for weaving malice into casual conversation.

“You know, with Gilbert gone, it’s been different in class,” Josie smiled, a bit too keenly for Thomas's comfort. Her gaze lingered on him. “You’ve sort of stepped into his shoes, haven’t you?”

Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know about that. Gilbert’s a great student - I was just catching up, that’s all.”

They fell into a brief silence, the only sounds the crunch of their steps on the dirt path and the chatter of birds in the trees. Josie seemed to consider her next words carefully, her smile becoming coy. 

“I was wondering,” she began, her voice softer, “if you might be interested in studying together sometime? You have a way of explaining things that really makes sense. I could use the help.”

The shift in her tone was subtle, but Thomas couldn’t miss the implication. He gave her a polite smile, choosing his response with care. “That’s kind of you, Josie, but I’ve got a pretty full schedule outside of school. I don’t think I could find the time.”

The disappointment flickered briefly across Josie’s face before she recovered, her expression smoothing. “Oh, I see. Well, if you ever find the time, let me know.”

They continued walking until they reached a fork in the road, where Josie’s path veered in the opposite direction. She hesitated for a moment, then gave him a parting smile.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Thomas. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too, Josie,” he replied, nodding politely as he watched her walk away.

As Thomas continued his journey home, the encounter with Josie Pye lingered in his mind, her unexpected attention a curious divergence from her usual demeanor. Her reputation for being dismissive, if not outright rude, to other boys in class made her interest in him all the more perplexing.

A few days later, as early sunlight sifted through the budding trees, Thomas walked the familiar path to school at an easy pace, savoring the quiet beauty of spring. Rounding a bend, he spotted someone kneeling by the path up ahead. Moving closer, he recognized Anne, intently studying the new blooms poking through the thawing ground. Thomas had run into her on his way to school a couple of times before, but she was always with Diana then - this time she was alone. Thomas approached, his footsteps muted by the soft earth.

"Good morning, Anne," Thomas greeted, his voice breaking the silence and startling Anne slightly.

"Oh, Thomas! You gave me a fright," Anne exclaimed, a hand to her heart, as she looked up from the cluster of snowdrops she had been admiring. 

"What have you found there?" he inquired, slightly amused having startled Anne.

"Look at these," she gestured towards the delicate blooms. "Spring's first heralds, braving the cold to remind us of the warmth to come."

Thomas nodded, glancing from the delicate blooms to Anne, whose face seemed to mirror the brightness of the flowers she admired. “They’re... nice,” he replied, slightly bemused by the way her admiration was so easily captured by something so small and fragile. “But, we probably ought to keep moving if we don’t want to be late.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she replied, rising to her feet and brushing dirt from her hands. Then, after a small hesitation, she offered, “We could... walk together, maybe?”

Thomas nodded, and they set off side by side, an awkward silence settling between them. Though no longer strangers, one-on-one conversation between them was rare.

Anne, with her boundless energy and endless imagination, had always evoked something complex within him - an intrigue, an admiration, and perhaps, even, something more. What Thomas didn’t know was that his presence stirred similar feelings in her, a flurry of emotions that left her equally unsure.

Trying to ease the tension, Thomas grabbed for a conversation starter. “Spring really is on its way, isn’t it?” He cringed as the words left his mouth, berating himself for what felt like an inane observation.

Yet, rather than brushing it off, Anne’s face lit up, the familiar spark of excitement returning to her eyes as she seized on the mention of spring with unguarded enthusiasm.

“Oh, yes! Spring is the season when the world wakes up, isn’t it? It’s as though every tree, every flower has been holding its breath through winter, and now they can finally exhale. The air feels... fresher, like a promise of new things to come.” Her eyes shone as she continued, caught up in her vision. “And the flowers - oh, the flowers! They’re like nature’s way of smiling, don’t you think? Each one bursting forth as though in joyful greeting.”

Anne's words flowed like a river, her passion for the natural world infusing the air around them with a sense of wonder. She spoke of the dew-kissed mornings when the world seemed anew, of the chorus of birdsong that filled the air, heralding the dawn of warmer days. Her description was so vivid, so earnest, that Thomas found himself caught up in her vision, seeing the familiar landscape around them in a new light.

But as quickly as her enthusiasm had ignited, it extinguished. She stopped mid-sentence, and a hint of self-consciousness crept into her gaze, the flush of embarrassment warming her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I got carried away. I didn’t mean to ramble.”

For a moment, Thomas hesitated, wanting to tell her that her words had transformed their walk, had breathed a beauty into his morning that he couldn’t have found on his own. She hadn’t rambled; she had woven magic into the air. But just as he opened his mouth to reassure her, they arrived at the schoolhouse, and their spellbound moment faded into the clamor of schoolchildren and the bustle of the morning routine.

The time for conversation was gone, but as they stepped inside, Thomas knew he would carry her words with him, the world somehow appearing a little brighter, a little more vivid, as if painted in the colors Anne had conjured with her boundless imagination.

The school day passed without incident, and soon, Thomas found himself outside, buttoning up his coat in the fresh spring air. As he glanced up, he noticed Anne walking ahead, her familiar figure framed by the golden afternoon light. He quickened his pace to catch up, managing to startle her as he came up silently beside her.

“Hello again,” he greeted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Thomas! How do you keep doing that?" Anne exclaimed, a mix of surprise and annoyance in her voice.

"Sorry, didn't mean to," he apologized with a soft chuckle.

They walked together in comfortable silence, the day’s events drifting lazily in conversation. They spoke of school, their classmates, and briefly, Anne mentioned Diana’s absence with a touch of concern - her friend was laid up with a mild cold. The path they followed curved into a clearing where an old, towering tree stretched its branches towards the sky, casting dappled shadows across the grass. They paused, each drawn by its presence.

Anne tilted her head, gazing up into the canopy with a look of yearning in her eyes. “Just imagine the view from up there,” she mused, her voice soft, thoughtful. “It must be like seeing the world from an entirely new perspective. Oh, how I’d love to see it!”

“Why don’t you climb it then?” Thomas asked nonchalantly. 

She hesitated, a spark of excitement flickering in her eyes, tempered by an inner voice of caution. "Oh no, I'd love to, but it's not safe, and Marilla would be horribly upset if I ruined my dress or got hurt," she replied, the vision of Marilla's disapproval vivid in her mind.

Thomas, sensing her desire to break free from those constraints if only for a moment, offered a solution.

 "It'll be alright.  Here, I will go first and I'll help you," he offered, determination and care in his voice.

Anne hesitated only a moment longer, her adventurous spirit winning out. “Alright,” she agreed, her curiosity sparking as she watched Thomas step forward, his gaze set with determination. He approached the tree with practiced ease, climbing the lower branches with a confidence that hinted at many similar climbs in his past. Once he’d scaled a few branches, he turned back, extendeding a hand to Anne, offering support.

The moment their hands touched, an unexpected and electrifying sensation surged through them - this was the first time they made physical contact. Anne felt her cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with exertion. She quickly averted her eyes, hoping he hadn’t noticed. Thomas felt similar, the feeling of Anne’s soft and warm palm in his own sending a shiver down his spine.

He pulled her up and together, they climbed higher, Thomas's steady presence a constant source of encouragement. He guided her past the difficult stretches, his hands occasionally steadying her, their physical contact a novel sensation that added layers to their relationship.

Reaching the summit of the tree, Anne and Thomas were greeted by an expansive view that stretched out before them like a living tapestry. The world from atop their lofty perch seemed different - more vivid, more alive - as if they had transcended into a realm where every detail of the landscape was magnified in its beauty. For a moment, they were silent, allowing the beauty to wash over them, until Anne, ever the dreamer, began to weave her narrative into the scenery. 

"Look there," she gestured towards a distant hill that rolled gently into the horizon. "I imagine that's where the fairies gather at dusk, their laughter like the tinkling of tiny bells, celebrating the day's end under a sky painted with the colors of their gowns."

"And that stream," she pointed to a silver ribbon winding through the meadow below, "is where they come to drink, its waters pure and shimmering under the moon's watchful eye."

Thomas listened, transfixed, as Anne’s words breathed life into the landscape, her vision so clear and vivid that he found himself looking at the scene with new eyes. The hill, the stream, the faraway fields - all were changed with a touch of magic, painted by her imagination.

Her monologue came to an abrupt halt, as Anne suddenly became aware of her own enthusiasm.

 "Am I talking too much? If I'm talking too much I can stop, sorry," she said, suddenly self-conscious.

“Not at all,” he reassured her, his own voice low but steady. “I think it’s incredible how you see the world, Anne. You make the ordinary... extraordinary.”

Flattered and encouraged by his words, Anne's cheeks warmed with a soft blush of appreciation. 

"Thank you, that means a lot," she said, before eagerly resuming her lively discourse.

Encouraged, she continued her vibrant storytelling, her eyes shining as she pointed out new features in the landscape, weaving fables and tales for each one. Thomas found himself drawn not just to her words, but to the spirit that animated them, the way her imagination lit up the world around her. He watched her as she spoke, her face alight with joy, captivated by the person she became in moments like these - it let him forget the harsh realities of his own world, if only for a moment.

Yet time, unyielding as always, pressed them to return to reality. Noticing the waning light, they began their descent. Thomas led the way, his movements deliberate and careful as he found secure footholds, ensuring Anne’s safety as she followed. Once on the ground, he turned to see if Anne needed any help. Just as she was nearly down, a misstep sent her slipping from the branch.

Quick as thought, Thomas was there, his arms catching her in a firm, secure embrace. For a heartbeat, they froze, her wide eyes meeting his in a breathless moment that seemed to suspend time itself. The world around them faded, leaving only the warmth between them, the thudding of their hearts, and the closeness that seemed both startling and exhilarating.

"Hello again," Thomas said softly, an attempt to lighten the sudden intensity of the moment.

Anne, her heart racing from the fall - and perhaps something more - murmured her thanks, her voice barely audible. "Thank you, Thomas. I... I'm alright."

Gently, Thomas set her down, their eyes meeting for a moment before they both hastily looked away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

Clearing his throat, Thomas attempted to lighten the moment, “Guess you were right about the tree. You might want to start with something a bit smaller next time.”

“Still, that was quite an adventure,” he added.

"It was," Anne agreed, her embarrassment fading into a smile. "One for the books, I'd say."

They continued on their way back. As the silhouette of Green Gables emerged through the trees, marking the end of their shared journey for the day, Anne and Thomas slowed their pace, neither quite ready to say goodbye. The magic of their adventure still hung between them, a shared secret that had drawn them closer. Standing at the fork in the path leading to Anne's home, they lingered for a moment.

"Thank you, Thomas," Anne said, her eyes bright with gratitude. "For helping me see the view from the tree. It was... more wonderful than I had imagined."

"I should be thanking you," he replied. "You made it an adventure. I've never looked at the world quite the way I did today."

The inevitable couldn't be delayed any longer. With a soft sigh, Anne spoke. "Well, I really should get going. Marilla will wonder where I've been."

Thomas nodded, feeling a pang as reality settled back around them. “I should head home too. My father’s probably waiting.”

They exchanged farewells and a final look, a silent acknowledgement of the day they’d shared. As Anne turned and made her way up the path to Green Gables, Thomas watched her go and he felt a strange solitude, the world seeming a little quieter without her beside him.

Chapter Text

Some days later, amidst the drone of Mr. Phillips' revision of last week's math, Thomas's mind had wandered far from the confines of the classroom. His slate, now covered in idle sketches, bore witness to his distraction and boredom. The sound of his name suddenly pulled him back to reality.

“Thomas!” Mr. Phillips called out, his tone sharp with impatience.

“Oh, uh… seventy-four?” Thomas blurted, scrambling to recall the last question he’d vaguely heard.

His response elicited muted laughs from his classmates and a disappointed shake of the head from Mr. Phillips. But rather than a scolding, Mr. Phillips merely rubbed his temple and took a deep breath. His obvious weariness was matched by the slight slump in his posture as he muttered, “Now that I finally have everyone’s attention… I have an announcement to make.”

He looked around the room, and Thomas noticed the distinct lack of enthusiasm in the teacher’s expression. Mr. Phillips seemed more resigned than excited, as though this announcement was an obligation forced upon him by someone with more authority. As he continued, the reason for his reluctance became apparent.

“This month, Avonlea is celebrating a landmark anniversary, and… the school has been ‘highly encouraged’ to involve students in celebrating the town’s history,” Mr. Phillips said, his voice flat. “As such, each of you will be completing a project on Avonlea’s heritage. This,” he added with a strained smile, “is a request from our dear school board.”

The lack of excitement in Mr. Phillips’s tone left no doubt—this project was not his idea. Still, the class couldn’t help but grow curious as he continued to explain. He went on to say that the projects, meant to be completed in pairs, would involve topics like Avonlea’s founding families, local legends, and town landmarks.

Thomas’s interest piqued. He scanned the classroom, wondering who he might be paired with. Part of him hoped to be paired with one of his friends, where they could work without too much pressure. With names being announced in pairs, he began to feel a strange flutter of nerves.

One by one, Mr. Phillips assigned students their partners, each announcement drawing excited or disgruntled whispers. Finally, Mr. Phillips called Thomas’s name and motioned him to the desk. At the sound of his name, Thomas’s eyes darted up, his pulse quickening as Mr. Phillips continued.

“And Anne,” Mr. Phillips added, directing them both forward.

A strange mix of feelings stirred within Thomas. On one hand, he felt a pang of relief; Anne was known for her diligence and boundless imagination. He couldn’t deny the appeal of working with one of the best students in the class - one who was also captivatingly unique. But at the same time, a twinge of anxiety gnawed at him. Anne wasn’t just another student; she was a friend and somehow more than that - a person he couldn’t quite decipher in his mind. Their recent interactions had left him with a complicated sense of her, one that made working closely with her feel both thrilling and daunting.

Mr. Phillips handed over a piece of paper filled with instructions. “Since you two are my best students, you’ll be doing a project on the history of Avonlea itself. Its founding, changes, and what makes our town unique,” he said, attempting to inject a note of enthusiasm, though his gaze remained indifferent. He handed the paper to Thomas, whose fingers tightened around it.

Beside him, Anne’s eyes shone with a spark of excitement, though Thomas could sense her own hint of uncertainty.

“That will be all for today. Class dismissed,” Mr. Phillips announced with a slight wave, already turning toward the storage room, as if eager to escape the project he had reluctantly assigned.

The moment Mr. Phillips departed, the room burst into chatter. Students gathered in small groups, some eager to leave, others keen to start planning their projects. Thomas, feeling a bit lost, moved to the coatroom, where he tried to process the situation in the relative quiet. He hadn’t expected to feel quite so nervous.

He didn’t have long to think before Anne appeared beside him, threading her way through the crowd. She stood just a step away, carrying a mix of determination and her trademark enthusiasm, though her eyes were hesitant as she began.

“So… the project,” she started, breaking the silence.

“Yeah… not exactly what I expected,” Thomas replied, his expression mirroring her own sense of being thrust into unfamiliar territory.

Anne continued, clearly considering their options. “We could stay at school after lessons, but with all the noise, I doubt we’d get very far.” She gestured to the room, where pairs were already animatedly discussing topics, distracted by anything and everything.

Thomas glanced around, nodding. “Yeah, I’d rather avoid trying to work here. It’ll be impossible to focus.”

Anne bit her lip thoughtfully, then asked, “Well, what about working at your house? We’d have more peace and quiet there, right?”

Thomas hesitated, an image of his father flashing in his mind, stern and disapproving. Bringing Anne to his home felt complicated, perhaps more than he could explain. “Uh… maybe,” he began, then, quickly, “Is there any chance we could work on it at Green Gables instead?”

Anne considered the suggestion with an easygoing shrug. “I don’t see why not. If I let Marilla and Matthew know it’s for a school project, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Relieved, Thomas nodded. “That would work better for me. Let me know when you get their permission.”

The idea of working in the warmth of Green Gables, rather than under his father’s eye, lifted a weight from his shoulders. The charm and openness of Anne’s home felt welcoming, the kind of place he could imagine losing himself in a project without worry.

They shared a few more words about the project, brainstorming possible topics to cover in Avonlea’s history, each idea sparking more suggestions between them. He felt the slightest bit more at ease as they spoke, watching as Anne’s enthusiasm turned to focus. For a brief moment, the worries he’d had about working together faded, leaving a simple sense of anticipation in their place.

As they headed out of the classroom, parting ways for the day, Thomas’s thoughts returned to that unexpected surge of nerves. Though he was glad to be working with someone as capable and imaginative as Anne, he felt an odd knot of tension that he couldn’t quite shake. Their shared project felt like more than just an assignment, carrying the weight of something he didn’t yet understand.

The following day, as the lessons drew to a close and the afternoon cast its golden glow over Avonlea, Thomas made his way to Green Gables, a bundle of notes and books for the project tucked firmly under his arm. The walk felt shorter than usual, his mind occupied with thoughts of the task ahead and the anticipation of working with Anne.

As he approached Green Gables, he spotted Jerry tending to the horses in the enclosure. Thomas waved and walked over, enjoying a brief break from the academic thoughts swirling in his head.

"Hey, Jerry!" he greeted, leaning over the fence.

"Thomas! What brings you here?" Jerry asked, pausing his work to chat.

"Here to work on a school project with Anne," Thomas explained.

Jerry’s grin was easygoing as they chatted for a few more minutes, catching up on small-town goings-on. Soon after, Thomas bid Jerry farewell and continued towards the house. As he approached the front porch, he noticed a man seated there, broad-shouldered and bearded, meticulously cleaning his boots. The stranger looked up as Thomas drew closer, his expression shifting from surprise to a friendly curiosity.

"Why, hello there, young man. And who might you be?" he inquired, his voice deep and welcoming.

"Hello, I'm here to see Anne," Thomas replied, a hint of caution in his voice as he added, "Name's Thomas, and you are?"

The man extended his hand in greeting, a smile breaking through his beard. 

"Ah, where are my manners? I'm Mr. Dunlop," he introduced himself.

"So you must be the one Anne was going on about," Mr. Dunlop teased, a playful glint in his eye.

"Oh.. uhm.." Thomas found himself momentarily at a loss for words, the implication that Anne had spoken of him stirring a mix of curiosity and embarrassment. Mr. Dunlop laughed.

"I'm just teasin’ you, lad. Head on inside," he said, opening the door for Thomas and offering a theatrical bow as if welcoming a guest of honor.

Stepping inside, he was immediately greeted by Ms. Cuthbert who was working on something in the kitchen. After polite greetings from both sides, she called out upstairs for Anne. The response was almost immediate - the sound of hurried footsteps descending from above as Anne came rushing down the stairs, a whirlwind of enthusiasm and slight disarray.

"Yes, Marilla?" Anne called out, her voice echoing through the house.

She skidded to a halt at the base of the stairs, her eyes widening in surprise as they landed on Thomas.

"Thomas... the project! I had almost forgotten," she stammered, quickly trying to smooth out her dress and regain some semblance of composure.

"Goodness, Anne, slow down," Marilla chided, shaking her head but with a faint smile tugging at her mouth.

Anne led Thomas upstairs, Marilla’s voice following as a gentle reminder, “Remember to keep the door open, Anne.”

Anne guided Thomas to the right, towards the far end of the hallway, and opened the door to her room. Hesitantly, she stepped inside, with Thomas following close behind. 

“It’s… it’s not much, but it’s my very own space,” she said softly, pride and a touch of uncertainty coloring her tone.

Thomas stepped inside, taking a moment to take it all in. The room was small but filled with the unmistakable essence of Anne - every inch seemed infused with her imaginative spirit. Flowers, leaves, and trinkets adorned the walls and shelves, creating a cozy haven that was warm, lively, and unmistakably hers. It was vastly different from his own sparse and orderly room, and he couldn’t help but be drawn in by its charm.

“I think it’s lovely,” he said earnestly. Anne, visibly relieved and pleased by his approval, rewarded him with a shy smile.

With limited space at the table, Anne settled cross-legged on her bed, creating a makeshift workspace that somehow felt just right for the task at hand. They laid out the array of materials gathered for their project - a motley collection of history books, notes, and assorted papers - the room was filled with a sense of purpose.

Their initial discussion on how to approach the project revealed differing viewpoints, with Anne’s love for storytelling sometimes clashing with Thomas’s preference for straight facts, and they struggled to find common ground. Finally, Thomas broke the stalemate with a compromise.

"How about this, we start with a rough draft, with all the facts and boring stuff, I'll write that," Thomas suggested, laying out his plan while Anne listened, her attention undivided.

 "Once we get all that done, you can put a more interesting spin on it," he added, offering Anne the creative freedom she thrives on.

Anne's face lit up at the suggestion, excited by the prospect of weaving her storytelling magic into the dry fabric of history. With a new sense of direction, they dove into their work, Anne dictating facts and stories as Thomas captured them on paper. The collaboration was smooth, their earlier disagreements giving way to a productive rhythm.

During a brief pause, curiosity got the better of Thomas, and he ventured to ask about the unfamiliar figure he'd met on his arrival. 

"So who's Mr. Dunlop?" he inquired.

Anne's explanation was casual, reflecting the normalcy of new faces at Green Gables.

"Oh! He's boarding here, at Green Gables for a time. He and Nate," she explained.

"I see," Thomas responded, the presence of boarders at Green Gables reminding him of the difficult financial situation the Cuthbert’s found themselves at the end of last year.

With another book exhausted and their notes steadily growing, Anne stood up from her spot on the bed to stretch her limbs and wander closer to Thomas, who was still seated at the table, diligently finalizing a sentence on their shared document. Peering over his shoulder, Anne’s gaze lingered on the paper, an unexpected recognition washing over her as she observed Thomas's handwriting.

"Thomas.. did you.." she started, her voice tinged with disbelief, her finger hesitantly pointing towards the paper.

Puzzled, Thomas glanced between Anne and the paper, scanning for a mistake he might have made. 

"Huh? What did I do wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"It was you, last Christmas," Anne managed to articulate, the realization fully dawning on her. "You left me the book on the porch."

Caught off guard by Anne's discovery, Thomas felt a flush of embarrassment warm his cheeks, his attempt to maintain composure faltering slightly.

"Oh.. uh, yeah," he admitted, trying to sound nonchalant, "Did you enjoy it?"

Anne's response was immediate and genuine, her smile broadening. 

"Oh and how," she exclaimed, her gaze drifting as if recalling the many times she'd delved into the pages of the book. "I must've read it like five times."

Her attention snapped back to Thomas, curiosity and a hint of reproach in her tone. "Why didn't you sign it, or tell me it was you?" she asked, seeking understanding for his anonymity.

Thomas hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing upon him, before he opted for honesty. 

"I was afraid you wouldn't accept it, given everything.." his voice faded, the unsaid words hanging between them.

Anne processed his words, her gaze softening as she responded. "Thank you, it was a wonderful gift, I just regret I didn't have anything for you."

"Don't worry about it," Thomas quickly reassured her, eager to dispel any sense of obligation.

Setting the paper aside, he stretched his arms, a subtle indication of his need for a pause. 

"I could use a break," he suggested, looking to Anne for agreement.

Relieved at the idea, Anne nodded in agreement. As Thomas and Anne made their descent, the warmth of the kitchen enveloped them, filled with the pleasant aroma of baking and the low hum of conversation between Ms. Cuthbert and Mr. Dunlop. Upon noticing their arrival, Marilla offered them each a sweet roll, freshly baked and still warm to the touch.

"Please bring one to Jerry as well, Anne. He's working in the barn," Marilla requested, handing her an extra roll.

With their sweet rolls in hand, Thomas and Anne stepped outside, the crisp air a refreshing change from the cozy warmth of the kitchen. As they munched on their treats, Anne's infectious enthusiasm led them to pause by the chicken enclosure. With a gleam in her eye, she began introducing Thomas to each chicken, sharing the whimsical names she’d bestowed upon them. Thomas couldn't help but chuckle, Anne's imagination shining again.

As they approached the barn, their lighthearted conversation was interrupted by the emergence of a figure from within - a man Thomas hadn't seen before. Young and with an undeniable presence, the man's intense gaze was momentarily disarming.

"Hello, Nate!" Anne greeted the newcomer warmly as she waved. The man's expression immediately softened as he set his eyes on Anne and Thomas.

"Hello Anne, who's this?" Nate inquired, his curiosity piqued as he turned his attention to Thomas.

"Oh! This is my classmate, we're working on a school project together," she explained.

Thomas met Nate's gaze squarely, extending his hand in greeting. 

"Thomas, pleased to meet you," he introduced himself, his handshake firm and confident.

"Nathaniel. Oof, hell of a grip there, young man," Nate commented as he shook Thomas's hand. "Well, I must be on my way," he added, excusing himself before striding off toward the house.

"He's the other boarder. Oh, and he's a geologist! Don't you think that's such a delightful word - ge-o-logist?" she mused, her fascination with the word itself as clear as her interest in Nate's profession.

Upon entering the barn, Anne and Thomas were met with the sight of Jerry, seemingly frozen, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. Anne's cheerful voice broke the silence as she approached him with a sweet roll in hand.

"Hello Jerry, Marilla asked me to bring you one of these," she said, her hand extended towards him with a bright smile.

Jerry flinched, startled by the sudden interruption, before his expression softened upon seeing Anne.

"Oh, merci," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas, observing the exchange, sensed something amiss.

 "Are you alright?" he asked.

Jerry's response was quick, almost too quick. 

"Oui, I.. I go back to work now," he replied before hastily retreating further into the barn.

As they stepped back outside, Anne, seemingly oblivious to Jerry's peculiar behavior, continued on as if nothing had happened. Thomas found himself mulling over Jerry's behavior, a nagging feeling telling him there was more to it than met the eye. Before he could dwell on it further, Anne's voice snapped him back to the present. 

"Wouldn't you agree, Thomas?" she inquired, catching him off guard.

"Huh? With what?" Thomas found himself scrambling to catch up.

"That we should get more books for the project," Anne repeated, her brows knitting together in mild frustration.

"Ah, right. I'll see if I can find anything else in our library," Thomas managed, attempting to cover his brief lapse in attention.

"Library?" The word seemed to spark Anne's interest, her expression brightening with curiosity.

"Ah, well, I call it that. It's more of a study, that happens to have a lot of books," he clarified, hoping to temper her expectations.

"Oh, that sounds like the most wonderful place in the world," she said, her voice trailing off wistfully.

Returning to Anne's room, their shared anticipation of making further progress on their project was instantly dashed by the sight that greeted them. The papers and notes that had been neatly organized on Anne's desk were now strewn across the floor, victims of a gusty wind that had swept through the open window.

"Oh, no, no, no," Anne lamented, the distress evident in her voice as she scrambled to recover the scattered documents.

Thomas, quick to act, moved to shut the window, halting the chaotic draft in its tracks. He then joined Anne on the floor, helping to gather the notes and papers. In their haste, they collided, a gentle but startling bump of heads.

"Ah, sorry," Thomas said, instinctively reaching up to rub at the spot of impact, a sheepish expression on his face.

"It's my fault, I wasn't looking-.." Anne's words tumbled out in a rush, her attempt at an apology cut short by their mutual embarrassment.

The brief awkwardness passed as quickly as it had appeared, leaving them to focus on the task at hand. Soon, they had managed to collect every last piece of their project, ensuring that nothing was lost.

With the disaster averted and their workspace restored, they delved back into their project, the incident serving as a small but memorable detour in their collaborative journey. As the light outside began to dim, signaling the approach of evening, Thomas suggested it was time to end their work for the day.

"Are you able to continue working on this tomorrow afternoon?" Anne asked, hopeful they could maintain their productive rhythm.

"I'll be here, and I'll see if I can find any more information," Thomas assured her, as he began to gather his belongings.

Stepping out onto the front porch, Thomas paused as Anne followed him out. Turning to face her, he wished to say something, but he did not quite know what. Eventually he gave up and opted for farewells.

"See you tomorrow?" he asked.

"See you tomorrow," she smiled, her nod sealing their agreement.

Chapter Text

As the days turned into weeks, Thomas and Anne’s project slowly came to life. Their regular meetings became a fixture in Thomas’s days, and he found himself looking forward to them, each session adding a quiet sense of anticipation. Their studies took them from the cozy confines of Anne’s room to various scenic spots around Green Gables, shaded by trees or sitting by brooks where they could spread out their notes and talk undisturbed. With each passing day, Thomas found himself drawn further into Anne’s vibrant world, captivated by the endless curiosity and the unexplainable charm that seemed to fill her every movement and word.

As they sat together one afternoon, putting the finishing touches on their work, Thomas felt a mix of satisfaction and reluctance at the thought of the project coming to an end. 

"Alright, and now that we've added that... I think we're good," he announced, echoing Anne's suggestion for a last minute addition.

Anne leaned over the pages, her eyes scanning every line with the same meticulous care she had shown throughout their work. After a moment, she looked up, her face breaking into a smile that seemed to radiate pure joy. "I think you're right, it looks incredible," she beamed, her enthusiasm infectious.

The project was indeed impressive. It was a rare blend of Thomas’s careful research and Anne’s storytelling flair - a perfect union of fact and imagination. Looking at the completed work, Thomas couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride, and even more, he felt a deeper bond with Anne, forged by hours of shared effort and countless small discoveries.

Thomas stood and stretched, before walking over to where he had placed his bag earlier, rummaging through it with a purpose. Anne was watching him curiously. Turning back, he revealed two chocolate bars, offering one to her as a small celebration of their achievement. Anne's eyes lit up with surprise and delight as she took the chocolate bar. 

"Where did you get these?" she inquired, a hint of wonder in her voice, charmed by the thoughtful gesture.

"Picked them up in Charlottetown last week," he replied casually, though he had bought them specifically for this occasion, hoping to celebrate the end of their project with something special.

They settled comfortably on the floor, leaning against the bed, and unwrapped their chocolates. The act of sharing these sweet treats in the quiet aftermath of their project completion lent an air of intimacy and camaraderie to the moment.

Anne took her first bite, savoring the rich sweetness. "Oh, these are simply scrumptious!" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with the unrestrained delight that Thomas had come to find both amusing and endearing.

Thomas smiled, watching her enjoy the treat. Sitting there, he realized how much he’d come to treasure these moments. He remembered his early reservations about working with her and laughed inwardly at how quickly those doubts had faded. Shyness and hesitations still lingered between them, but he found himself hoping they would get another project together. Here, in the cozy corners of Green Gables, he felt content - happy even - for the first time in a long time.

Anne broke into his thoughts with a question that took him off guard. "Thomas, I’ve been meaning to ask - why don’t you and your father come to church on Sundays?"

Caught off guard, Thomas hesitated, the question stirring memories and feelings he'd compartmentalized neatly away. Anne, recognizing the potential overstep, rushed to apologize. 

"Oh, I’m so sorry. That was nosy of me, wasn’t it?" she asked, her voice tinged with regret.

"No, it’s alright," he replied slowly, feeling a complicated mix of emotions rise to the surface. "It’s just… well, it’s complicated."

He took a breath, his voice softer. "We used to go. My mom loved it - she believed deeply, you know. But after she died, a lot of things changed." He paused, the weight of those memories heavy in his words. "Some things have never been the same since."

For years, Thomas had kept that part of himself locked away, fearing that sharing too much would only bring questions he wasn’t ready to answer. And yet, here with Anne, the words seemed to come out on their own, against his will.

Anne’s gaze softened with understanding. She reached out and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "I’m so sorry, Thomas. Losing someone you love that way... I can’t imagine how hard it must be."

The simple gesture of her hand on his shoulder was enough to startle him; a subtle reaction that spoke volumes of his guarded nature. He’d carefully keep everyone at a distance, and yet with Anne, that distance seemed to disappear.

"Yeah, well... it was a long time ago," he replied, a hint of detachment in his voice.

A heavy silence fell between them, filled with the weight of shared vulnerability. Anne internally berated herself for possibly souring the lightness of their celebration. But after a moment, Thomas spoke again, his voice thoughtful, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to her.

"It's strange though... used to be when I thought of my mom, I felt sadness, pain," he confessed, looking towards Anne. "Now, however, I just remember the nice things. She used to sing to me, sometimes. And she taught me how to play guitar."

Watching Thomas reminisce, Anne saw a side of him that few probably had - she sensed that he was sharing something deeply personal, something that showed the softer side of him hidden beneath his quiet demeanor.

As the golden afternoon light began to dim, casting a warm twilight glow over the room, Thomas noticed the time and sighed, a reluctant realization settling in.

"It’s getting late; I should probably head back," he said, though his voice hinted that he would have stayed longer if he could.

Anne nodded, her gaze lingering on him a bit longer than usual. They gathered his belongings and made their way downstairs to the porch, where the lingering warmth of the day made the evening air feel inviting.

"Are you ready to present the best project Avonlea has ever seen tomorrow?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"I am indeed. We have done a splendid job," Anne replied, her smile mirroring his confidence in their work.

They shared a laugh, and Thomas could sense the reluctance in their goodbyes. He took one last look at the porch of Green Gables, before setting off, the familiar path back home suddenly feeling a little lonelier than usual.

Thomas's walk home was lightened by a rare, uplifting feeling. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile that he couldn't quite suppress, his thoughts replaying the laughter he’d shared with Anne and the quiet camaraderie of their day. Yet, when he opened the door to his home and saw his father, hunched over a mess of letters and documents, the buoyancy in his chest quickly deflated.

His father, absorbed in his own world of strategic planning and correspondence, hardly glanced up. The brief instruction to join him in his study later didn't bode well; such summons usually prefaced discussions Thomas found disheartening. After a quick bite to eat, apprehension in tow, Thomas made his way to the study.

“Take a seat,” his father instructed, nodding at the worn chair across from his desk. The desk, strewn with correspondence, was as imposing as the man himself. Thomas reluctantly complied, sinking into the seat as if it might anchor him against the tide of expectations about to be voiced.

"So, from what I understand you're done then?" his father's question cut through the silence.

"Done?" Thomas echoed, confused.

"With your little project that's been replacing your afternoon training sessions," his father clarified, his voice laced with impatience.

"Yes," Thomas replied bluntly.

“Good, because you need to prepare,” his father responded, already reaching into the pile of papers on his desk, retrieving a letter sealed with the crest of a society Thomas recognized all too well. His father placed it between them, a silent omen of whatever was coming next.

"For?" Thomas pressed, though a part of him already dreaded the answer.

"Spring is coming to an end soon and before long summer will be upon us, school will be out of session," his father began, each word deliberate, "and you will return to Halifax for the duration of the summer to accelerate your training and help with the cause."

The words struck Thomas like a cold wave, washing away any remnants of the day's earlier warmth.

"You can't be serious.." the words escaped him in a whisper, barely audible, yet laden with disbelief and a rising sense of dread.

"What, did you expect to just sit around doing nothing the entire summer?" His father retorted sharply.

As his father pushed the letter across the table, the reality of the situation began to crystallize for Thomas.

"It’s already set. There have been reports of increased activity in Halifax, and we need an extra pair of eyes for reconnaissance..." his father's voice trailed off into the background as Thomas's own heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else.

His father paced the room, outlining the expectations and the timeline, but Thomas's mind raced with thoughts of a summer he’d imagined. He thought of lazy afternoons,  of exploring the woods, of visiting Green Gables, of time spent with Anne - a summer of possibility and peace slipping through his fingers.

"...and once they've established, you can return back to Avonlea towards the end of summer if all goes as planned," his father concluded, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil churning inside Thomas.

Thomas's anxiety manifested physically; his hands shook uncontrollably. The effort to conceal it was futile, and in a moment of overwhelming frustration, he stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor loudly.

"Why? Why does it have to be me?" the question exploded from him.

His father's response was immediate, a mix of anger and desperation in his eyes as he confronted Thomas's outburst.

"You think I wanted this? You think I didn't look for other options?!" he countered, the intensity of his gaze challenging Thomas to see the bigger picture.

"We've been over this a hundred times, Thomas! It is our obligation!" His father's tone softened slightly, but the insistence remained.

"It was yours! I never asked for this!" Thomas yelled.

"Nor did I! But sometimes we don't get to choose!" his father countered, his voice echoing a harsh reality they both lived under.

Overwhelmed, Thomas acted on impulse, his frustration manifesting physically as he flung the chair he'd been sitting on across the room. It hit the wall with a crash, the sound of splintering wood marking the peak of their confrontation.

The room fell into a suffocating silence, thick with the weight of words that neither seemed willing to take back. For a moment, all Thomas could hear was his own ragged breathing, the echoes of his outburst ringing in his ears. His father, unmoving, stared at him with a look that bordered on sorrow, though the hardness remained. After a moment, he walked forward, his hand reaching out to rest on Thomas’s shoulder.

“Son…” he began, his voice softer, almost pleading.

"No, don't!" Thomas recoiled, shaking off his father's hand, "I’ll go. I’ll do what needs to be done."

Without waiting for a response, Thomas turned on his heel and stormed from the study, each step quickening as he made his way to his room. Once inside, he slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the silent house.

The room seemed too small, too stifling, for the fury and helplessness coursing through him. In a fit of frustration, he swept everything off his desk with a forceful swipe of his arm, scattering papers and pencils to the floor. He kicked the edge of his bed, the dull thud of impact barely relieving the turmoil inside.

His breaths came in short, ragged gasps as he finally sank to the floor, his head falling into his hands. When he looked up, his eyes fell upon a crumpled piece of foil on the floor - the wrapper from the chocolate he’d shared with Anne only hours before. In that moment, his anger softened, replaced by an ache that went deeper than rage.

The memory of Anne’s laughter, of the quiet understanding between them, flooded his mind, and the knot of tension in his chest began to ease. He picked up the wrapper, pressing it tightly in his fist as if it could tether him to that fleeting moment of happiness. His breaths slowed, steadied, as he clutched the small reminder of a simpler time.

The following day, the classroom buzzed with a mix of anticipation and restlessness as students took turns presenting their assignments. The room was alive with a spectrum of efforts, from meticulous projects gleaming with hard work to haphazard displays bearing the unmistakable signs of last-minute assembly. Finally, Mr. Phillips called upon Thomas and Anne to present their project on the history of Avonlea.

Anne sprang to her feet, her eyes alight with excitement, unable to keep a wide, infectious smile off her face. She gestured for Thomas to join her at the front, and though he rose, his movements were slower, his gaze distant. While Anne brimmed with eagerness to share their hard work, Thomas felt an inexplicable heaviness settle over him, a tension that only grew as he followed her to the front of the room.

With a quick glance at him, Anne took the lead, clearing her throat before diving into their presentation. She spoke of Avonlea's history with a rare kind of passion, breathing life into what could have been a monotonous list of dates and events. Her voice rose and fell, weaving the story of Avonlea with skillful narrative flair, painting a vivid portrait of the town's struggles, victories, and spirit.

Anne’s enthusiasm had the entire room captivated, even the normally inattentive Billy Andrews leaning forward to listen. But as she continued, a sensation began to creep over Thomas - a faint discomfort that soon morphed into a suffocating pressure. His chest tightened, as though constricted by an invisible band, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. He took a shallow breath, then another, but each inhale seemed to yield less oxygen than the last.

Thomas tried to ground himself, but his hands were trembling uncontrollably, the tremors growing more pronounced by the second. He clenched them into fists, desperate to regain control, but the anxiety surged, twisting his stomach. It was irrational, he knew - there was no real threat in this room filled with familiar faces. Yet his body felt otherwise, as though he stood on the precipice of some looming catastrophe.

Flashes of repressed memories - fleeting, fragmented images - rose to the surface, blurring the present. The classroom grew hazy, the sounds around him muffled and distant. He felt detached, as though observing himself from outside his own body. His vision narrowed, the edges fading into darkness, and just when he thought he might be swallowed by the wave of panic -

"Thomas, are you okay?" Anne’s voice cut through the fog, quiet yet filled with a gentle concern that broke through his trance.

The intensity of his fear, which had moments ago felt all-consuming, dissipated almost magically at her words, replaced by an overwhelming lightness. It was as if Anne's voice had the power to dispel the storm inside him, leaving him momentarily unmoored.

“I… I’m alright,” he managed, though his voice trembled, words spilling out in a stammer that betrayed the turmoil that still lingered in him.

He stumbled over his words initially, the remnants of his anxiety making his response a stammer. Yet, as he took over from Anne to continue their presentation, something shifted within him. Despite a shaky start, Thomas found his footing, his voice steadying as he delved into their research. The more he spoke, the more his confidence returned, allowing him to deliver the remainder of the presentation with clarity and strength.

When Thomas finally wrapped up his part, Anne seamlessly took over, delivering their conclusion with grace and energy. Together, they brought the story of Avonlea to a triumphant end, a story that echoed the community’s resilience and pride.

Their classmates broke into applause and Mr. Phillips gave a rare nod of approval. Thomas let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and the two of them returned to their seats, the hard-won sense of relief washing over him like a calming tide.

The rest of the school day passed in a blur. When the final bell rang, Thomas wasted no time in making his way toward the coatroom, eager to escape the confines of the classroom and the lingering memory of his panic attack. But before he could reach his coat, Anne’s cheerful voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Hey, Thomas! We did great, didn’t we?” she called, her face alight with the joy of their shared accomplishment. “Even Mr. Phillips looked impressed!”

“Y-yeah, good job,” Thomas replied, though his voice wavered, betraying the remnants of his earlier struggle. He could feel Anne’s perceptive gaze on him, and he ducked his head, gathering his belongings with a haste that didn’t escape her notice.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her smile fading as concern flickered in her eyes. Anne took a step closer, her voice softer. “You didn’t seem yourself up there.”

Thomas forced a tight smile, his hands fumbling slightly as he shrugged into his coat. “Yeah… I’m fine. Just… tired, I guess.” He cast a quick look over her shoulder, hoping no one else was watching. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, a bit too hastily, before turning and all but bolting out of the room.

Anne remained rooted to the spot, watching as he disappeared through the door, her earlier joy fading into a frown of worry. She couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was weighing heavily on Thomas, something he hadn’t shared. The way he’d frozen at the front of the class, the way his voice had trembled, his quick retreat - it was very unlike him.

A part of her wanted to chase after him, to insist he tell her what was wrong. But another part, wiser perhaps, reminded her that sometimes people need to come to their own truths in their own time.

With a quiet sigh, Anne finally turned and gathered her things, slipping out of the now-empty school. Yet as she walked home, the memory of Thomas’s haunted expression stayed with her, casting a faint shadow over her steps, and leaving her wondering what lay behind it - and if he’d ever let her in to find out.

Chapter Text

HALIFAX, SUMMER 1897

A thick, humid veil settled over Halifax as dusk approached, casting the town in a stifling haze, as though nature itself sensed the tense events waiting to unfold. Henry, a young man barely twenty, moved purposefully through one of the town's more decrepit streets, his heart pounding with the promise of change. "Today is the day," he whispered, repeating the words like a mantra to still his nerves.

He soon arrived at a modest pub, hidden from the main thoroughfares and prying eyes. The place had an air of secrecy, tucked in the quieter part of town where few ventured after dark. Once inside, the cool air offered a momentary respite from the oppressive heat, though it did little to settle his racing thoughts. Henry walked directly toward a small door at the back, knocking in a practiced sequence known only to a few.

The door opened with a creak, revealing a dimly lit room. Inside, his lifelong friend Damien greeted him with a brief nod, his steady gaze offering both reassurance and warning. But a voice from across the room quickly claimed Henry’s attention.

"Early, are we, Henry?" The speaker’s tone was calm, though laden with authority. From the shadows emerged the man who had overseen Henry’s journey through the rituals and demands of their organization, guiding him step by step with a mixture of rigor and caution.

Henry straightened instinctively. "Apologies, sir. I didn’t want to risk being late."

Damien’s gaze sharpened. "Were you followed?"

Henry shook his head. "Not that I noticed," he replied, determined to mask the nervous tremor in his voice.

"Good," came the leader’s voice, marked by a brief but approving nod. He then motioned to Damien, who stepped forward, handing Henry an envelope sealed with a distinct cross - a symbol that carried weight beyond words within their ranks.

"This is it," Damien whispered, his tone reverent, underscoring the gravity of the moment. "Your final assignment before initiation. Deliver it - no interruptions."

Henry took the envelope, slipping it carefully inside his coat pocket. He could hardly contain his pride; months of dedication, secrecy, and silent sacrifice had brought him to this moment. Soon, he would be one of the youngest inducted members, proof of his unshakable loyalty and ambition.

With a steadying breath, Henry left the pub, merging into the night to begin a route he’d traveled countless times before. But tonight felt different, a tense electricity in the air heightening his senses as he moved through the narrow lanes of Halifax. The excitement and nerves made each shadow seem alive, every echo a potential threat. He tried to shake off the unease, focusing instead on the rhythm of his footsteps and the humid air that clung to his skin.

As he turned down a particularly deserted alley, he sensed the danger before he saw it. The walls were worn by time and heavy with shadows, a fitting backdrop for the gnawing dread inching up his spine. Just as he brushed the feeling aside, the sharp crash of shattering glass snapped him back to the present. He spun around, his hand reaching instinctively into his coat, but the alley remained empty, mocking his alarm with its oppressive silence.

Henry swallowed hard, mentally chastising himself for his lapse in focus. Turning back, he continued down the narrow path, each of his senses heightened, scanning the shadows for even the faintest movement. As he neared the alley's end, it happened.

 A figure dropped from above, landing with a grace that belied the threat it represented. Shrouded in darkness, the figure’s face was hidden beneath a hood, but the air around them felt charged, as though they held an energy that dimmed the world itself.

Henry's steps faltered, and he came to a stop, a mix of panic and dread washing over him. He had been warned about encounters such as this, had mentally rehearsed how he might react, but the reality of the moment stripped away any semblance of preparedness.

The figure before him stood motionless, blocking the path to his destination, and in that instant, Henry understood. These were the very adversaries his mentors had spoken of, a shadowy threat to their cause and to his own life.

Instinct overrode reason, and he bolted, sprinting back the way he’d come. Panic clawed at his insides, adrenaline igniting every nerve as he pushed himself through the twisting, labyrinthine streets of Halifax. He didn’t dare look back; the soft but relentless footsteps behind him told him enough. His pursuer was close, disturbingly so, their presence looming like a specter.

As he rounded a corner, he nearly barreled into two older women, their curses following him as he barely dodged out of their way. His lungs burned, his legs felt leaden, but the sight of the pub in the distance - a flicker of sanctuary - propelled him forward. Spotting Damien and another associate, Jim, standing outside, Henry felt a faint glimmer of hope.

"They’re after me!" he called out, his voice choked with fear and exertion. "It’s them!"

But before the words could fully leave his lips, movement flashed behind Damien and Jim. The hooded figure was suddenly there, swift as a shadow. In one fluid motion, they had Jim in a chokehold, silencing him before he could even react. Damien, too, remained oblivious to the danger just a few steps behind him.

Henry's finger trembled as he pointed, his throat tight, words lost in a vortex of panic. As Damien spun around, his associate was already unconscious on the ground. Damien's eyes, wide with shock and realization, barely had time to register the imminent danger.

“It’s the As-..” he began to yell.

His attempt to voice a warning was abruptly cut short as the hooded figure's fist met his mouth with a force that sent him staggering back. Henry felt an icy grip of terror clench around his heart as he watched the hooded figure dispatch Damien with practised ease, throwing him into the wall, where he slid to the ground, defeated and unconscious.

The hooded figure's attention turned sharply towards Henry, the ominous turn of his head sending a wave of cold fear down Henry's spine. Panic, raw and unyielding, gripped him once more, igniting his instincts to flee once more. He turned and ran with a desperation he'd never known, Halifax's streets and alleys blurring into a maze of fear and exertion. Eventually, his body's limits brought him to a staggering halt, his hands clutching at a wall for support, his breaths ragged and sharp in the quiet night.

Henry dared to look behind. Nothing. Silence. 

The momentary relief was shattered by a noise from above. Before Henry could process the sound, the hooded figure was upon him, their descent from the rooftop a blur of motion that ended with Henry pinned to the ground, the dirt pressing into his cheek.

The weight of the figure on top of him was immobilizing, the knees digging into his arm and chest a physical manifestation of the dread that constricted around his heart. Tears, born of fear and resignation, welled in his eyes as he faced what he believed to be his final moments.

"Please," he choked, voice barely a whisper. "Please don’t kill me. I don’t want to die."

The hooded figure's hand reached out, and Henry braced for an end that seemed inevitable. But instead of the cold touch of death, the man reached into his jacket, yanking the letter from its depths.

As the figure stood, the lantern's glow briefly illuminated the face beneath the hood, revealing not the hardened visage of a merciless foe, but the youthful features of a teenager, a boy younger than himself. Relief, confusion, and fear all jumbled together in Henry’s mind, leaving him disoriented and shaken.

Before he could make sense of it, the hooded figure disappeared into the shadows, leaving him alone in the dirt.

Chapter Text

After a summer spent in Halifax, caught between secrecy and duty, Thomas stepped off the train at Bright River station, his eyes adjusting to the subtle autumnal hues that had settled over the landscape. The fields surrounding Avonlea were brushed with shades of amber and rust, a gentle nod to the oncoming harvest. The sight stirred something deep within him - a mix of relief at being home and a subtle sadness for the time lost to the fog of secret tasks and unspoken risks.

Thomas’s thoughts drifted as he took in the familiar landscape until a loud voice shattered his reverie.

“Allô!” came the cheerful greeting, unmistakably Jerry’s. He stood near the station’s edge, waving with a grin that Thomas couldn’t help but return, even as confusion filled his gaze.

“Hello, Jerry,” Thomas said, raising an eyebrow. “What brings you here?”

“Your father asked me to fetch you,” Jerry replied, clambering into the buggy with an easy grace, taking up the reins with practiced hands.

Thomas let out a soft chuckle, tinged with sarcasm. “How thoughtful of him.” But Jerry, ever oblivious to Thomas’s tone, simply nodded as Thomas settled beside him, and they set off on the dusty road home.

“My brother was supposed to come, but he has la colique,” Jerry mentioned offhandedly, clicking his tongue to spur the horse onward.

"The what?" Thomas asked, puzzled.

Jerry winced, his face turning sheepish. “Ah..diarrhea.”

Thomas immediately wished he hadn't asked for the clarification, a brief grimace passing over his features. The corners of his mouth lifted in a small smile, though, and he felt himself begin to relax as the familiar countryside rolled past them. The rhythmic clop of the horse’s hooves seemed to beat out his pent-up tension, the fields and trees washing over him like balm.

Jerry glanced at him, curiosity sparking in his dark eyes. “How was the city?”

Thomas hesitated, offering only polite, vague responses, skirting around the details of his time in Halifax. JEventually, Jerry, perhaps sensing Thomas's reluctance to delve deeper into his recent past, shifted the topic to lighter matters. Their conversation ebbed and flowed until it dwindled to a companionable silence, leaving room for Jerry to fill with French songs. The simple melodies lifted Thomas’s spirits, and he found himself content to listen as Jerry’s songs blended with the sounds of the open road.

Eventually, they reached the fork that led to Thomas’s home. He hopped down from the buggy, retrieving his bag from the back. He made sure Jerry had been compensated, extending his hand with a genuine smile.

“Thank you, Jerry,” he said, clasping his friend’s hand firmly. “I’ll see you around.”

“Au revoir!” Jerry called, his broad grin lighting up his face as he gave a quick wave before setting off.

With his bag slung over his shoulder, Thomas walked down the winding path leading to the manor. In his absence, it had undergone further repairs, its walls and windows nearly restored to their former grandeur. The sight reminded him of his family’s past resilience, a reminder he found both reassuring and burdensome.

The moment he stepped inside, he noted that the renovations extended beyond the façade. The once-scarred interior walls now gleamed, their surfaces smooth and clean, as if the house had been scrubbed free of its past. Thomas set his bag down in the kitchen, the comforting smell of aged wood and lingering traces of lavender soap filling the air.

He moved through the quiet halls, instinctively making his way to his father’s study. There, he found his father, a familiar fixture behind a fortress of paperwork, his pen scratching against paper. At the sound of Thomas’s footsteps, his father looked up, his gaze softening slightly as he took in his son’s return.

“Back already?” His father’s voice held a note of surprise, as if the summer months had slipped by without notice.

"Yes, I'm back," Thomas responded, his voice carrying the weight of the many experiences he had amassed in his absence. 

His father rose from the desk, gesturing for Thomas to take a seat across from him.

“Well then, how was Halifax?” he asked, the question loaded with unspoken inquiries about tasks completed, dangers faced, and secrets unearthed.

“It was… enlightening,” Thomas replied, a hint of sarcasm edging his tone.

His father's frown was a clear sign of his displeasure with the answer. With a sigh, recognizing the need for a more substantive explanation, Thomas delved into a concise yet informative report.

"The intel was solid. They are clearly expanding their operation. Their agents have been spotted in New Brunswick as well. The information I managed to intercept and acquire seems to be of some use, from what I gather. They don't exactly tell me much," he recounted.

A heavy pause filled the room as his father absorbed this, his expression growing more severe.

“This is grave news,” his father murmured, his gaze sharpening as he considered the implications. “I’ll contact Toronto. We need to reassess our approach.” His mind was already shifting towards action, plotting the next moves in a game that seemed to have no end.

Thomas waited, sensing the conversation was winding down. He had expected some acknowledgment of his work, perhaps even a passing word of praise. But instead, his father leaned back, already shifting back to his usual stoic self.

“For now,” his father continued, the edge of command returning to his voice, “resume your usual duties. We’ll speak of this again soon.”

Thomas shrugged, masking the flicker of disappointment that passed over him. Just as he turned to leave, his father’s voice softened.

“Thomas,” he began, the formality dropping for just a moment, “you’ve done well.” There was a hint of regret in his voice, as if acknowledging the weight of what he had asked of his son.

Thomas nodded, exiting the study, making his way upstairs to his room. He closed the door behind him, setting his bag down with a sigh. The room looked the same as it had when he’d left, though now the familiar furnishings and soft light filtering through the window felt somehow foreign. In that moment, he felt as though he stood between two worlds - the life he had known and the one he was slowly but surely being drawn into.

Some days later, in the late afternoon, as Thomas busied himself with cleaning the stable, he heard the creak of the door behind him. Turning, he was met with an unexpected sight - his father, dressed not in his usual worn attire but in a smart, tailored suit, fine enough to belong to a Sunday service or special occasion.

“Saddle the horse for me, will you?” his father requested, the tone unmistakably firm.

"You sure you don't want me to bring the buggy out?" Thomas questioned, puzzled about his father’s departure.

"I'm crippled, not dead," his father retorted sharply. 

The response left no room for further discussion, prompting Thomas to suppress a roll of his eyes as he turned his attention to Luna, preparing her for the ride.

As he adjusted the straps, curiosity got the better of him. “Where are you headed?” he ventured, casting a sidelong glance at his father.

"Town hall, apparently there's gold in Avonlea. Some geologist found it and everyone's gathering to discuss it. I admit, curiosity is getting the better of me," his father shared, revealing the reason behind his unexpected outing.

"Gold? What, in the ground?" Thomas asked, the concept seeming both bizarre and intriguing.

"Obviously in the ground. Allegedly." his father clarified dryly.

"May I come along?" Thomas inquired, intrigued by the prospect.

His father's dismissal was immediate, "No, it's for adults only. You stay here and tend to the house." 

"Right, wouldn't want me to engage in any 'adult' activities," Thomas's frustration bubbled to the surface, his reply laced with sarcasm.

His father’s gaze turned sharp, the look that always signaled his demand for respect. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Thomas mumbled, tamping down his resentment and turning his focus back to cleaning the stable.

Satisfied, his father mounted the horse, the act performed with a trace of difficulty, but his usual composure returned as he set off confidently. Thomas watched him disappear down the path, an idea beginning to take shape. The stable felt suffocating in that moment, as if his own curiosity was clawing to escape.

The decision came swiftly, almost recklessly. Before he could talk himself out of it, Thomas hurried to the creek, splashing cold water over his face and scrubbing away the dust of the day. The shock of the water was invigorating, clearing his mind. He dashed back to the house, trading his work clothes for something more presentable. Then, with a final glance toward the now-empty stable, he set off toward the town hall.

His journey to the town hall was quick, the urgency of his steps matching the racing thoughts in his head. As he approached, the building was already teeming with activity, the hum of excited and speculative conversations filling the air. Thomas, determined not to miss out on the discussions of gold in Avonlea, slipped inside, immediately catching the curious glances of some nearby townsfolk. He quickly disappeared into the background and found refuge in the stairwell. Following the steps up, he soon found himself on the curved balcony, its secluded railings providing an excellent vantage point to watch the proceedings below.

From his vantage point, Thomas observed the chaos below. The townsfolk, usually so familiar and neighborly, were now caught up in a fervor that rendered their conversations into a scene of controlled chaos, each individual absorbed in their own theories and conjectures about the supposed gold discovery. Mrs. Lynde's attempts to restore order seemed almost comical against the backdrop of unchecked excitement.

It was then that his gaze wandered to the side of the balcony opposite his own, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Hiding there, peering through the railings with an intensity that matched his own, were Anne, Diana, and Ruby.

Thomas carefully navigated his way across the balcony, his movements quiet and calculated to avoid drawing attention. Arriving unnoticed behind the trio, he chose his moment to announce his presence with a gentle, "Hello."

Their unified gasp and the startled jump they gave were almost comical, with Ruby's reaction being particularly loud, prompting quick shushes from Anne and Diana, fearful of being discovered.

"Thomas! What are you doing here?" Anne managed to ask, her voice a mixture of surprise and delight, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Guess," Thomas replied with a half-grin, gesturing to the unruly gathering below them.

Diana gave him a knowing smile. “So, you’ve heard the news too.”

"Yeah, wanted to see it for myself - guess you three had the same idea," Thomas said, positioning himself beside them to get a better view of the scene below. Ruby shifted slightly, her demeanor changing to one of shyness now that Thomas was in close proximity.

“I heard you spent the entire summer in Halifax,” Diana said, her curiosity evident.

Thomas’s expression faltered briefly, but he nodded. “I did, yeah.”

"Halifax? What were you doing there all summer?" Anne's question followed, her interest piqued by the mention of his absence. She had wondered all summer where he had suddenly vanished.

Before Thomas could formulate a response, Mrs. Lynde, perhaps sensing the need for drastic measures to regain control, decided to slam her hands down on the nearby piano, creating a sound that demanded attention and momentarily saved Thomas from having to delve into explanations he wasn't ready to share. The sudden noise drew their attention away from their private conversation and back to the main hall, where the assembly below began to quiet down under Mrs. Lynde's forceful orchestration.

As Mrs. Lynde ceded the floor, the man of the hour, Nate, the geologist whose discovery had sparked the commotion, stepped forward. Thomas, observing from above, recognized him instantly as one of the boarders at Green Gables, recalling Anne's mentions of his profession during his visits working on the school project.

The crowd immediately began peppering Nate with questions. After answering a few, he brought out a sample test certificate from New York, that confirmed the existence of gold in Avonlea.

Anne, witnessing the proceedings with a mix of curiosity and awe, murmured, "There really is gold in Avonlea.."

Diana, reflecting on her family's position, added, "Father is quite preoccupied at the prospect."

Ruby, caught up in the moment, turned to Diana with hopeful eyes, "Do you think we'll all be rich like you, Diana?"

Thomas, however, remained a silent observer. His analytical mind was not so easily swept up in the fervor. Instead, he focused on Nate's presentation, the geologist's demeanor, and the reactions of the townsfolk.

When Nate disclosed the cost of soil testing, "$150 dollars per test," the room's atmosphere palpably shifted. The initial excitement gave way to displeasure. The financial barrier to confirming the presence of gold on one's land introduced a harsh reality check, cooling the heads heated by dreams of wealth.

As Nate endeavored to persuade the increasingly skeptical crowd about the merits of investment, Anne's mind raced towards Gilbert.

"I have to write to Gilbert. I have to let him know about the gold," she declared, a sense of urgency in her voice.

"Gilbert?" Ruby inquired, puzzled.

"But you don't even know where he is," Diana pointed out, practical as ever.

"I think I have a way I can find out," Anne was undeterred. Standing up, she prepared to leave, Diana's voice trailing after her in concern.

With Anne's departure, Diana, Ruby, and Thomas remained perched on the balcony, witnessing the unfolding drama. The room's mood shifted once more when Mr. Barry, Diana's father, proposed offering financial assistance to those who couldn't afford the soil test. Despite this gesture, skepticism pervaded, and Nate seemed on the verge of defeat as he made to leave. That was until a voice cut through the tension, stopping Nate in his tracks. It was the other boarder at Green Gables, Thomas realized.

"Put your money where your mouth is," Mr. Dunlop challenged Nate, proposing that if Nate truly believed in Avonlea's potential, he should quit his job at the company who would buy all the land-rights and take a direct role in the mining operation. 

"That's the other boarder at Green Gables," Thomas narrowed his eyes. Ruby looked confused, while Diana's expression was a mix of emotions.

The room's energy changed as Mr. Dunlop continued to press Nate. Eventually, Nate conceded, agreeing to resign and take charge of the operation himself. The hall erupted in approval, the townsfolk rallying behind this new development with renewed optimism.

It was amid this uproar that Thomas noticed his father’s figure, lingering near the back of the hall. As the applause quieted, his father slipped out through a side door, his departure both discreet and deliberate. Alarmed, Thomas realized he needed to reach home first. He couldn’t afford to be caught. 

“I have to go,” he whispered to Diana and Ruby, who looked at him in surprise.

"What? Why?" Ruby exclaimed, seemingly appalled by Thomas’s sudden departure.

"We'll speak later, it was good seeing you both," Thomas said, hastily making his exit.

"See you," Diana gave him a small wave.

Thomas hurried from the town hall, cutting through the woods, driven by the need to reach home before his father to avoid being discovered.

Chapter Text

The morning after the town hall meeting, the breakfast table was steeped in its usual quiet, broken only by the occasional soft clink of cutlery and the rustle of paper.  As his father perused what seemed like an important document, Thomas mustered the courage to broach the topic that had been swirling in his mind since the previous evening.

"So, the town hall meeting yesterday... how did it go?" Thomas ventured, his voice careful to convey innocence.

His father barely glanced up from his reading, offering only a noncommittal grunt in response.

"Seems quite unreal, doesn't it... gold just beneath our feet?" Thomas pressed, hoping to gauge his father's opinion.

"Doesn't it just," his father grunted again, his tone dry, barely concealing his skepticism.

Intrigued by his father's apparent doubt, Thomas decided to probe deeper.

"So, what do you think of all this?" he asked.

His father sighed deeply, before setting down the letter, finally giving Thomas his full attention.

"I think I'll let you make your own conclusions, this will be a great learning opportunity," he replied, a hint of challenge in his tone as he stood from the table.

"And I'm not sure why you're being so inquisitive as to yesterday's events, given you were there," he added as he walked towards the hearth, his back now to Thomas.

Thomas almost choked on his water. His father’s words hit him like a cold splash; despite his efforts to remain unseen, his presence at the meeting hadn’t gone unnoticed. Caught off guard and unsure how to respond, Thomas scrambled for an excuse.

"Ah, I uh-.." he stammered, struggling to formulate a coherent reply. Realizing any further discussion would only dig him deeper into trouble, he quickly changed the subject, "I'm late for school."

With that, he hurriedly gathered his things, his movements brisk and a little too deliberate. He headed for the door, eager to escape the growing pressure of his father's scrutinizing gaze and the potential reprimand that might follow if he lingered any longer. 

Outside, the crisp morning air hinted that autumn was here. Leaves, tinged with gold and red, rustled gently in the breeze. With the harvest now over, school was back in session. Thomas set off at a brisk pace, not wanting to be late. 

As he reached his destination and entered the schoolyard, he took a moment to observe his peers, noting subtle changes. Everyone seemed a little bit older, a little bit taller. A wave of contentment washed over him as he reacquainted himself with these familiar faces.

Off to the side of the yard, Thomas spotted Cole, his desk-mate from the previous term. Cole was sitting on a rock, engrossed in his sketchbook. He seemed to have grown considerably over the summer. Approaching quietly from behind, Thomas clapped him on the shoulder, eliciting a small start from Cole.

"Hey Cole, long time no see," Thomas greeted warmly, an easy smile spreading across his face.

Cole looked up, a slight smile breaking through his usual reserve.

"Hello, Thomas. How was your summer?" he responded, his voice steady and polite.

Thomas, preferring to leave the details of his summer unspoken, leaned over to glance at Cole's drawing instead - a detailed sketch of a tree with intricately drawn roots. 

"Wow, that's impressive, you've improved a lot," Thomas remarked, genuinely impressed.

"Thank you," Cole responded, a hint of pride in his voice.

As Thomas straightened up, he noticed Anne and Diana arriving. They were busy placing their milk bottles in the creek to keep them cool. Thomas raised his hand in greeting, and both Anne and Diana responded with quick waves before disappearing inside.

Thomas wandered away from Cole to greet a few other familiar faces, before the chime of the bell signaled the start of lessons and everyone made their way inside.

Inside, the classroom bustled as everyone exchanged tales of summer adventures and, inevitably, whispers about the rumored gold. Thomas took his seat next to Cole, his thoughts momentarily drifting back to the town hall meeting. But the opening of the supply room door pulled him back to reality.

Mr. Phillips strode in, his rigid posture and serious demeanor silencing the class in an instant. "Open your readers to the section on Lancelot and Elaine," he wasted no time in getting the day started.

 As the students fumbled with their books, Mr. Phillips began reading the tale aloud, his voice monotone and lacking any inflection that might bring the story to life. Thomas noticed that Cole, rather than following along in his reader, was absorbed once again in his sketchbook. He peered over to see the beginnings of a grand castle, complete with ramparts and a lone knight standing guard.

Suddenly, a wooden ruler appeared from the direction of the row behind them. Before Thomas could react, the ruler descended sharply, knocking over Cole's inkwell. Dark ink splattered across the detailed drawing, spreading rapidly across the paper and dripping onto the table.

Cole gasped and stood abruptly, fumbling to upright the inkwell, his movements hurried and clumsy in his panic. In his haste, Cole’s sketchbook slid from the table and hit the floor. The commotion caught the attention of the entire class, turning heads and drawing a chorus of murmurs and whispers. Mr. Phillips paused mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the disruption.

Thomas, seething with quiet anger, quickly glanced at Billy Andrews in the seat behind, who was trying to look innocent, but the faint grin tugging at his lips betrayed his act. Suppressing the urge to confront Billy right then and there, Thomas turned his attention back to the front of the class.

"Cole?" Mr. Phillips's voice cut through the tension in the room. There was no response from Cole, who was visibly shaken. 

"What have you got there?" the teacher probed further.

Cole's voice was barely audible as he responded, "My apologies, Mr. Phillips, I'll clean it up."

"Are you doodling while I'm tirelessly dedicating my life to your education?" Mr. Phillips's tone was both incredulous and irritated.

"Blackboard!" Mr. Phillips commanded sharply, pointing to the front of the room.

Cole stepped out of his seat, reaching down to pick up his sketchbook, but was stopped by Mr. Phillips.

“Now!” Mr. Phillips was now shouting.

Cole flinched, straightening back up and making his way to the front of the class, leaving his sketchbook on the floor.

Anne, quick to support a friend, quietly slipped from her seat while the class's attention was on Cole. She picked up Cole’s sketchbook and placed it back on the desk, her small act of kindness not lost on Thomas, who gave her a grateful nod. Anne returned the nod with a worried frown, her eyes darting between Cole and Mr. Phillips.

On the blackboard, Mr. Phillips had scrawled “I will not draw in class”, turning back to Cole.

"You like to draw? Draw that," Mr. Phillips instructed coldly, "make sure it's legible."

"Back to your readers!" Mr. Phillips commanded the rest of the class, resuming his monotone reading as Cole began to write on the blackboard.

Mr. Phillips had barely finished reading a passage when Cole was already done copying the sentence on the blackboard. His letters were adorned with twirls and twists, a stark contrast to Mr. Phillip’s careless handwriting.

Mr. Phillips approached the blackboard, his face an expression of angry disapproval, retrieving the sponge.

“Less flourish, you’re gonna need room for 50 of those,” he coldly instructed before theatrically erasing Cole’s writing. 

As Cole hesitantly wrote the punitive lines on the blackboard, Thomas noticed the ruler once more sneaking towards the inkwell from behind. Without a moment's hesitation, he snatched the ruler from Billy's hand and snapped it in half. The sharp crack echoed through the classroom, abruptly turning every head towards him.

"Thomas!" Mr. Phillips shouted, his face turning a shade redder, "what is that?!"

Thomas met the teacher's gaze steadily, hiding the two pieces of the ruler. 

"Sorry, Mr. Phillips, I must have accidentally stepped on something," he replied, trying to sound innocent.

The excuse was thin, and everyone in the room knew it, but surprisingly Mr. Phillips decided not to press the issue.

"Will that be the last of the interruptions today, or would you like to join Cole at the blackboard?" Mr. Phillips spat out the words with a harshness that made several students flinch. 

His eyes lingered on Thomas for a moment longer, as if daring him to challenge the order of the classroom further. Mr. Phillips huffed, turning back to his desk, his voice returning to its usual drone as he picked up the book and continued reading from where he had left off.

As the lunch bell rang, Thomas headed toward his favorite spot in the old willow tree. The gentle shade and rustling branches had always offered a perfect escape. But as he neared, he came to a halt, frowning at the sight before him. Billy Andrews and his friends had already taken up residence under the tree, their laughter echoing in mockery of that morning’s incident in the classroom. Thomas grunted, about to leave, but Billy had noticed him and called out.

"Hey bud, are we in your way?" Billy asked, his tone dripping with feigned concern.

Thomas felt a pang of irritation but forced himself to keep his tone even. "Not at all, Billy." He turned to leave, unwilling to give Billy and his friends the satisfaction of a reaction.

But Billy wasn’t finished. "Hey, don’t you ever get tired of playing the savior knight?" he sneered, his friends chuckling in agreement.

Thomas stopped, taking a slow breath to steady himself. Then he turned back, fixing Billy with a cold, menacing glare. "Watch yourself, Billy," he warned in a low, firm tone.

The laughter from Billy’s group faltered. Billy’s smirk faded as he met Thomas’s gaze. For a moment, an unease flickered in Billy’s eyes, the memory of the past run-in with Thomas flashing across his mind. But he quickly shrugged it off. 

"Whatever you say, bud," he retorted, though his voice betrayed a hint of unease.

Thomas turned away, deciding to find another spot. He walked back towards the school, scanning for a quieter place to eat. His gaze landed on Josie Pye, sitting uncharacteristically alone by the creek, absently picking at her lunch. He hesitated, but concern overcame his reluctance and he approached her cautiously.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently.

Josie looked up sharply, slightly startled by his presence. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and she seemed to search his face for sincerity.

Why wouldn’t I be?" she replied, her tone defensive, though she didn’t immediately look away.

Thomas shifted uncomfortably, sensing her guard was up.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, not quite sure where the impulse had come from.

Josie paused, looking back at the schoolhouse, as though considering her options. A flicker of vulnerability softened her expression for a moment. But almost as quickly, her guard went up again, and her tone turned icy.

"I do mind, excuse me," she said abruptly, standing up and storming off.

Thomas stood frozen for a moment, taken aback by the harshness of her dismissal. Sighing, he glanced around, finally heading back into the school building, feeling a touch of awkwardness settle over him.

To his surprise, the usually solitary Cole was surrounded by a lively group of girls from their class - Anne, Diana, Ruby, Jane, and Tilly - all sharing lunch and laughter. Thomas hesitated at the doorway, observing the camaraderie. Ruby noticed him lingering in the doorway, and as their eyes met, Thomas felt inclined to say something.

"Is it okay if I join you?" the words left his mouth before he had time to consider them. He froze in terror, suddenly feeling inadequate.

The girls looked up and immediately welcomed him with bright smiles and cheerful nods. "Of course!" Anne replied, gesturing for him to take a seat. Ruby even scooted over to make room, patting the space beside her.

Relieved, Thomas sat between Cole and Ruby, feeling an unexpected surge of gratitude for the kindness of his friends. Their conversation was easy and lively, a blend of summer stories, small town gossip, and gentle teasing that quickly melted away his earlier tension.

It wasn’t long before someone brought up the topic of gold. Diana leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Imagine if there really is gold in Avonlea! It would change everything."

"Yes! A whole new world of possibilities," Ruby added with a dreamy smile, her imagination clearly already running wild.

Jane nodded, wide-eyed. "We could travel, see all the places we’ve read about."

Thomas listened quietly, a faint smile on his lips as the others speculated about riches and far-off adventures. But his thoughts drifted to his father’s skepticism that morning. The memory of his father’s knowing smirk and dry tone lingered with him.

As Thomas returned home from school, he immediately noticed an envelope lying open on the kitchen table. Curiosity piqued, he picked it up, finding it was an invitation to a gathering hosted by the Barry family that upcoming weekend. The gathering was another effort to discuss the rumored gold findings in Avonlea. He scanned the invitation, absorbing the details, as a flicker of excitement sparked in his chest.

He found his father in the parlor, hunched over his paperwork, lost in concentration.

“Are you planning on going to this?” Thomas asked, holding the invitation where his father could see.

His father glanced at it with disinterest, barely looking up. “No, I’ve no time for such frivolities,” he dismissed, waving a hand before returning to his documents.

Thomas tried to hide his grin as he pocketed the invitation. With his father’s disinterest confirmed, he began to hatch a plan to attend the gathering himself. He was eager to learn more about what the townsfolk thought of the gold and the investments swirling around it.

When the evening of the party arrived, Thomas brought out his selection of tailored suits that he hadn’t touched in a long time, and dressed in the finest one he had. He took extra care to quietly slip out the door, not wanting to risk discovery by his father again. The cool evening air was brushing his face as he made his way down the winding path to the Barry residence. His heart beat rapidly, a mix of excitement and apprehension pulsing with each step.

The Barry home glowed warmly from the inside, spilling light onto the lawn and illuminating the well-dressed townsfolk gathered within. As Thomas entered, he was struck by the lively hum of conversation and the refined, slightly tense atmosphere. Diana was seated at the piano, her fingers gliding gracefully over the keys, casting a calm air over the room that instantly eased his nerves.

Thomas attempted to blend in with the adults, moving through the crowd with a practised ease. However, his efforts were thwarted when Mrs. Lynde, ever the keen observer, approached him.

"My my, I almost didn't recognize you in that attire, Thomas. Don't you look quite dashing," she remarked, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Caught off guard, Thomas straightened, offering a polite nod. “Good evening, Mrs. Lynde.”

"And what brings you here this evening? I don't see your father," she prodded, her eyes scanning the room as if she expected to find him lurking nearby.

"My father was unfortunately unable to attend today, so he sent me in his stead," Thomas replied quickly, fabricating on the spot.

Mrs. Lynde gave him a long, scrutinizing look, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as if she sensed the half-truth in his words. However, she chose not to press further.

"Well, make sure you enjoy the evening, young man," she finally said, leaving him.

Relieved, Thomas let out a quiet breath as he disappeared into the crowd. Most of the other adults were too engrossed in their own conversations to pay much attention to him, allowing him to slip closer to where Nate, the geologist, was holding court. The man’s posture and gestures were a study in theatrical persuasion as he engaged his audience, discussing the potential investments with the air of someone who knew just how to sell a dream. Thomas positioned himself close enough to catch snippets of conversations without drawing attention to himself.

Thomas noted the careful choice of words and the eagerness with which Nate addressed the potential investors. It struck him as odd how different Nate's approach was now compared to his previous appearance.The inconsistencies in his narrative were subtle but noticeable to Thomas, who had a keen ear for detail.

The more he listened, the more he felt the urge to confront him, to press for answers. But he restrained himself. He knew better than to make a scene or draw attention, especially given that he was there without his father’s permission.

Overwhelmed and needing to process what he’d heard, Thomas drifted away from the crowd and found himself near the piano just as Diana was finishing her piece. As the last note faded, he stepped forward.

“Good evening, Diana. That was beautiful,” he said, sincerity lacing his tone.

Diana, slightly flustered by the unexpected praise, turned to him with a smile, "Thomas, I didn't expect to see you here tonight. What brings you?"

“Just…curiosity,” Thomas said, glancing around at the bustling crowd, “and maybe a bit of concern, too.”

Diana nodded, noticing his meticulous and sharp attire, suddenly feeling a wave of timidness wash over her. Thomas’s eyes found Mr. Dunlop, just a few steps away on the other side of the piano, watching them closely. Diana followed Thomas’s gaze, before gesturing towards the door.

“Would you like to step outside for a moment?” she suggested.

Thomas nodded, although his eyes remained locked with Mr. Dunlop for a while longer, before he and Diana slipped out onto the back porch. The cool night air felt refreshing, a calm contrast to the crowded and charged atmosphere inside.

Thomas perched himself atop on the railing, whereas Diana neatly folded her arms on it.

“Did you come with your father?” she asked, glancing sideways at him.

Thomas shook his head, giving a small, conspiratorial grin. “No, I came alone. He doesn’t know I’m here, actually. I hope you won’t tell on me.”

"Of course not," Diana responded quickly, "won’t you get in trouble?" she added, her concern evident.

"I’ll be alright," Thomas reassured her with a half-smile.

They lapsed into comfortable silence, both gazing back at the house where the hum of voices and music drifted faintly through the walls. After a moment, Diana spoke again, her voice quieter.

"My father seems engrossed in this whole ordeal," she confided, her gaze distant as she looked back at the house.

Thomas nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “I noticed. He’s offering to help people who can’t afford the initial investment, isn’t he? What’s the catch?”

Diana’s brow furrowed slightly, and she bit her lip before responding. “A share in the mining profits. He…believes in giving everyone a chance,” she added, though her voice held an edge of uncertainty.

Thomas rubbed his chin, mulling over her words. The generosity seemed genuine enough, but something about the whole affair still left him uneasy. He knew that the allure of gold could cloud even the most cautious minds, and he worried for the townsfolk who were swept up in Nate’s promises.

"I should get back," Diana said after a moment, her voice tinged with reluctance.

Thomas gave her a nod as Diana turned to head back in. Left alone on the porch, Thomas took a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the night sky, contemplating his next moves. After a few more moments, he pushed himself away from the railing, straightening his jacket before heading back in.

Inside, Diana had taken her place at the piano once more, her fingers gliding over the keys with a graceful ease. This time, Mr. Dunlop joined her, his deep voice blending with Diana’s in a duet that surprised and charmed the guests. Together, they delivered an impromptu performance that captured everyone’s attention, their voices harmonizing beautifully as the final notes faded into the warm, welcoming air of the room. The applause that followed was genuine and hearty, with laughter and admiring murmurs rippling through the gathered townsfolk.

As the applause softened, Mr. Dunlop stepped forward, his eyes bright with enthusiasm, eager to share some news with the townsfolk.

"I've recently inherited some money and the first thing I plan to do is buy land in Avonlea," he announced.

A ripple of approval spread through the crowd, smiles appearing on faces as guests exchanged looks of mutual excitement. Thomas watched the scene with an observant eye. Among the pleased expressions, one face stood out: Nate’s. Thomas noted how Nate’s casual, relaxed expression had tightened ever so slightly, his gaze fixed on Mr. Dunlop with an intensity that betrayed his surprise. Whatever Dunlop’s announcement meant, it was clear that Nate hadn’t anticipated it.

"The second thing I plan to do is test my soil," Mr. Dunlop added, with a grin spreading across his face.

Laughter followed, along with another round of applause. People seemed genuinely entertained and encouraged by Mr. Dunlop's enthusiasm and willingness to dive into the local venture. As the crowd dispersed slightly, Thomas’s attention was caught by Nate once more.

Nate, who had been leaning casually by the fireplace, reached towards a small silver teapot on the mantelpiece. His movements were smooth, almost too casual. The teapot was almost in his pocket before a little figure caught his eye - Minnie May, Diana's younger sister. She was watching him intently.

Realizing he was being observed, Nate’s expression changed instantly into a charming smile. He carefully placed the teapot back on the mantelpiece, turning his attention to Minnie May as she approached him. He bent down, whispering something to her, presumably some friendly banter to dispel any suspicions she might have had. However, Minnie May responded not with a smile but with a swift kick to Nate's shin. She turned on her heel and marched away, leaving Nate wincing in pain and rubbing his leg.

Thomas, watching this unfold from a distance, felt a mix of amusement and confirmation. Nate’s actions, however small, were telling. With each passing moment, Thomas’s conviction grew - there was more to uncover, and he intended to find out exactly what it was.

As the party dwindled and the energy in the room started to subside with the departure of several guests, Thomas felt the pull of the right moment to slip away unnoticed. He maneuvered towards Diana, who was saying her goodbyes to a few lingering guests by the piano.

“Goodnight, Diana. Thanks for the music,” he said, a warm smile in his voice.

“Goodnight, Thomas,” Diana replied, her smile soft and genuine, her cheeks flushed from the evening’s excitement.

Thomas gave her a polite nod and headed toward the doorway, relieved to be leaving without further interruption. Just as he reached the door, however, a large man entered abruptly, causing Thomas to sidestep quickly to avoid a collision. In his haste, he brushed against someone coming up behind him. As he steadied himself, Thomas turned, preparing to apologize.

"Excuse me, I didn’t mean-" he began, but his words trailed off as he recognized the person he had bumped into. 

It was Nate, whose expression shifted from surprise to a sharp, assessing look as he realized who Thomas was.

"No harm done," Nate said, his voice smooth but with a hint of something Thomas couldn’t quite place, "You’re Thomas, right? Anne's classmate?"

"Yes, that's right," Thomas replied, feeling a chill at Nate's too-casual tone.

"We've crossed paths a few times at Green Gables, haven’t we?" Nate continued, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to read Thomas's intentions.

“We have,” Thomas replied simply, meeting Nate’s stare with a guarded but polite look.

Nate’s gaze lingered, studying him with a quiet, calculating intensity that left Thomas feeling like he was being sized up. “Well, don’t let me keep you,” Nate finally said, his tone casual but with an undertone that hinted at more than simple politeness.

“Of course. Have a good evening,” Thomas replied, his voice steady as he nodded and made his way out, eager to put some distance between himself and Nate.

 As he walked down the path under the cool night sky, Thomas felt the weight of the evening’s revelations pressing on him. There was clearly more beneath the surface of Avonlea’s gold fever than met the eye, and Nate’s unsettling behavior only confirmed his suspicions. His father’s skepticism suddenly felt more well-founded, and Thomas resolved to keep his eyes open. He walked slowly, thoughts whirling as he considered his next steps and wondered who, if anyone, he could trust with what he’d observed.

His contemplation was suddenly broken by a soft, pitiful sound. It was faint, barely audible over the rustle of the leaves. Thomas stopped, his ears straining in the darkness. There it was again - a whimper, more distinct this time, coming from the direction of the creek.

With cautious steps, Thomas veered off the path and moved toward the noise. The underbrush was thick, but he pushed through, guided by the intermittent cries. As he approached the creek, the moonlight revealed a small, trembling bundle by the water's edge.

It was a puppy, no more than a month or two old, soaked and shivering violently. Its coat was matted with mud and it looked up at Thomas with wide, fearful eyes. Thomas crouched down, keeping his movements slow and gentle to avoid startling the little creature further.

"Hey there, little guy," Thomas whispered, extending his hand for the frightened creature to sniff. 

The puppy hesitated, then, driven by either desperation or trust, nudged his hand with a cold nose. Looking around, he saw no sign of anyone else - no clue as to how the puppy had ended up there. Not quite sure what to do, Thomas carefully scooped up the puppy, feeling its heart pounding against his palm. 

“You’re in a sorry state, aren’t you?” Thomas said gently, holding the puppy close to share a bit of his warmth. The puppy let out a small, almost grateful whine, burrowing into his jacket as if seeking shelter.

"I guess you’re coming with me," Thomas spoke softly as he held the shivering puppy close, “let’s get you some help”.

Chapter Text

The following day, dinner was an extra quiet and tense affair in Thomas's household. The events of the previous night still weighed on him, leaving him both exhilarated by the mystery and apprehensive about what lay ahead. His day had been filled with efforts to locate the puppy’s owner; he had spent hours speaking with neighbors, inquiring up and down the main road, and even scouring nearby farms. Unfortunately he had returned empty-handed and a bit discouraged. Despite this, he had finally managed to wear down his father's initial resistance and gain his approval to keep the puppy.

"I've had enough of your incessant whining - fine," his father relented with an exasperated sigh "You'll feed it yourself, you'll train it yourself, and if it dies - you'll bury it yourself."

Thomas quietly celebrated. He was careful not to argue when his father added, “And it’ll be sleeping in the stable, not in the house.

With a subdued nod, Thomas accepted the condition. He ate his dinner quietly, grateful that his father had not caught wind of his true activities the previous night. Thomas had concocted a flimsy yet plausible story about finding the puppy during an innocent walk, a tale his father seemed to have accepted without much scrutiny.

After dinner, Thomas cleaned up, hoping the gesture might ease any lingering doubt in his father’s mind. Once the dishes were put away and the table cleared, he slipped outside, making his way to the stable where his new companion waited.

Inside, the puppy was exploring the straw-strewn floor with a mix of curiosity and caution, its small nose twitching as it investigated the earthy smells of hay and wood. Now dry and fed, the little creature looked far healthier than it had the night before, and Thomas felt a wave of pride at seeing how quickly it had perked up.

Thomas crouched down, extending his hand towards the little creature. The puppy sniffed his palm tentatively before licking it, its tiny tail wagging with shy enthusiasm. Thomas sat beside it, feeling a warm sense of companionship fill him as he contemplated a fitting name for his new friend.

He ran through a list of potential names in his mind - each more unsuitable than the last. Nothing seemed to capture the spirit of this unexpected arrival. But as the hours grew late and the stable settled into the quiet hum of night, Thomas decided that the name could wait. He gave the puppy one last pat, ensuring it was comfortable and safe in its makeshift bed of straw.

"Goodnight, little one," he whispered, the warmth of the puppy's breath on his hand a gentle reminder of the life he had saved.

The next morning, the sun was barely up when Thomas was woken by his father who had yet another task prepared for him.

"The hides and furs from your hunts are done curing," his father said, "they need to be sold. The meat moves quickly in towns like Carmedy, but the furs - those will need a trip to Charlottetown."

Charlottetown was a good distance away, a journey that would take the better part of the day. 

Before he could muster a response, his father added, "And while you're at it, you should pick up some more ammunition. I see that we're running low."

"Consider it done," Thomas groggily replied, his tone betraying his lack of enthusiasm.

As Thomas shrugged off his shirt and reached for his travel clothes, his eyes caught sight of the suit he had worn to Barry's party. The memory of that night, with its unexpected revelations rushed back to him. A spark of an idea flickered in his mind - perhaps this trip to Charlottetown could serve a dual purpose.

Thomas quickly donned his travel clothes and descended the stairs. He found his father in the yard, inspecting the saddlebags and ensuring they were securely fastened to the horse.

"Can I ask you a question?" Thomas ventured nervously, fiddling with the strap of his coat. 

His father, who rarely entertained idle chatter, looked up with narrowed eyes, signaling he was listening.

"The other day, at the town hall meeting," Thomas began, choosing his words carefully, "I was wondering, did you catch the name of the company that issued the soil testing certificate?"

There was a tense pause as his father’s eyes bored into him, evaluating the question. Thomas shifted his weight, the silence stretching on uncomfortably. Finally, his father told him the name of an institution in New York.

Relieved, Thomas nodded. He had been counting on his father's keen eye for detail, and he wasn’t disappointed. Without pressing further, his father returned to adjusting the saddlebags. Thomas gave a silent sigh of relief and turned to mount his horse, but his father’s voice stopped him.

"Your revolver?" his father inquired, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Thomas sighed. He didn’t particularly enjoy lugging it around, but his father insisted on it for protection during long journeys. He trudged back inside, retrieved the weapon, and strapped the holster securely to the back of his belt, hiding it under his coat.

Back outside, he gave his father a final nod, a gesture that was returned with a grunt of approval. He mounted the horse and set off down the path, the steady clop of hooves echoing in the quiet morning.

Charlottetown bustled with activity as Thomas rode into town, the city alive with vendors calling out prices, carts clattering along cobblestone streets, and townsfolk chatting in clusters. He guided his horse to a familiar corner near the market square, where a shop window gleamed with all manner of goods: from tanned hides to rare spices and trinkets from far-off cities. After securing his horse, he collected the hides and pelts he’d brought, feeling their rough weight in his arms as he walked toward the merchant who he was already accustomed with. A quick exchange of words and a handshake later, he was paid, his pockets feeling satisfyingly heavier.

With his father’s tasks in mind, Thomas next made his way to the gun store. The smell of gunpowder and oil permeated the air inside, and racks of rifles lined the walls, some polished to a high gleam, others worn and scarred with use. He approached the counter, greeted by a burly shopkeeper who raised an eyebrow in surprise at seeing Thomas again but then nodded approvingly as he listed his needs. 

Now, with his father’s tasks complete, he could focus on his own personal mission.Leaving the shop, he scanned the street until his gaze settled on a small, unassuming building with faded paint and modest signage: the post office. Here, he hoped to take the next step in his quiet investigation.

He walked inside, noting the gentle hum of activity. The counter was staffed by a middle-aged man whose thin spectacles rested low on his nose. The man barely glanced up from a pile of paperwork as Thomas approached.

“What can I help you with, young man?” the clerk muttered, his eyes not leaving the page in front of him.

Thomas took a breath, steadying himself. “I’d like to send a telegram.”

The clerk finally looked up, peering over his glasses with a hint of skepticism. “Do you now?” he said, his tone dismissive. “Well, telegrams aren’t exactly cheap. Perhaps you’d best run along home.”

Unfazed, Thomas reached into his pocket and produced a small coin purse, jangling it softly to show he could pay. “I’ve got coin,” he said firmly.

The clerk’s expression shifted, the glint of coin evidently enough to earn his attention. “Very well, then,” he said with a resigned sigh, sliding a telegraph form across the counter. “You’ll need to fill this out with your message.”

Thomas took the form, feeling the weight of his purpose settle over him. This was his first time using a telegram, and he realized how crucial it was to get his message right. He started writing out his request to the geology institution in New York, describing the certificate, his suspicions, and his need for confirmation. But as his words filled the lines, he saw the clerk watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“Best keep it short, lad,” the man interrupted, tapping the price board mounted on the wall. “A message that long will cost you nearly half a month’s pay.”

Thomas frowned, casting a quick glance at the price per word and feeling a bit foolish. Setting the paper aside, he began again, this time focusing on the bare essentials.

He handed the form to the clerk, watching as the man reviewed it with a nod. “This will be sent off soon,” he said. “Now, how would you like to receive your reply? You’ll need to give us an address.”

Thomas hesitated, realizing that having his father discover a telegram might raise difficult questions, yet gave his address in Avonlea anyway.

The clerk wrote down the address with a grunt of approval. Then came the payment. The price felt high, but he reasoned that the answer, if he got one, would be well worth it.

“Your message will be sent shortly,” the clerk said, tucking the paper away. “Now, if you’ve nothing else, I’ve got work to do.”

Thomas thanked him, tucking away the receipt with a mix of satisfaction and anxiety. There was little left to do now but wait and be patient. With the telegram dispatched, he made his way back to his horse, ready to begin his journey back home.

It was late afternoon by the time Thomas arrived back in Avonlea, the sun dipping toward the horizon and casting a warm, amber glow over the fields. Luna, his faithful mare, moved at a relaxed pace, her steps steady but slow after the long ride. Thomas stroked her neck, whispering a quiet word of gratitude for her endurance as they approached familiar territory. 

He felt the day's journey weighing on him and was anticipating a quiet evening, but another, more insistent urge pulled him in a different direction. As he was passing by Green Gables, he thought of stopping by, telling Anne of his suspicions and what he’d been up to today. He found himself pulling the reins, guiding Luna toward the gate without a second thought. Just as he drew closer, doubt began to creep in, whispering at the edge of his mind. What if he was wrong? He had nothing concrete, just suspicions and a telegram sent off to a far-off institution. Surely it was unnecessary, maybe even foolish, to involve Anne.

Caught in his indecision, Thomas barely registered that he had arrived. By the time he looked up, he was already in front of the house, staring at the whitewashed porch and the soft lamplight spilling from a window. With a sigh, he dismounted, securing Luna by the fence. Steeling himself, he walked toward the house, his steps hesitant.

Just then, two voices broke the gentle quiet of the afternoon air. Thomas froze, recognizing the figures on the porch: Mr. Dunlop and Nate. They hadn’t noticed him yet, so intent were they on a heated, whispered exchange. Their voices rose just enough for him to catch fragments - something about an arrangement, a timeline - before both men turned sharply, eyes landing on him.

“Hello,” Thomas said, forcing his voice to sound steady.

Mr. Dunlop’s face lit up in a smile, almost too quick, too bright. “Well, if it isn’t young Thomas,” he said warmly. Nate, however, remained silent, watching Thomas with an unreadable gaze, his eyes dark and wary.

“Is Anne home?” Thomas asked, his tone casual, though his pulse quickened. “I was hoping to speak with her.”

Mr. Dunlop’s expression softened into a look of polite regret. “Ah, I’m afraid not, lad. She’s over at the Barry’s for the afternoon.”

“I could convey a message, if you’d like,” Mr. Dunlop offered.

“No. No, that’s all right,” Thomas replied a little too hastily,  “It wasn’t important.”

Thomas offered a polite farewell and turned to head back to Luna, sensing Nate’s gaze like a weight pressing between his shoulder blades. He mounted quickly, keeping his composure until he had rounded the bend in the path and was out of sight.

Back on the porch, the air felt thick with unease. As Thomas’s figure receded down the road, Nate turned to Mr. Dunlop, his mouth set in a thin line. “Do you realize who that kid is?” he muttered, his voice tight with irritation. “He’s the one who was snooping after us back in Charlottetown.”

Mr. Dunlop raised an eyebrow, his skepticism barely concealed. “When we robbed the French kid? Are you sure?” 

Nate’s expression darkened, his jaw clenched as he kept his eyes on the road. “I didn’t recognize him before, but he fits the description exactly. What’s he doing snooping around here?”

Mr. Dunlop shrugged, casting a dismissive glance at the empty path. “What’s there to worry about? He’s just a kid. Avonlea’s full of them.”

“I don’t like it,” Nate replied, voice low and simmering with suspicion as he watched the lingering dust from Thomas’s departure settle back onto the road.

Chapter Text

The days that followed were full to the brim for Thomas. Between gruelling training sessions at home and the demands of a new, challenging math chapter at school, he barely had time to think of anything outside his daily routine. When the weekend finally arrived, Thomas found comfort in the familiar, steady rhythm of work around the homestead.

Late that afternoon, he and his father set to repairing the loose fence posts around the front yard. Thomas was in the middle of hammering a particularly stubborn post into the ground when his father, steadying the post with both hands, grunted in irritation.

“Heavens, boy, you’re not chopping wood,” his father muttered. “You’ll miss and take my hand off.”

Thomas muttered a quick apology, easing his hammering as they drove in the last post. They took a step back to admire their work, wiping the sweat from their brows in quiet satisfaction.

“That should hold,” he said, eyeing the line of fence they’d reinforced. “Looks quite good - just needs a coat of paint.”

His father grunted in agreement, his sharp gaze already sweeping the rest of the property for their next repair.

“The roof is leaking somewhere near the chimney,” he said after a moment. “Looks like it might need a few new shingles. Can you stay home Monday to take care of that?”

Thomas blinked, thinking of the school schedule. “Why can’t I do it today?”

“Because we’ve no spare shingles,” his father explained, “They’ll only be delivered Monday.”

Thomas thought it over, remembering that he had no math lessons on Monday. “I’ll be here,” he promised.

With a grunt of approval, his father turned, collecting his cane, and started back toward the house. Thomas stayed behind, tidying up their tools and casting a contented look over the sturdy, freshly secured fence posts.

Just as he was gathering up the last of the tools, the sound of hooves on gravel reached his ears. Thomas turned, his eyes narrowing as a rider came into view - a man in a dark vest astride a sturdy brown horse, a satchel slung across his chest. 

Thomas frowned. All their usual mail came from a grubby man on foot.This rider, on horseback, didn’t look like their usual postman. 

“Got a letter for the Rockport household,” the man said as he pulled to a stop beside Thomas. He held out a slim envelope, dust settling around him as the horse snorted impatiently.

It then dawned on Thomas that his father had most likely made an arrangement with someone in town to work as a proxy for their mail, to avoid any undue attention. He berated himself inwardly for having his letter delivered directly by the post office.

Thomas turned to the postman, reaching up to take the letter. “Thank you, I’ll take that,” he said, his voice steady though his pulse quickened. He watched the rider turn and depart, the sound of hooves fading down the path.

When he looked down, he saw his name printed in sharp ink: Thomas Rockport, Creekside Manor, Avonlea . Thomas already knew it could only be the response to his telegram. He had nearly put it out of mind with everything that had kept him busy, but now, with trembling fingers, he tore open the envelope and unfolded the crisp paper, his eyes skimming the neatly printed words.

Dear Thomas,

Thank you for your telegram. We have received it and have looked into your inquiry. Unfortunately, we were unable to find any records or sample tests connected to a Nathaniel or the Avonlea region in the past six months. If you have any further questions, please do not hesitate.

Sincerely,

Markham and Associates, New York City.

Thomas stared at the letter, his heart hammering in his chest. He read it again, then a third time, making sure he wasn’t imagining the words. No records. No samples. No certificate. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

The truth hit him like a punch to the gut. Nate had lied about the soil certificate. He’d lied to everyone in Avonlea, to the town council, to the Cuthberts. There was no gold.

“Who was that?” His father’s voice cut through his thoughts, stern and suspicious, coming from the front of the house. 

He only gave his father a cursory glance, before he turned abruptly, feeling a surge of determination he couldn’t stifle. Without a word to his father, he stuffed the letter in his pocket and sprinted toward the stable. He heard his father calling after him, his voice growing louder with anger, but Thomas ignored it.

Once inside, he grabbed Luna’s bridle from the wall and slipped it over her head. There was no time for the saddle. Heart pounding, he mounted her bareback, gripping the reins tightly as he urged her out of the stable and onto the path. He felt the rush of urgency as Luna’s hooves pounded against the dirt, carrying him swiftly away from Creekside Manor and toward Green Gables.

The wind tore at Thomas as he sped down the path, heart pounding as Green Gables came into view. His focus was set on the house, its familiar outline etched in his mind, and he barely noticed the front gate was closed until it loomed close. He didn’t want to lose precious moments stopping to unlatch it, so he trusted Luna’s sure stride, urging her forward. With powerful, fluid grace, Luna cleared the gate, her hooves landing smoothly on the other side as she carried him swiftly toward the front of the house.

Thomas pulled her to a sharp halt just as his eyes fell on a troubling sight. The front door swung open, and he saw Marilla Cuthbert and Anne stumbling out, gagged, and with their hands bound together behind their backs. For a heartbeat, he froze, but the flicker of relief on their faces snapped him into action. He jumped off Luna, rushing over to them. His hands worked quickly, loosening the rope from around their wrists, then pulling the cloth gags away.

"Thomas!" Anne gasped, her voice raw. “Nate and Mr. Dunlop - they did this. They’re grifters!”

Thomas’s eyes flashed with anger as everything clicked into place. “I know. That’s why I came. Where are they?”

Marilla, steadying herself against the doorframe and catching her breath, responded, “They’ve taken the money and run.”

Thomas gritted his teeth, turning back toward Luna as a sense of urgency overtook him. “Get inside and lock the doors,” he instructed firmly. His eyes scanned the ground nearby, spotting two fresh sets of footprints in the mud - rushed, uneven strides. The trail was clear, leading away from the farmhouse.

Anne’s voice cut through his focus, sounding alarmed. “Thomas! Stop! What are you doing?”

He paused, glancing back only briefly. “Get inside the house,” he repeated, more sharply, not wanting to risk their safety for even a moment longer.

At the same time, Marilla, now steadier, took hold of the large bell on the porch, ringing it with a force that sent a peal echoing through the fields. The sound would surely draw Matthew and Jerry from their work. But Thomas couldn’t wait. With a quick glance toward Anne and Marilla, he urged Luna onward, racing down the trail with the rhythmic sound of the bell filling the air behind him.

As he rode, Thomas passed a very confused Matthew hurrying out of the barn, glancing toward the house at the sound of the bell, then back at Thomas as he rode past. But Thomas was too focused to stop, his eyes locked on the trail of footprints, muddy and uneven, as they led him further from Green Gables.

The trail was getting muddied by the foliage and stray branches, but just as he thought he might lose it, he spotted something white snagged on a low-hanging tree branch up ahead. Drawing closer, he recognized it as an apron with an embroidered picture of Green Gables on it. His heart pounded as he urged Luna forward, knowing he was on the right track.

The trail wound toward a clearing at the edge of the woods, where the trees opened up around a small, recently dug pit in the ground. Near the excavation hole stood two figures. One had a hand raised, pointing a gun at the other. Just as Thomas processed what he was seeing, the figure without the weapon lunged forward, tackling the gunman and sending him tumbling into the hole. The assailant peered down into the pit only briefly before he took off at a sprint, disappearing into the shadows of the trees.

Thomas urged Luna forward, bringing her to a halt as he noticed another figure lying on the ground near the hole. Heart pounding, he dismounted and ran to the figure, realizing with dread that it was Jerry, his friend. Kneeling beside him, Thomas grabbed Jerry by the shoulders, roughly shaking him.

"Jerry! Jerry, are you alright?" His voice shook slightly as he looked over his friend, who groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet Thomas’s gaze before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Thomas released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “You’ll be alright…” he murmured under his breath, giving Jerry’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Standing, he cast a quick glance inside the pit, where the unmistakable silhouette of Mr. Dunlop lay, groaning in pain as he clutched his side. Ignoring him, Thomas turned back toward Luna, who was clearly growing weary from the relentless pace. But they still had a job to do. Gently stroking her neck, he mounted her again, gathering the reins and whispering softly, “Come on, girl, just a little more.”

Luna seemed to understand, giving a small snort as she pushed on, her hooves finding a rhythm again as they followed the path into the dense woods. Thomas’s eyes were sharp as he scanned the trail, the thrill of the chase filling his veins. He could still see broken branches and trampled brush marking Nate’s flight.

As the afternoon gave way to a darkening twilight, Thomas continued his relentless pursuit, the thickening shadows complicating his view. The narrow trail through the woods grew hard to follow, but he kept his eyes fixed ahead, pushing Luna onward. Just as his hope began to fade, he saw it - a flash of movement up the path, unmistakably a figure fleeing through the dense trees.

With renewed determination, he urged Luna forward, only for the figure to veer suddenly from the main path and disappear into the underbrush. Thomas groaned, but he guided Luna off the trail without hesitation, branches clawing at him and his horse, slowing their progress as the thick brush scraped against their skin. Luna faltered under the strain, but she pushed on, and together they pressed forward, even as Thomas’s sense of direction began to blur in the twisted undergrowth.

After a while, the trees cleared just enough for him to spot something moving up ahead, right where the brush opened back onto the main path. He guided Luna toward it, emerging back onto the open road just in time to see Nate, bent over and breathing hard, a few yards ahead.

The man straightened, eyes narrowing as they fell upon Thomas, still atop his horse. A mocking smile curled at the corners of his lips. Thomas reined Luna in, sliding off her back and striding forward, not taking his eyes off Nate, whose face was now a strange combination of relief and smugness.

"Ah, good," Nate sneered, his voice thick with sarcasm. "I could use a horse. Good of a fellow neighbor to come to my assistance." He squared his shoulders, his stance projecting a confidence that might have intimidated most boys Thomas’s age. But under the failing light, he didn’t catch the hardened look in Thomas’s eyes, the cold determination that had replaced any hesitancy.

As Thomas advanced, Nate took a confident step forward, readying himself to quickly subdue the boy just as he had the French boy earlier. But Thomas was faster than he expected; a sharp jab to his nose sent Nate stumbling backward, his hand coming up instinctively as a trickle of blood began to flow.

“What the hell?!” Nate spat, pulling his hand away to find his fingers wet with blood. He glared up at Thomas, his eyes narrowing as he took in the boy’s steady, focused stance, unmoved by his bleeding adversary.

"Think you're a hero, huh? Tough guy?” Nate hissed, his voice laced with venom. “Just like back in Charlottetown?"

Thomas froze, the pieces falling into place with sudden, brutal clarity. Nate and Mr. Dunlop - they were the ones who had robbed Jerry, who’d had that underhanded conversation in the pub. And they were here, in Avonlea, under his very nose. All this time. He’d been circling them without realizing it, each clue slipping by him like sand through his fingers. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, and as he thought of their cruelty toward Marilla and Anne, anger began to surge within him.

He took another step forward, fists clenched tightly, his muscles tensed as he closed in on Nate. Recognizing the fire in Thomas’s eyes, Nate held his ground, but his expression faltered briefly, as if a flicker of doubt had crossed his mind before he pushed it away with another smirk.

"Come on, boy,” he mocked, shrugging. “I’d rather not hurt you.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Thomas aimed a hard strike at the back of Nate’s knee, knocking him off balance. Nate stumbled, scrambling to his feet, but he barely had a moment to regain his footing before Thomas struck again, a precise blow to his jaw, then another to his side. Nate staggered backward, a surprised grimace contorting his face. He lunged forward, intent on finishing the fight, but Thomas moved with an agility he hadn’t anticipated, redirecting Nate’s momentum and sending him sprawling onto the ground.

In the ensuing silence, Thomas approached him, his jaw clenched as he raised a fist and delivered another strike to Nate’s face. Nate managed to raise his arms in defense, desperately shielding his head, but Thomas’s fury kept him relentless, each blow landing harder than the last. With a burst of strength, Nate pushed Thomas off and scrambled backward, breathing heavily. He climbed to his feet, wiping at the blood streaming from his nose, his eyes flashing with rage.

“I knew we should have finished that old hag and the redheaded brat,” he sneered, his tone dripping with malice. “Jonesy didn’t want to, but I shouldn’t have listened to him.”

Thomas stood rooted to the spot. The threat to Anne, to her family, cut deep, unleashing a repressed, dormant fury.

“What did you just say?” Thomas finally spoke, his voice cold. Nate smirked - that had gotten under his skin.

Thomas’s hands balled into fists, and a heat surged through him, clouding his vision and muffling the sounds around him. Without thinking, he sprang forward, sending his fist straight to Nate’s face. He felt the impact reverberate through his hand, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he heard the crack of bone.

Nate staggered back, clutching his nose as blood poured freely, but the smile was still there, twisted and defiant. His right hand dropped to his side, and in the fading light, Thomas saw the gleam of metal - a small dagger gripped tightly in Nate’s fingers.

Thomas’s gaze dropped, noticing with a sinking feeling the fresh stain of red spreading across his own shirt, low on his torso. He touched his side, his fingers coming away slick with blood. The stab wound was deep, but he didn’t feel any pain. He knew his lapse in focus had cost him dearly. 

Noticing Thomas's hesitance, Nate suddenly pressed forward - he did not wish to have to do this, but he'd been left no other choice, his hand was forced. Before Thomas could refocus his senses, regain his footing, Nate was upon him.

Thomas raised his arm in defense as Nate slashed wildly at him, clearly unskilled, but still very dangerous. Nate was relentless, and in his panic, Thomas stumbled. A flash of pain seared through Thomas’s hand as Nate’s blade sliced into his palm.

Just as he felt the sting of another wound opening along his cheek, Thomas lunged forward, instinct taking over. He lowered his shoulder and hurled himself into Nate’s torso, his arms clamping around Nate’s middle in a desperate attempt to knock him off balance. He felt the sharp, cold bite of steel as the blade found his shoulder, piercing deep, but he kept moving forward, his weight finally toppling Nate to the ground.

They crashed to the forest floor in a violent heap, dirt and leaves kicking up around them. Thomas lay there for a moment, his chest heaving, then pulled himself up just as Nate staggered backward, scrambling to his feet. The two locked eyes, and in the growing darkness, Thomas reached up, grasped the hilt of the blade embedded in his shoulder and yanked it out. Blood streamed down his arm as he tossed the knife to the ground, but he barely felt it. Instead, his eyes fixed on Nate with a focus that left no room for fear or hesitation.

A flicker of horror broke across Nate’s face. It was as if he finally saw the extent of the damage he’d done, the blood covering Thomas’s hands and cheek, staining his shirt, yet there he stood. Nate took a shaky step back, a primal fear rising within him, overriding his earlier confidence with the simple urge to escape.

He turned, lunging toward the horse, but Thomas was faster. He surged forward, grabbing Nate’s collar and yanking him back. Nate twisted, flinging wild punches in a desperate attempt to break free, but Thomas dodged or blocked each strike with chilling precision. The rage and hurt were gone, replaced by an unshakable, relentless calm. Every blow he delivered to Nate was measured, ruthless, each one sending him closer to the ground.

Nate’s legs finally buckled, and he collapsed onto the cold earth, his face bruised and bloody, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Through his blurred vision, he stared up at Thomas, who loomed above him, his face shadowed but unmistakable - a face half-covered in blood, but devoid of the soft, polite kindness Nate once sneered at. This was someone else entirely, and in that last fleeting moment before he slipped into unconsciousness, pure dread gripped him.

Thomas’s shoulders heaved as he caught his breath, the initial rush of adrenaline beginning to ebb. The pain roared back into his awareness, each wound flaring as the fatigue seeped into his muscles. He knew he needed to move quickly. Kneeling down, he pulled off his belt, gripping it with still-shaking hands, and turned Nate over, binding his wrists tightly behind his back. A dull throb pounded in his head, the world around him beginning to blur as he struggled to his feet.

With great effort, Thomas called Luna over and tried to hoist Nate’s limp form onto her back. The world swayed as he lifted, his arms feeling leaden as his vision started to swim. Finally, he managed to secure Nate atop Luna, but as he went to mount the horse himself, his legs buckled. He clung to Luna’s side, trying to steady himself as the forest around him blurred into dark, shifting shadows.

His breaths came faster, the strength draining from him, and he wasn’t sure if the thunder in his ears was his own pulse or the sound of something else. Just as his knees gave way, he glimpsed through the haze what looked like figures on horseback, their forms approaching in a blur of shadow and light.

With a soft thud, Thomas fell to the cold forest floor, his vision slipping into darkness as the sound of hooves grew closer.

Chapter Text

As the late afternoon sun dipped lower, casting a hazy, amber glow through the window, Thomas finally opened his eyes. He blinked against the blur, trying to orient himself. He recognized the faint shadows and shapes of his bedroom, but everything felt distant, as though he were viewing it through a thick fog. His neck was stiff, his mouth parched, and his entire body ached with a dull, unrelenting throb.

Reaching toward the jug of water on his nightstand, he noticed his palm wrapped in a tight bandage. His arm barely moved before a sharp pain shot through his shoulder, causing his hand to jerk involuntarily. The jug toppled off the stand, hitting the floor with a loud shatter.

Moments later, the sound of familiar, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hallway. His father entered, pausing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Thomas. His expression was unreadable.

“How long was I out?” Thomas rasped, his voice a raw whisper.

“Since they brought you here last night. Almost a day now,” his father replied, his tone unexpectedly calm, almost detached.

Thomas pressed his hand to the bridge of his nose as fragments of the previous night began to reassemble in his memory. He attempted to sit up, wincing as his muscles protested with every movement. Glancing down, he noticed his abdomen tightly wrapped in bandages, reminding him of the blows he had taken.

“I don’t even know what to say,” his father began, his voice tinged with something Thomas couldn’t quite place - perhaps disappointment, perhaps worry, though it was masked as always.

The images of the night before flooded back more clearly now. “Is Anne all right?” Thomas asked, his concern overpowering everything else.

His father gave him a confused look, the name seeming to take a moment to register, “The Cuthberts’ charge?”

“Yes,” Thomas replied, more firmly. “Are they all right? The Cuthberts? Anne? And Jerry?”

A flicker of irritation crossed his father’s face as he hesitated, drawing out the silence until Thomas’s worry was a nearly physical ache. Finally, his father responded, “Yes, they’re all fine.”

Relief washed over Thomas, and he slumped back into his pillow, letting go of the tight breath he’d been holding. But his father wasn’t done.

“So what am I to make of this?” his father continued, voice hardening. “They brought you here unconscious and wounded, babbling about grifters and missing money. Care to explain?” 

Thomas sighed, feeling the inevitability of the conversation weigh on him. He knew an explanation was unavoidable. “Can you please get me some water first?” he asked, his voice cracking. His father nodded curtly and left the room, allowing Thomas a few moments to gather his thoughts.

When his father returned, he handed Thomas a cup, watching him closely as he sipped. The cool water soothed Thomas’s dry throat, and he prepared to explain as best he could.

“The whole thing was a lie,” he began, his voice steady but weary. “The gold, everything - everyone was tricked. Nate and Dunlop set the whole thing up. I was worried they might hurt the Cuthberts, so I didn’t waste any time.”

His father’s gaze darkened. “So instead of coming to me, you thought it best to ride off on your own?”

Thomas was silent for a moment. He knew, in a way, that his father had a point. “There wasn’t time,” he said quietly. “If I’d waited, they could’ve been in real danger.”

“Danger?” his father repeated, his tone mocking and skeptical. “And yet you’re the one lying in bed, bruised and bandaged.”

Thomas ran a hand over his face, feeling a weariness deeper than his physical injuries. “I know I made a mess of things, Father. I didn’t plan for it to go that way.”

His father’s piercing gaze seemed to assess him, then narrowed as he reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a crumpled letter and held it up. “And this?”

Thomas felt his stomach clench. He recognized it immediately: the letter he’d received the day before, the one that had unveiled Nate’s and Dunlop’s scheme. Thomas hesitated before answering. 

“I-.. I reached out to the association that supposedly did the soil testing, to get clarification. After your skepticism about the whole thing and multiple inconsistencies during my investigation I-.." he didn't get to finish, before his father interrupted him.

"Investigation? Who told you to investigate anything?" his father cut in, his tone sharpening.

“I wasn’t just going to stand by and let them swindle the whole town!” Thomas shot back, a spark of defiance in his voice.

“It would have been a good lesson for them,” his father replied coldly. “Some people need to be swindled to learn sense. And I thought you had more of it.”

A charged silence hung between them, but after a few moments, his father broke it, pressing forward. “What exactly happened in those woods?”

The memory of the confrontation was still raw and fractured in Thomas’s mind, but he recounted the events as concisely as possible. He described his attempt to stop Nate, his own faltering strength, the bruising struggle in the dark. His father listened, unimpressed, his gaze growing sharper.

“And?” he demanded. “What are you not telling me? You’re no stranger to a fight, and you’ve bested worse than a common thug. This one hurt you so badly?”

Thomas’s silence spoke louder than words. He’d left out how Nate’s taunts, his threats against Anne, had caused him to falter, his focus slipping in the haze of anger. But how could he explain that? 

His father shook his head. “You have no idea how lucky you are, or how much worse this could have been. Honestly, the state you’re in might be a blessing in disguise. Imagine if you’d shown up at the constable’s door with that swindler tied up. Questions would have been raised - questions you wouldn’t want to answer. Despite everything I have taught you, you still have much to learn.”

Thomas knew his father was right. The townsfolk would be suspicious of a boy his age pulling off something like this alone. His actions, despite his intentions, would only stir up more trouble.

“Speaking of the constable,” his father continued, his voice as unyielding as stone, “the local officer from Carmody said he’ll be stopping by this evening to ask questions. So get your rest while you can. And don’t think this conversation is over.” He straightened, turning toward the door. But before he left, Thomas stopped him.

“What happened to the money?” he asked, a strange mixture of hope and dread twisting in his chest.

“It’s gone. Nate stashed it somewhere in the woods - or so the townsfolk are saying. Likely won’t be found now.” His father’s answer was blunt, almost indifferent, and with that, he turned and left the room.

As the door closed, Thomas sank back into his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The ache in his body pulsed in rhythm with the swirl of thoughts in his mind. There was so much on his mind, but his body craved rest. He decided he would have plenty of time to think later and closed his eyes.

After what felt like barely ten minutes, Thomas was woken by the sound of knocking on his door. The door creaked open, and in walked his father, followed by a man Thomas hadn’t seen before. An older man, with sharp eyes that gave off the impression of someone who had spent his life sizing people up. He wore a well-worn uniform, and his movements were deliberate and calm. This had to be the constable.

“Thomas,” his father’s voice was steady, though it carried an unspoken weight. “This is Constable Brown.”

“Good afternoon, son,” the constable greeted with a polite nod, his voice deep and authoritative. “I hope you’re feeling better?”

“I’m all right, sir,” Thomas nodded, though it felt as if the movement drained all the energy from him. 

“Good, good.” Mr. Brown lowered himself into the chair beside Thomas’s bed, his posture professional yet not unkind. He had the air of someone who’d done this many times before, though he wasn’t rushing anything. He seemed to be weighing every word, every movement.

“Now,” Mr. Brown began, his pen already poised over his notepad. “Can you remember everything that happened last night?”

Thomas shrugged, "More or less."

“Tell me everything, in your own words, start to finish,” the constable asked.

Thomas felt a flutter of unease but quickly pushed it aside. He took a breath, reciting the events after arriving at Green Gables, careful to leave out any irrelevant detail that might raise unnecessary questions or suspicions. The constable scribbled something down, glancing up every now and then with a knowing look.

“Hmm,” Mr. Brown muttered as he wrote. “And what about before that? How did you find out about the scheme?”

Thomas hesitated, only for a moment. He had anticipated this question. He knew he had to tread carefully. “The whole situation raised a few red flags,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “So after some investigations I made, I uncovered the truth. ”

“Investigations?” The constable leaned forward slightly, clearly intrigued. “How do you mean?”

Thomas gave a quick glance at his father, who stood in the corner, arms crossed, expression unreadable. 

“I, uh… I sent a telegram to the company that supposedly did the soil testing,” Thomas explained. “After their reply, I was able to piece it all together.”

Mr. Brown wrote something down, his brows knitting in concentration. “Interesting. And what possessed you to go after them on your own like that? Reckless and dangerous, if you ask me.”

The weight of that question hung heavily in the air. Thomas swallowed, looking away. “Stupidity, I suppose,” he muttered, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

A noise came from his father’s corner, something between a sigh and a grunt. It made Thomas tense. The constable, seemingly unperturbed, tapped his pen against his notepad, continuing with his questions.

“Well, how did you manage to subdue the man?” he asked. “A boy of your age? This seems quite… irregular.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened, and he let out a long breath. “Luck,” he answered flatly, not wanting to elaborate further. His body still ached at the memory of the struggle in the woods, but his energy for this line of questioning was waning quickly.

The constable noticed Thomas’s reluctance to continue and sat back in his chair, sensing that there was little more to be gained from pressing him further. He finished his notes with a few more scribbles and then stood up.

“Well,” Mr. Brown said, offering a respectful nod. “That’ll do for now. I’ll make sure the report is finalized, and you get the rest you need to recover.”

Thomas could feel the tension start to drain from his body. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and be left in peace. As Mr. Brown turned to leave, Thomas heard the faint murmur of voices coming from outside the room.

He tilted his head slightly to listen.

“I’d prefer if as little detail of this made it out as possible,” he heard his father say, his voice low and serious. “There’s no need for unnecessary gossip in town.”

Thomas shifted slightly in the bed, spotting his father and the constable in the hallway through the gap in the door. His father was speaking in his usual terse manner, but there was something else beneath his words. He saw his father slip something into the constable’s hand, and the constable nodded with understanding.

With that, Mr. Brown turned and left, his boots echoing down the hallway. His father stepped back into the room.

Thomas blinked up at him, fighting back the urge to ask questions, but his curiosity won out.

“What happens now?” he asked quietly, his voice still a little rough.

His father didn’t look at him right away, but when he did, his gaze was steady. “The two men are apprehended. They’re known to the law. This isn’t their first offense,” he replied bluntly. “They won’t see daylight for quite some time.”

Thomas nodded slowly, processing the words. There was a certain finality to them, and a small part of him felt relief. They wouldn’t be coming back. It was over.

His father continued. “You lost quite a bit of blood yesterday, Thomas. You’ll need to stay home for a while to recover.”

Thomas winced at the thought. He wasn’t sure which sounded worse: the pain in his body or the thought of staying home and feeling useless. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” he muttered, half sarcastic, half sincere.

His father didn’t respond. He simply turned and walked out, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

Alone again, Thomas sank back into his pillow, the weight of the day settling over him like an anchor. His body was exhausted, and his mind still churned with thoughts of the events that had brought him here. He had done what he thought was right, but everything had unraveled so quickly. He could only hope it had been worth it in the end. But for now, all he could do was close his eyes and let the exhaustion take over.

The next morning, Thomas was roused from a restless slumber by the unmistakable sound of his father’s voice. It carried up the stairs, rising in frustration as it echoed through the house, a low murmur that quickly grew louder. The words were difficult to make out, but the irritation was clear.

Thomas groaned and slowly sat up, his body protesting the movement. His shoulder and abdomen ached with every shift, and he couldn’t help but wince as he pulled himself upright. He pushed his shirt over his head with some difficulty, then gave the puppy, who had taken up residence in his room for the time being, much to his fathers dismay, a quick pat on the head.

“Stay, boy,” he muttered, giving the small creature a lingering look. The puppy wagged its tail, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes, as if wondering why its friend wasn’t staying in bed with it. Thomas limped towards the door, the dull ache of his muscles dragging him down with each step.

Downstairs, the conversation with his father was growing more heated. Thomas could hear the unmistakable voices of his classmates, Diana and Ruby, outside the door. He didn’t know what they were doing here, or why they had arrived unannounced, but curiosity gnawed at him as he slowly made his way to the bottom of the stairs.His father stood in the doorway, visibly annoyed.

“Let me handle this,” Thomas pleaded quietly, placing a hand on his father’s shoulder. “You head back inside. I’ll speak with them.”

His father gave him a long, hard look, a silent reprimand hidden beneath his gaze. He said nothing, but reluctantly stepped away from the door, retreating into the house. Thomas stepped outside into the crisp afternoon air, feeling the sudden bite of the cold as it reached him through his thin shirt.

“Hello, Diana. Ruby,” Thomas greeted, his voice hoarse from sleep. He cleared his throat, hoping to sound a bit more presentable, though he was still groggy and somewhat disoriented. The two girls gave him polite, if somewhat uncertain, smiles in response.

“Hello,” they replied together, but their voices betrayed the uncertainty in their tone, as if unsure of how to proceed.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “What brings you by?” he asked, taking a small step forward.

Diana, always the more composed of the two, lifted the basket she was holding and offered it to Thomas. “We came by to see how you’re doing,” she said, her voice genuine, though there was a trace of hesitation in it.

Ruby, standing just slightly behind Diana, shyly added, “We brought you something... we hope you like it.”

Thomas looked down at the basket, confused but grateful. Diana opened the top, revealing a selection of sweet rolls and pastries. His stomach rumbled at the sight, though he could feel a flicker of discomfort at the kindness they were showing him. He wasn’t used to this kind of generosity.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, surprised by their thoughtfulness. He took the basket, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s very kind.”

Diana’s eyes softened as she watched him, though her brow furrowed in concern. “How are you really, Thomas? We’ve been hearing so many different stories…” Her voice trailed off, as if unsure of how to navigate the delicate subject.

Thomas shrugged, “I’ll be fine,” he replied, his voice low. “Eventually.”

He didn’t dare ask what kind of stories were being told. He could only imagine the exaggerations that were circulating. He certainly didn’t need to hear any more of them, so he changed the subject. “And you two? How are you holding up?”

Ruby gave Diana a brief look before the latter spoke, her voice tinged with sadness. “It’s… difficult. Father’s not been the same since the money was lost,” she admitted, her words trailing off.

Thomas felt a pang of regret, though he knew there was little more he could have done. “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his gaze. “I wish I could have done more.”

Ruby shook her head quickly, her shy voice lifting in defense. “You did more than others would have.”

Diana nodded in agreement. “Anne said… if not for you, things could have been a lot worse.”

At the mention of Anne, a question bubbled up in Thomas’s chest. He glanced between the two girls, trying to gauge their expressions. “How is Anne?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. “How come she’s not here?”

The air around them seemed to still for a moment. Diana and Ruby exchanged a glance, the kind of look that said everything without a single word. Diana hesitated for a long moment, chewing over her words. When she spoke, it was quiet, almost reluctant.

“She... she wanted to come, Thomas. But...” Diana trailed off, searching for the right words. “I think she blames herself for what happened. I guess she couldn’t face you.”

Thomas felt his heart sink at her words. He couldn’t imagine Anne blaming herself, though he could understand why she might. The whole ordeal had been a tangled mess, and there was no doubt she had felt some responsibility in it. He didn’t know how to respond, so he simply nodded, trying to mask the heaviness in his chest.

“I see,” he murmured, then added, “Well, when you see her... tell her I’m fine. And that she’s not to blame.”

Diana gave him a sympathetic look, but Ruby remained quiet, her gaze cast downward.

Diana straightened up, a gentle smile on her lips as she gave Thomas a small nod. “We should let you rest, Thomas. I hope to see you back at school soon.”

Thomas returned the nod, managing a weak smile. “Thank you again for coming by. And for the treats,” he added with sincerity, his voice warm despite his lingering fatigue. “I’ll see you two around.”

They exchanged farewells, and Thomas watched them walk down the path toward the gate. He lingered for a moment, lost in thought, before slowly retreating back inside. 

The chill of the afternoon air seemed to follow him into the house, and once again, his body reminded him of its exhaustion. His shoulder and abdomen ached with every movement. He climbed the stairs slowly, carefully, retreating back to his room, where the bed seemed to call to him like an old friend.

Less than an hour after Diana and Ruby’s visit, Thomas sat on the edge of his bed, absently strumming his guitar. The soothing notes echoed faintly in the room, a melody gentle enough to disguise the occasional missed note caused by the bandage on his palm and the ache in his shoulder. He winced with each strum, but the familiar act was a welcome distraction from his frustration at being confined to his bed. Thomas had never been one for idle time, and his injuries left him feeling trapped, restless, and irritable.

Suddenly, his puppy’s ears perked up, and the small dog let out an excited, confused bark, staring intently at the bedroom door. Thomas paused, looking at the dog as it stood alert. Then came a knock on the front door downstairs. Thomas set his guitar aside, craning his neck to peer out his window. He glimpsed a lone figure standing on the porch and blinked, unable to believe his eyes.

Quickly, he got to his feet, forcing himself to ignore the sharp protests of his shoulder and abdomen. Making his way out of the room, he steadied himself as he descended the stairs. He reached the bottom just in time to intercept his father, who was heading to the door with a deep scowl.

“Sorry, sorry! I’ll handle this, Father,” Thomas said, brushing past him as quickly as he could manage. His father shot him a questioning, disapproving look but eventually relented, stepping aside with a muttered sigh.

Opening the door, Thomas found himself face-to-face with none other than Josie Pye. She stood there with her usual detached expression, a handful of books and a stack of notes in her arms. The surprise of seeing her at his doorstep left him momentarily speechless.

“Hello, Thomas,” she greeted, her tone casual, as though this visit were a completely ordinary occurrence.

“Uh…hello? What are you doing here?” he stammered, struggling to collect himself.

Josie’s expression turned to mild irritation as she thrust the books and notes toward him. “Since I pass by your house on my way home, Mr. Phillips thought it was a grand idea for me to deliver your schoolwork while you’re out,” she explained, her frustration clear. “Apparently, I’m the class postman now.”

“Oh,” Thomas replied, taken aback. “Thanks, I suppose.”

A short, uncomfortable silence fell between them. Josie shifted, as if preparing to leave, but her gaze lingered on him. Her eyes trailed over the bandage on his palm, the fading bruise on his cheek, and the lingering exhaustion in his face. For a moment, the usual judgmental look in her eyes softened, a trace of something almost like sympathy surfacing.

“How are you…holding up?” she asked finally, the question sounding reluctant, as though she’d had to force herself to say it.

Thomas blinked, surprised by the unexpected concern. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for asking.”

Before he could say anything more, his puppy nudged the door open and bounded over to his side, curious about the voices outside. The small dog stared up at Josie, his ears raised in excitement and caution. He let out a strange mix of a bark and a whimper, clearly surprised to see a stranger standing so close to his human.

But instead of backing away, Josie’s expression softened as she knelt down, extending a hand toward the puppy. “Hello there, little guy,” she cooed, a smile lighting her face. The puppy sniffed the air, hesitating for a moment, but quickly decided she was trustworthy. He trotted up to her, his tail wagging as he licked her hand.

“Hey there, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” she murmured, scratching behind the puppy’s ears. Her tone was completely different from the usual detached indifference she showed at school. In that moment, Thomas felt as though he were seeing an entirely different side of her - soft, even kind. She glanced up at him, her usual sharp expression now entirely absent. “I didn’t know you had a puppy, Thomas.”

“He’s…new,” Thomas replied, watching her interact with the dog, a bit bewildered by her transformation. “I only found him a little ago.”

Josie glanced down at the puppy again, smiling as it nuzzled her hand. “He’s adorable,” she said softly. “What’s his name?”

“Oh, I…haven’t named him yet. I found him by the riverbank alone, so I took him in,” Thomas briefly explained how he found the creature abandoned and saved it.

Josie looked thoughtful, her hand still resting on the puppy’s head as she mulled over the story. After a moment, she spoke. “How about…Chance?” Her voice was soft but certain. “It seems fitting, since you found him by chance.”

Thomas considered the name, a slow smile breaking over his face as he realized how perfect it was. “Chance,” he repeated, nodding. “That’s actually…a wonderful idea, Josie. Thank you.”

She gave him a slight smile as she petted the puppy a final time, murmuring, “Goodbye, Chance.” The puppy seemed reluctant to leave her side but eventually scampered back inside. Josie rose, and for a brief moment, a fragile quiet settled between them.

“How is everyone at school?” Thomas asked. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to know, but something in him longed for news of the world he’d been isolated from.

Josie’s expression shifted, and a flicker of discomfort crossed her face. “It’s…different,” she replied, her tone low. “There’s a lot of talk about what happened. People seem to be on edge.”

Thomas nodded, unsurprised. The thought of the rumors swirling around him made his stomach twist, but he tried to push it aside. “I can imagine,” he replied quietly, feeling the toll of the past few days settle on him once more. His shoulder throbbed with renewed intensity, and he fought the urge to grimace.

“Well…thank you for stopping by, Josie,” he said, offering her a weak smile. “And thank you again for the books.”

Josie nodded, her eyes lingering on him for a moment, unreadable. “I’ll see you around, Thomas,” she said, but there was something in her voice, as though she’d left something unsaid.

She hesitated, her mouth opening as if she wanted to add something more. Her gaze softened, her hand twitching slightly, but then she seemed to change her mind. Shaking her head almost imperceptibly, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing on the path as she disappeared from view.

Thomas stood there for a moment, watching her retreating figure, still trying to process what had just happened. The Josie Pye who had stood on his doorstep was so different from the girl he knew at school. Her suggestion for Chance’s name, her care for the puppy, even the concern in her voice when she’d asked after him - all of it felt out of place, and yet strangely genuine.

He lingered for a moment longer, feeling the cold settle into his bones, before finally turning back inside. His father’s voice came from somewhere in the house, grumbling about “another interruption” as Thomas closed the door behind him. He let out a long, slow breath, still thinking of the odd exchange as he slowly ascended the stairs, his body growing heavier with each step.

The next morning, Thomas awoke feeling surprisingly better. The throbbing in his abdomen had dulled to a faint ache, though his shoulder still flared up now and then. After a simple lunch that his father had hastily prepared - his cooking as spare and practical as the man himself - Thomas retreated back to his room.

There, he pulled out the stack of books and notes Josie had left for him, intending to get caught up on his lessons. But his mind drifted as soon as he opened the first page. He couldn’t stop replaying the string of recent events. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair, looking out the window, mind drifting.

He straightened suddenly, noticing a figure approaching up the path. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet, muttering a curse as he struggled to pull on his shirt, having just changed his bandages. He darted out of the room and made his way downstairs, each step careful but hurried and burst out the front door. There stood Anne, startled, her hand raised, clearly just about to knock.

"Anne, hello," he managed, still slightly out of breath.

“H-hello,” she replied, her voice almost a whisper as she took in his disheveled appearance. Her eyes flitted over his injuries and her face grew distressed, her worry unmistakable.

Thomas noticed her shift nervously, her lips pressing together as she studied him. She seemed as though she might say something, but the words got caught in her throat.

“Are… are you alright?” he asked gently, sensing her unease.

“I-..” she began, her voice trembling, her eyes beginning to mist. “I should be asking you that,” she managed, barely able to look him in the eye.

Thomas frowned, before asking “How come you’re not at school?”

Anne seemed to struggle to get her words out, “I should be.. But-..” she stopped abruptly once more.

Anne’s uncharacteristic hesitation left him uncertain how to respond. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling his father’s silent presence somewhere in the house and wishing he could invite Anne inside. He cleared his throat, forming another plan. "Just a moment, stay here," he said softly, slipping back into the house. He grabbed his jacket from where it hung by the door and, with a quiet whistle, called for the puppy. Chance clattered down the stairs, his eager paws thudding against the wooden steps. Thomas scooped the puppy up, cradling him as he slipped back outside, where Anne was anxiously waiting. Her eyes lit up as she saw the small bundle in his arms, her distress temporarily forgotten as she leaned forward.

“Anne, meet Chance,” Thomas introduced, watching the puppy bask in the attention.

Her gaze softened as she reached out a hand. “Oh… Hello, little one. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she murmured, a tentative smile creeping across her face. Chance cocked his head, sniffing her outstretched hand, and immediately nuzzled into her palm, accepting her affection without hesitation.

Thomas set the puppy down, and Anne’s distress seemed to lift slightly, her small smile lingering as the puppy circled her legs, curiously sniffing her.

“Would you like to take a walk?” Thomas asked, feeling relieved at the way her smile had returned. He motioned toward the stable, and together they made their way down the path. As they walked, he explained how he’d come across Chance alone by the riverbank, and how he hadn’t been able to just leave the abandoned puppy to fend for itself.

“Sorry I couldn’t invite you inside,” he apologized as they reached the stable. “My father… well, he doesn’t exactly like visitors.”

Anne nodded, her expression understanding. She didn’t ask for more of an explanation, but her eyes flicked to the house with a flash of curiosity for a moment.

“Come on, there’s someone else here you might want to meet,” Thomas said, leading her to the far end of the stable.

They approached a cozy corner where Luna stood in her stall, quietly munching on hay. Anne’s face lit up, though there was still a trace of sadness in her gaze as she reached out to stroke the mare’s neck. Her hand moved gently, as though trying to convey an apology with each stroke.

“I did say you could visit her sometime,” Thomas began, “though I wish it were under different circumstances..” his voice trailed off. 

“I’m sorry they did that to you,” Anne murmured, her voice barely audible. She continued to pet Luna, her head lowered, as though unwilling to meet Thomas’s eyes.

He watched her in silence, piecing together her words. The story that must have spread around town had likely gotten twisted, and it was clear Anne blamed herself. She had no idea that it was only Nate that Thomas had confronted, not Mr. Dunlop.

“Anne,” he said softly, stepping a little closer, “it wasn’t your fault.”

She shook her head, her voice wavering. “Yes, it was. I should have seen through them sooner. I should have stopped you from going after them.” Her hand stilled on Luna’s coat, her body tense with guilt.

Thomas felt an urge to reach out, to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Hey, no. What I did was reckless, and I knew the risks. Don’t blame yourself for any of it.”

Finally, she turned to meet his gaze, her eyes reflecting her sadness but softening with his words. He hesitated, then added with a faint, teasing smile, “Guess what, they fooled everyone in town, remember? It was us two who saw through it. Maybe we should be blaming the dumb adults instead, right?”

A tiny chuckle escaped her, a spark of life coming back to her face. 

"Besides, it all ended better than it could have," Thomas continued, "And now you have the perfect story you can write up."

“Perhaps you’re right,” she managed a weak smile.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, a quiet understanding passing between them as they looked at each other in the shadowy light of the stable. Thomas felt his heart quicken, though he couldn’t say whether it was due to the familiar ache in his body from exerting himself too long or something else. Either way, something about the moment felt weighted, and Anne’s cheeks flushed a faint pink under his intense gaze.

But then, suddenly, a loud voice echoed from the house, breaking the moment.

“Thomas! Where are you?” his father’s voice roared, laced with irritation.

Thomas flinched, a look of alarm flashing across his face. He glanced toward the house, his expression shifting to one of regret as he turned back to Anne. “I’m sorry - I should go. He’s already in a foul enough mood as it is,” he said, scratching the back of his head nervously.

Anne shook her head, her expression understanding. “It’s alright, Thomas. Are you… are you going to be okay?”

He managed a reassuring smile. “I’ll be alright. And I’ll see you at school soon, yeah?” he replied. “Thanks for coming to see me, Anne.”

They exchanged a hurried farewell, though neither of them wanted to end the encounter just yet. At the stable door, Thomas lingered for a brief moment, watching Anne as she turned to leave, giving her a small wave.

She waved back, a warm smile lighting her face as she stepped onto the path. Just before she disappeared, she looked back over her shoulder, a lingering glance that spoke volumes without a single word.

Thomas watched until she was out of sight, feeling a strange mixture of longing and comfort settle over him. Taking a deep breath, he turned back toward the house, Chance at his heels.

Chapter Text

The days had dragged on as Thomas slowly recovered, each one blurring into the next as he tried to keep up with his studies from the confines of his room. But the ache in his shoulder and the sting in his ribs were a constant reminder of that night in the woods - a reminder he was itching to move past. Finally, on Sunday evening, he decided he’d been cooped up long enough.

"I'm going back to school tomorrow," he announced, breaking the silence of the kitchen where his father stood by the stove, his back turned as he pressed an old dress shirt with the iron.

“Is that so?” his father murmured, not looking up from his work.

Thomas ignored the comment and nodded toward the clothes. “Going somewhere?”

With a brisk flick of his wrist, his father finished the shirt and turned to face him. “I’ll be gone for a few days,” he replied, smoothing out the fabric. “Matters to attend to in Charlottetown.” His eyes met Thomas’s, steady and calm. “You’ll manage here alone, won’t you?”

Thomas held back his surprise; his father had hardly left the house for more than a day since they’d arrived. “Yes, of course,” he replied, keeping his tone casual. He knew better than to press his father for details.

The next morning, Thomas woke with a start, realizing he’d overslept. He scrambled to throw on his clothes, haphazardly pulling his books together before rushing out the door. He barely registered the fact that his father was already gone.

When he arrived at school, his nerves prickled as he caught sight of the students filing into the classroom, their chatter and laughter filling the air. He paused outside the door, took a deep breath, and entered.

The moment he stepped in, the room fell into silence. It was eerily like his very first day, with all eyes on him as he moved forward. He could feel their curiosity - eyes flickering to the fresh scar on his cheek, lingering on the bandage wrapped around his palm. He managed a small, awkward smile. "Good morning," he said, hoping that might be enough to break the ice as he headed to his usual seat.

But the boys had other plans. No sooner had he sat down than they clustered around him, a blur of eager faces and voices.

“Thomas! You’re back!” Moody Spurgeon was the first to speak up, his face split into a grin as he squeezed himself between two other boys to get closer. “So, it’s true, then? You really caught those grifters all by yourself?”

“Did they have a knife? A gun?” another boy asked, his eyes round with excitement.

Thomas sighed, letting himself sink into his chair as he took in the hopeful expressions surrounding him. Excitements like this were clearly rare in this small town. He’d expected questions, but he hadn’t expected it to feel quite this overwhelming. “It wasn’t exactly like that,” he started to explain, but Moody waved his protest aside.

“Everyone’s saying you chased them through the woods and beat them to a pulp!” Moody continued, throwing a few playful jabs at the air as he mimicked an imaginary fight.

Thomas couldn’t help but chuckle, though the movement sent a small pang through his side. “Not exactly,” he said, shaking his head. “Let’s just say… I got lucky.”

Cole, who had been standing quietly on the edge of the group and listening, chimed in.

“Lucky or not,” he said, his voice soft but certain, “it was still brave of you to go after them. Not everyone would have done it.”

Thomas met Cole’s gaze, feeling a swell of gratitude for the words. “Thanks, Cole,” he replied. “But I wouldn’t call it bravery - more like stupidity.” He hoped his words might steer them away from any dangerous ideas.

“That’s one way to put it,” a sneering voice broke in from behind him. Thomas turned and saw Billy Andrews, leaning casually against a desk with a smirk on his face, his arms crossed. The boys fell silent, shifting uncomfortably.

“I mean, really - one kid against two grown men?” Billy continued, cocking an eyebrow. “Sounds like a tall tale to me.”

Thomas kept his voice calm. “For the record, it was just Nate,” he clarified. “I don’t know what stories have been going around, but let’s make that much clear.”

Billy snorted, giving a mock salute. “Well, that makes all the difference, doesn’t it? I suppose next you’ll be telling us you took down a bear.”

Moody started to chuckle, though he looked slightly uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t decide whether he was supposed to be laughing or defending his friend. “Come on, Billy,” he said with an uncertain grin. “It’s not a competition. He actually did catch the guy.”

Billy rolled his eyes. “I just think it’s funny,” he drawled, “how the stories turn you into some sort of local legend.” He gave Thomas a challenging look, his smirk unwavering. “Guess it’s easy to impress people around here.”

Thomas held his gaze, unruffled. “Believe what you want, Billy. I don’t care,” he replied, his tone even.

Just then, the classroom door opened, and Mr. Phillips strode in, his gaze sweeping over the crowd of boys before landing on Thomas. “Well, well, look who’s decided to grace us with his presence,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Welcome back, Mr. Rockport.”

The boys scattered back to their seats as Mr. Phillips brought the class to order. Thomas exhaled in relief, letting the attention drift away from him. As the other students filed into their places, he caught sight of Anne across the room. He gave her a quick smile and a wave, which she returned twice-fold. 

The lesson commenced, and while Mr. Phillips lectured at the front of the room, Thomas felt whispers and glances flicker his way throughout the morning. He knew it would take time for the rumors to die down.

The bell rang for lunch, and the classroom erupted in a flurry of movement as students gathered in groups and unpacked their lunches. Thomas hurried gathering his things, hoping he might avoid being swarmed again. But as soon as he stepped away from his desk, a group of boys was already waiting for him.

“Thomas!” Moody waved him over, a wide grin plastered across his face. “C’mon, sit with us. We’ve got questions!”

Thomas sighed internally but forced a polite smile, nodding as he made his way over. No sooner had he sat down than the questions started flying again.

“So,” Moody began, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “What was it like, chasing after him?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Charlie, his brow furrowed in curiosity. “And the fight, tell us more about that.”

Thomas shook his head. “It wasn’t as dramatic as all that,” he said, trying to downplay the events once again. “As I said, I just got lucky.”

“But how did you beat him?” another boy asked. “I mean, they are saying he had a gun.”

“Just a knife,” Thomas reluctantly corrected. “And honestly, it wasn’t as exciting as it sounds, I’m not some kind of hero, guys.”

“But you fought him!” Moody exclaimed. “You’ve got a scar and everything to prove it!”

Thomas resisted the urge to groan. The attention, which had initially been amusing, was starting to wear thin. It was clear to him the other students did not quite grasp the actual seriousness of the situation and how one misstep could have led to a catastrophe. His desperate attempts to downplay the events seemed fruitless, “Look, it’s not like I was thinking straight. I just… reacted, okay?”

From behind the group, a familiar voice broke through the chatter. “Or maybe,” Billy Andrews drawled as he sauntered over, “he’s just making it all up.”

The group of boys fell silent, shifting uneasily as Billy and a few of his friends approached. His smirk was as sharp as ever, his arms crossed as he surveyed Thomas with mocking disbelief. “I mean, come on,” Billy continued. “How can you boys believe this story?”

Thomas stiffened but kept his composure. “Believe what you want, Billy,” he said evenly. “I’m not trying to prove anything to you.”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re not? Funny, because it seems like everyone here’s hanging on your every word.” He glanced around at the group, his smirk widening. “You lot really think this guy’s some kind of white knight?”

“Why don’t you lay off, Billy?,” another voice cut in - clear, firm, and unmistakably Anne’s. She and Diana had been walking by, and now they stood nearby, their expressions stern as they regarded Billy.

“What’s your problem, anyway?” Anne continued, stepping forward. “Thomas risked his safety to stop those criminals. It was your family's money he was trying to save, too.”

Diana nodded in agreement, her gaze steady. “You’re just upset because you’ve never done anything half as brave, and you know it.”

Billy’s smirk faltered for a split second, but he recovered quickly. “Oh, great. The girls are chiming in now,” he said with a snicker. “What’s next? Gonna write a poem about it, Anne?”

Anne didn’t back down. “At least I’d have something worth writing about,” she shot back. “Unlike your constant need to make fun of people who are better than you.”

The boys in the group exchanged glances, a few of them stifling chuckles. Billy’s smirk finally faded, replaced by a sour look. “Whatever,” he muttered, backing off. “Have fun playing make-believe.” With that, he turned and stalked away, leaving the group in an awkward silence.

Thomas stood, his patience growing thin. “Thanks boys, but I think I’d rather finish my lunch in peace,” he said, much to the disappointment of the group. As he turned to leave, he stopped by Anne and Diana, who were still nearby.

“Thanks for that,” he said quietly.

Anne smiled warmly. “Don’t let him get to you. And it's good that you’re back.” Diana nodded in agreement.

He gave them both a small, grateful smile before walking outside, despite the gnawing cold, and toward his usual Willow tree. Scaling the tree with some difficulty, the pain in his shoulder not quite gone, he sat on a wide branch, unwrapping his lunch.

The classroom emptied quickly after the final bell, the energy of the day transforming into the excited chatter of students eager for freedom. Thomas was shoving his books into his bag when a soft, calculated voice interrupted him.

“Hello, Thomas.”

He turned to see Josie Pye standing beside him, her lips curling into a smile that seemed just a touch too sweet.

“Josie,” he greeted politely, inclining his head slightly. “How are you?”

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” she replied, smoothing her skirt. Her tone held an air of importance, as if she’d been rehearsing this moment. “Say, would you care to join us for a game?”

Thomas blinked. “A game?” His tone was guarded. After the day he’d had, the idea of a “game” sounded suspiciously like an excuse to put him in the spotlight again.

“Yes, a simple, fun little group game,” she replied, her tone full of innocent insinuation. “Everyone’s going to be there. So, are you in?”

Thomas hesitated, glancing out the window at the early afternoon sky. His father wouldn’t be home for a few days, so there was no pressing need to rush back. 

“All right, sure,” he finally agreed.

Josie’s smile widened, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes as she led him toward the storage room. Inside, a sizable group of students had already gathered. Some were arranging themselves into a circle on the floor, the atmosphere buzzing with energy and whispers.

With a flourish, Josie produced an empty milk bottle and set it in the center of the circle.

Whomever the bottle points to," she explained "You are permitted to kiss. It needs to be boy, girl, boy, girl."

“Where does that leave Cole?” Billy snickered from his seat, eliciting a ripple of laughter from a few of his cronies.

Thomas’s jaw tightened, but Josie merely directed others to switch places until the seating alternated perfectly between boys and girls. 

With the arrangements finalized, Josie sat between Thomas and Cole. “Who would like to spin first?" she asked.

Thomas looked around the circle, suddenly feeling on edge. He wasn't sure he liked the premise of this game. Taking on an armed thug in the woods? Sure. But kissing a girl? 

Charlie eagerly gestured to Diana. “Diana,” he offered gallantly, and Diana reluctantly shuffled forward.

The circle hushed as Diana spun the bottle. It whirled on its axis before slowing to a stop, pointing directly at Moody.

“Me?” Moody’s voice cracked with surprise, drawing laughter from the group.

“Now you have to kiss,” Josie said smugly, her eyes glinting. “On the mouth.”

Moody and Diana exchanged mortified glances before reluctantly standing. They faced each other, hesitated, and then gave a quick peck on the lips as laughter and cheers erupted around them. Diana immediately sat back down, her cheeks flaming.

“Your turn, Anne” Josie said, her tone laced with something Thomas couldn’t quite place.

Anne shifted nervously as she reached for the bottle. Thomas’s heart picked up speed, and he wondered what he’d do if the bottle landed on him. The thought of kissing Anne was both exhilarating and terrifying.

But before Anne could spin, Billy interrupted.

“I’m out,” he announced loudly, “No way. Ugly orphan.”

The room froze.

Anne’s hand hovered over the bottle, her expression crumbling into a mixture of hurt and humiliation. Thomas’s fists clenched at his sides, anger flaring in his chest.

Josie, ever the opportunist, leaned in. “What are you afraid of, Anne?” she asked innocently, though her tone dripped with cruelty. “I seem to recall you knowing a lot about intimate relations.”

“You’re from unfortunate circumstances,” Josie pressed, her voice growing sharper. “Surely this can’t be your first kiss.”

Thomas’s anger boiled over. Any lingering doubts about Josie’s character evaporated as he watched Anne frozen, her eyes distant, hand trembling slightly.

“Anne?” Josie’s voice was syrupy sweet now, baiting. “Ever been kissed, Anne?”

“No.” The word came out sharp and flat, accompanied by a fiery glare that Anne directed straight at Josie. Then, with a suddenness that startled the group, Anne stood and strode toward the door.

“Anne!” Diana called after her, but Anne didn’t look back. The door slammed shut behind her, and the room erupted into awkward snickers and whispers. Diana went after her.

“Good,” Billy muttered, leaning back smugly. “She’s too ugly for this game anyway.”

Thomas was on his feet before he realized it. He took a single step toward Billy, his expression dark. “Shut your mouth, Billy,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Billy paled, scurrying back slightly. He opened his mouth to retort but seemed to think better of it when he saw the look in Thomas’s eyes. The room fell silent, the tension thick. Satisfied, Thomas turned on his heel and walked out. 

As Thomas stormed down the dirt road toward home, his footsteps were heavy with frustration. Each step churned the emotions still roiling inside him: anger at Billy and Josie, shame for not acting sooner, and a deep ache for Anne, whose pain had been plain on her face. He barely noticed the chill in the air, his focus narrowing to the horizon ahead.

In his haste, he spotted two figures a little way down the path - Anne and Diana, walking side by side. Their heads were close, Diana clearly attempting to console her friend. Thomas slowed to a halt, torn between the impulse to approach them and the gnawing uncertainty of what to say.

Instead, he stepped off the road and leaned against the trunk of a bare tree, trying to gather his thoughts. A delicate sensation brushed his cheek. He blinked and looked up, catching sight of tiny white flakes drifting from the sky. The first snow of the season fell softly, blanketing the world in a fragile stillness. Winter was coming, but in his heart, a fire still raged.

The chill of the next morning’s air nipped at Thomas’s cheeks as he trudged toward school. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, lost in thought, when a figure in the distance broke his reverie.

As Thomas drew closer, he saw that it was an elderly man with a long, bushy grey beard. His most striking feature, however, was the enormous backpack he carried, a veritable treasure trove of oddities, trinkets, and tools dangling from every available space.

“ Guten Morgen , young man,” the stranger greeted, his German accent unmistakable.

Thomas blinked, taken aback but intrigued. “Good morning, sir,” he replied politely.

“Wares for sale,” the man gestured to his bag, shifting its weight slightly as he came to a halt.

Thomas tilted his head. “ Du bist weit weg von zu Hause, ” he ventured in halting German. The peddler's eyes widened, then crinkled with delight.

“ Sie sprechen Deutsch? ” the man exclaimed, his smile growing broader.

“Just a little,” Thomas admitted sheepishly. “I haven’t practiced in a long time.” His mind flickered briefly to his mother, who had taught him snippets of various languages.

“Well,” the peddler said, switching back to English, “are you interested in anything? I have charms, tools, and tokens for every occasion!”

Thomas shrugged. “Let’s see what you have.”

The man smiled and nodded, eagerly setting down his pack and beginning to lay out a variety of items.

By the time Thomas reached school, he was late. The hum of voices from the classroom spilled out as he opened the door. Conversations died down briefly as he entered, and a few students cast him curious glances.

Thomas quickly scanned the room. Anne was sitting at her desk, her hair adorned with colorful ribbons that were clearly a new addition. Diana and Cole were seated beside her, with Cole carefully adjusting one of the ribbons. The sight brought a grin to Thomas’s face. He was always impressed by Cole’s artistic talents, no matter the medium.

Sliding into his seat, Thomas began pulling out his books when Mr. Phillips’s voice rang out sharply.

“Cole Mackenzie!”

The room froze. All eyes turned toward the teacher as he stood at the blackboard, a piece of chalk in hand, glaring at Cole. Anne and Diana stiffened beside their friend, who looked up, startled.

“Since you seem to have such...feminine proclivities,” Mr. Phillips sneered, his voice dripping with disdain, “we shall indulge your taste for it this morning. You can sit with the girls.”

Snickers erupted across the classroom. Cole’s face reddened as he gathered his things, walking silently toward an empty seat infront of Anne and Diana.

Thomas clenched his fists under the desk, the familiar surge of anger at Mr. Phillips’s cruel behavior bubbling inside him. He shot a glance at Anne, whose expression mirrored his own frustration and sadness for Cole.

As Mr. Phillips droned on, Thomas took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on the lesson. 

The school day had come to its merciful end, and Thomas was shrugging on his jacket in the coatroom when he noticed Cole quietly gathering his things nearby. His friend's slumped shoulders and downcast gaze made it clear the morning’s humiliation was still weighing heavily on him.

“Hey,” Thomas ventured, stepping closer, “are you alright? Mr. Phillips seems to have it out for you.”

Cole gave a weak chuckle, though his eyes remained fixed on his boots as he tied them. “You got that right,” he muttered, slipping into his jacket with slow, deliberate movements.

Thomas frowned, leaning against the wall. “I’m sorry that happened. You can’t let him get to you, though. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Cole glanced up, his expression flickering with gratitude before fading back into resignation. “Easier said than done.”

A voice joined in from nearby. “He’s right, Cole,” Anne chimed in, her usual fiery determination evident in her tone. She stood with Diana a few feet away, fastening her coat. “There’s nothing wrong with being different.”

Cole gave her a small nod. “Thanks,” he said softly, though his voice carried a note of lingering doubt.

Thomas shifted his gaze to Anne and Diana, intending to echo her sentiments, but his attention was drawn to the ribbons woven into Anne’s braids. Without thinking, he blurted, “Nice ribbons.”

Anne’s face immediately flushed, her hand darting to her hair as if to check that the ribbons were still there. “T-thank you,” she stammered, her voice almost a whisper.

Beside her, Diana suppressed a knowing smirk, her lips twitching with amusement as she adjusted her scarf.

Thomas cleared his throat, changing the subject, “The lesson today was… interesting.”

“Interesting?” Anne asked with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Mr. Phillips spent half the lesson today trying to explain what a ‘split infinitive’ is.”

Thomas, who was hardly paying attention to the lesson, frowned “A ‘split infinitive’? What was it? A grammar crime?”

Anne smiled. “It’s when you put an adverb between ‘to’ and the verb, like ‘to boldly go.’” 

Thomas chuckled. “So, basically, Mr. Phillips is on a crusade against adverbs?”

Anne nodded. “Exactly! He’s probably up late at night, lying awake, worrying about people splitting infinitives.”

“Probably,” Thomas said, his voice light. “Maybe he thinks if he doesn’t stop us, the whole English language will fall apart.”

Anne chuckled, “That’s exactly what he’d say. Like the world’s going to end if we say ‘to boldly go’ instead of ‘to go boldly.’”

Thomas paused, his face growing mock-serious. “I think he’s secretly trying to preserve the sanctity of the English language, one sentence at a time.”

Diana, who had been listening quietly, burst into laughter at Thomas’s deadpan delivery. Anne couldn’t help but laugh too, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh, that is quite something,” Diana managed between giggles. “I can totally picture Mr. Phillips with a cape, fighting off the evil forces of grammar chaos.”

Thomas shrugged modestly, a small grin on his face. “Hey, somebody has to stop the apocalypse.”

Just then, Josie’s voice came from the doorway, cutting through their laughter.

“We’re playing the game again in the storage room,” she said, giving them a pointed look. “Are you all in?”

The group exchanged uncertain glances. Anne hesitated, her fingers still brushing her braids, while Diana’s brows knit in a mixture of doubt and curiosity. Cole simply stared at the floor, clearly disinterested but unsure how to respond.

Thomas straightened, his posture stiff. “No, thanks, Josie,” he said, his voice unusually cold. “I think last time was enough for me.”

Josie’s smile faltered, and for a fleeting moment, Thomas caught a flicker of hurt in her eyes. She quickly masked it with a shrug, her voice turning dismissive. “Whatever,” she said, though the edge in her tone betrayed her disappointment.

Anne and Diana exchanged a look, then hesitantly followed Josie, Cole trailing after them reluctantly. As they passed, Thomas gave them a small wave and a reassuring smile, as if to say it’s fine .

With that, he stepped out into the crisp air, the sound of the school door closing behind him as he walked away, a small smile lingering on his lips from the conversation.

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp and biting, the snow freshly fallen, blanketing Avonlea in a hushed brilliance. Thomas trudged toward school, his boots crunching against the frost-tipped ground. The snow had transformed the familiar landscape into a shimmering new world, yet it seemed the weather wasn’t the only surprise waiting for him that day.

Discarding his coat in the coatroom, he immediately noticed a hum of excitement emanating from the classroom. He paused briefly, peering in to see the students huddled in clusters, their chatter animated. Curious, Thomas stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room.

At the center of the commotion stood Gilbert Blythe.

Thomas recognized him immediately. Gilbert was taller than Thomas remembered, though the easy charm and confident smile remained unchanged. He was surrounded by the boys, answering their questions with a mix of humility and humor.

“Gilbert Blythe’s back,” Moody Spurgeon whispered as Thomas approached.

“Working on ships and traveling to far-off places,” Charlie chimed in, eyes wide with admiration.

Thomas lingered on the edge of the group, catching fragments of Gilbert’s tales of places far away, and the ocean’s vast expanse. Finally, Gilbert noticed him and stepped forward, his grin widening.

“Thomas!” Gilbert greeted, extending a hand. “Good to see you again.”

“Welcome back, Gilbert,” Thomas replied, shaking his hand. “How was it? Traveling the world sounds like an adventure.”

“It was,” Gilbert said, his tone reflective. “But it wasn’t all smooth sailing - literally and figuratively. I learned a lot about myself, though. Mostly, how much I miss Avonlea.”

Thomas nodded. “I can imagine.”

Gilbert’s grin took on a teasing edge. “It sounds like I wasn’t the only one having adventures. I heard about what happened with Nate and Dunlop.”

Thomas shifted uncomfortably. “Something like that. I just did what I had to do.”

Gilbert’s gaze flickered to the faint scar on Thomas’s cheek, and for a moment, his expression darkened. Before he could say anything further, the boys resumed their onslaught of questions, pulling Gilbert back into the fray.

Thomas sighed quietly, retreating to the periphery of the group. He was relieved to no longer be the focus of attention. Gilbert’s return seemed to be a welcome distraction, not just for the boys but for the entire class.

As he moved to take his seat, another wave of murmurs rippled through the classroom. Heads turned toward the door, drawing Thomas’s attention.

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert stood there.

Except... something was different.

Her trademark braids were gone. Instead, her hair was cropped short - almost pixie-like - wrapped with a blue ribbon that Thomas recognized as one of Diana’s. The room buzzed with a mix of reactions: surprise, shock, stifled laughter. Anne’s steps faltered as the weight of their stares bore down on her. She kept her gaze low, her shoulders tight.

Then her eyes landed on Gilbert.

“Anne,” Gilbert said softly, stepping forward. His voice carried a surprising gentleness, his smile shy.

Anne froze. She looked as though she wanted to run but couldn’t. “You’re back,” she managed.

“Yes, hi,” Gilbert replied, his smile growing.

“There is no gold,” Anne blurted out suddenly, her words sharp and defensive.

“I know, I heard,” Gilbert said smoothly. “That’s not why I’m here.” He paused, his eyes lingering on hers. “It’s really good to see you.”

Their moment was interrupted by the sharp sound of footsteps as Mr. Phillips entered the room. His presence swept through the classroom like a chill wind. “Open your readers to page twenty,” he instructed, sending the students scurrying to obey.

Anne slipped into her desk near Diana, her cheeks flushed as she avoided Gilbert’s gaze.

Mr. Phillips’s sharp eyes zeroed in on Anne almost immediately. His lips curled into a smirk. “It appears we have a new boy in class today,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery.

The class erupted into snickers and chuckles. Anne’s face burned red, and she seemed to shrink in her seat.

“Are you sure you’re sitting in the right place, young man?” Mr. Phillips added, his words laced with malice.

Thomas’s hands curled into fists under his desk. That all too familiar surge of anger that haunted him recently, bubbled up, and before he could stop himself, he abruptly stood. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, silencing the laughter.

“That’s not funny,” Thomas said, his voice louder and firmer than he intended.

All eyes turned to him. The classroom was deathly still, save for the crackle of the fire in the stove.

Mr. Phillips’s glare was icy. “Excuse me?” he said, his tone dangerously low. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

Thomas’s hands trembled at his sides. He wanted to shout, to rail against the teacher’s cruelty, but the words stuck in his throat.

“Take. Your. Seat,” Mr. Phillips ordered, his voice like the snap of a whip.

Reluctantly, Thomas sank back into his seat, his heart pounding.

Mr. Phillips stared him down for a moment longer before turning his attention back to the lesson. “Open your readers!” he snapped, his tone harsher than usual.

Thomas felt Gilbert’s eyes on him, questioning, concerned. He glanced sideways at Anne, who seemed to be holding herself together by a thread, her eyes focused on her desk.

As the class settled into an uneasy quiet, Thomas clenched his jaw. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

As the lessons drew to a close, Thomas heard the unmistakable, clipped voice of Mr. Phillips calling him to the front. A few lingering students exchanged glances, sensing tension in the air.

"Do not think that your standing as one of the best students in this class will shield you from consequences." Mr. Phillips began, his tone frosty. 

"I will have words to your parents about your outburst," Mr. Phillips continued, emphasizing each word as if he relished the threat. His eyes searched Thomas’s face, perhaps expecting an apology or a hint of remorse.

Thomas, however, gave neither. Instead, he waited a moment before responding, his voice calm "Will that be all? Sir."

The teacher’s mouth tightened, his displeasure obvious. "This sort of behavior will not be tolerated!"

"I should hope not," Thomas replied smoothly, though the hint of irony did not escape his tone, "If that’s everything, I really must be going. Sir."

For a moment, Mr. Phillips seemed at a loss for words, his face reddening slightly, but Thomas didn’t wait for a dismissal. With a curt nod, he turned and walked briskly toward the coatroom. The room was half-empty, only a few students still lingering to tug on scarves or button up coats.

Anne was nowhere to be seen - unsurprising, considering how eager she had been to escape earlier. He threw on his coat and stepped outside into the crisp, snow-laden air.

Nearby, Thomas spotted Gilbert Blythe standing with a group of boys, their laughter cutting through the chilly air. As the boys peeled away, calling their goodbyes, Gilbert noticed Thomas descending the schoolhouse steps and fell into step beside him.

“Quite a day,” Gilbert remarked, his easy smile contrasting with the weight of Thomas’s mood. “More eventful than I expected, anyway.”

"You could say that," Thomas muttered, his voice gruff. His gaze remained forward, his breath forming clouds in the cold air.

Gilbert glanced sideways, picking up on Thomas’s uncharacteristic tone. After a moment of silence, Thomas sighed, his pace slowing. “Sorry,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

Gilbert nodded thoughtfully. “Mr. Phillips, huh? He’s been like that for as long as I can remember. Always picking on someone.” His voice was calm, almost resigned, but there was a flicker of irritation behind his words.

Thomas let out a low grunt. He knew Gilbert had a point - letting Mr. Phillips get under his skin would only make things harder. Still, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his frustration in check. Lately, the surges of anger he felt at moments like this were harder to stifle. He had always prided himself on his composure, but recently, something had shifted.

Gilbert studied Thomas for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Well,” he said eventually, stopping at the corner where their paths would diverge, “it’s good to see you again, Thomas. We’ll catch up properly soon, yeah?”

Thomas blinked, as though snapping out of a fog. “Oh, yeah,” he said hastily, forcing a small smile. “See you later, Gilbert.”

“See you,” Gilbert said, turning down the road that led to his family farm.

Thomas watched him go, then adjusted his coat against the biting wind and continued on his way home.

That weekend, the morning air was bitterly cold, yet remarkably still, as though the forest held its breath in anticipation of the rising sun. Frost clung to every surface, sparkling faintly in the faint predawn light. Thomas tightened the scarf around his neck and adjusted his coat as he made his way through the woods near his home. The world felt hushed, save for the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots, though even that was muted by his deliberate steps.

He paused, scanning the snow-dusted ground for the signs he knew so well. Tracks. His sharp eyes caught them - a cluster of prints pressing into the soft powder, faint trails where hooves had broken the surface. He crouched, studying the patterns and noting their direction, then rose and followed them deeper into the trees.

The woods gradually opened into a small clearing by the creek. Light reflected off the sluggishly flowing water, and there, near its banks, a small herd of deer grazed cautiously. Thomas counted a handful of does and two bucks, their sleek forms blending into the skeletal trees and the white landscape. 

He slowed his approach, keeping low and moving with practiced precision. His steps were silent, his movements deliberate. Years of practice had taught him this art, and his instincts had only sharpened over time. He reached the edge of the clearing, where a cluster of boulders offered perfect cover.

Thomas unslung the rifle from his shoulder, settling himself against the cold stone. He wiped his gloved hand over the sights, ensuring they were clear, then steadied the barrel. His breath came slow and measured, the world narrowing to the sights before him. The larger of the two bucks stood apart, its antlers catching the faint light.

He waited, patient.

The buck turned slightly, presenting its side. Thomas inhaled deeply, aligning the rifle carefully. Time seemed to stretch as he exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

The sharp crack of the gunshot shattered the stillness, reverberating through the woods. Birds erupted from nearby branches, their wings flapping frantically as the remaining deer bolted, their white tails vanishing into the forest.

Thomas lowered the rifle, watching as the targeted buck crumpled to the ground. He rose from his position and slung the rifle back over his shoulder, making his way toward the fallen buck. When he drew near, he realized the animal was still alive, its warm breath puffed weakly into the cold air, its wide eyes reflecting the faint light of the dawn. Thomas knelt beside it, setting a steadying hand on its muzzle.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. There was no joy in this moment, only necessity. His family depended on this. But it never got easier.

Drawing the knife from his belt, Thomas moved with careful precision, finishing what needed to be done as quickly and humanely as possible. The buck’s labored breaths ceased, and the forest grew still once more.

Later that day, the snow-dusted roads of Carmody bustled with activity as townsfolk hurried about their business. The market square was lively, filled with the chatter of merchants and the scent of fresh-baked bread mingling with woodsmoke. Thomas guided his cart toward the butcher’s stall, his breath forming small clouds in the brisk air. The venison from his morning hunt was neatly prepared, ready for sale.

As he approached the stall to negotiate, his attention was caught by a figure weaving through the crowd. At first glance, they appeared to be a boy: a newsboy cap pulled low over their face, a coat that was a bit too large, and trousers that seemed hastily hemmed. It wasn’t until they glanced up, their striking blue eyes briefly meeting his, that realization struck him.

“Anne?” he called out before he could stop himself.

The figure froze, their shoulders stiffening before they slowly turned around. Sure enough, it was Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, her freckled face peeking out from beneath the cap. She looked mortified, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson.

“I-” she started, her words faltering as she seemed to grapple for an explanation. “I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice came out higher-pitched than usual, as though attempting to deepen it had backfired.

Thomas blinked, taken aback, but then his lips quirked into an amused smile. “Anne, it’s me. You don’t have to pretend.”

Anne let out a resigned sigh, her hands tugging at the edges of her coat as though trying to shrink and looked away, her expression one of embarrassment. “Please don’t say anything,” she muttered, her voice low. “It’s bad enough as it is.”

Thomas tilted his head, trying to meet her gaze. “Say anything about what?” he asked gently. “That you’re here? That you’re in a disguise? Or that you look perfectly fine in it?”

Her head shot up, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You don’t have to patronize me, Thomas,” she snapped, though her voice wavered. “I know how I look. And I know what people think when they see me now.”

“I’m not patronizing you,” he said firmly, his tone earnest. “And if you think anyone with a brain cares about your hair or what you’re wearing, then maybe they’re the ones who need a disguise.”

Anne’s lips quirked, her indignation softening, though she still seemed wary. “I look ridiculous,” she muttered, tugging at the hem of her oversized coat.

Thomas crossed his arms, pretending to examine her thoughtfully. “Hmm. Well, the coat’s a little big,” he said, voice laced with playful seriousness “But you pull it off. Except... you’re terrible at walking like a boy.”

That earned him a small, reluctant smile, “I’ll have you know I walk perfectly well,” she huffed, planting her hands on her hips. “I just… haven’t mastered the finer details yet.”

Anne sighed as she leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. “I thought this might make things easier. Just for today.”

Thomas nodded, understanding dawning. He remembered the reactions at school to her short hair - the whispers, the giggles, the mockery. He could see how this might seem like a way to avoid it all, at least in public.

“Why does it matter what anyone thinks?” he asked, his tone quieter now, more serious. “Short hair or not, you’re still you.”

Anne gave a small, strained laugh. “That’s easy for you to say. No one’s snickering behind your back or calling you names.”

Thomas tilted his head thoughtfully. “That’s not entirely true.”

Anne blinked at him, her expression softening as she realized what he meant. Thomas wasn’t exempt from judgment, either. People gossiped about him, about his father, about his recent scandal and the troubles he had faced since moving to Avonlea. For a moment, she looked at him differently - like they were kindred spirits in their own way.

“You’re really not going to tell anyone about this, are you?” she asked hesitantly.

“Of course not,” Thomas replied earnestly, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

Anne straightened slightly, her posture losing some of its tension. In the bustling market, surrounded by townsfolk and the hum of life, she seemed to reclaim a spark of her usual confidence.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she said quietly. Then, with a tilt of her head, she asked, “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Thomas gestured to the cart beside him. “Selling venison from my hunt this morning,” he explained.

Her gaze shifted to the neatly stacked meat and the rifle slung over his shoulder, her expression one of mild surprise. “Oh.. I didn’t know you did that,” she admitted, a trace of unease in her voice.

“I take no pleasure in it,” Thomas said simply, shrugging. 

Anne nodded slowly, recognizing that despite her love for animals, sometimes it is a necessity

Just then, the butcher, a burly man with a gruff voice, called out impatiently. “Are you selling or not, boy?”

Thomas flinched, startled, and gave Anne an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I have to take care of this. But it was nice seeing you.”

“That’s alright,” Anne said, adjusting her cap with newfound determination. A mischievous glint returned to her eye. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, adopting a comically exaggerated swagger, “I have some boyish business to attend to.”

Thomas chuckled and waved her off, watching as she disappeared into the crowd, a faint smile lingering on his lips.

After finalizing the sale with the butcher and ensuring the payment was tucked securely in his pocket, Thomas made his way back toward the outskirts of the market where Luna, his sturdy mare, was hitched. As he turned a corner, he spotted someone familiar - Jerry. The farmhand was perched on the driver’s seat of a wagon, fiddling with the reins. His head snapped up as soon as he noticed Thomas approaching. Jerry’s expression immediately shifted into a guarded scowl, as though bracing for an interrogation.

“Anne is not here,” Jerry blurted defensively, his voice hurried.

“Of course not,” he replied smoothly, his tone laced with amusement. “Why would she be?”

Jerry squinted at him suspiciously, but Thomas’s easy demeanor seemed to ease his nerves. Realizing he’d overreacted, Jerry relaxed and offered a sheepish shrug.

“Good to see you, Thomas,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

“You too, Jerry,” Thomas replied, shifting his weight as he glanced at the wagon. “How’s everything at Green Gables?”

“Busy, as usual,” Jerry said with a theatrical sigh, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed his fondness for the place. “Plenty of work to keep me out of trouble, you know.”

Thomas chuckled. “Somehow, I think trouble would have to work hard to keep up with you.”

Jerry laughed, his easy grin breaking through, “You heading back to Avonlea?”

Thomas nodded, patting the pocket where his earnings rested. “I’ve got what I came for. Take care, Jerry.”

“Same to you,” Jerry said with a quick wave as Thomas continued toward Luna, the mare tossing her head as he approached.

As Thomas mounted and steered her toward the road, the grin lingered on his face. The day had been more eventful than expected, but he couldn’t help but feel lighter for it.

The days grew shorter as Christmas drew nearer, bringing with it a flurry of activity in Avonlea. For Thomas, this meant an unusual invitation to assist with the town’s Christmas Pantomime preparations, a prospect that both excited and unsettled him. His father, however, was less than pleased. “Useless frivolities,” his father grumbled one afternoon as Thomas was about to leave.

The town hall buzzed with energy when he arrived, a cacophony of voices and movement filling the space. The younger children were clustered in one corner, their voices rising and falling as they rehearsed a carol. Across the room, the older girls, under the meticulous guidance of Rachel Lynde, were practicing their lines, some with more enthusiasm than others. Boys darted around with planks, tools, and paintbrushes as they worked on props and set pieces.

In the midst of it all was Cole, perched on a ladder and intently painting the backdrop with long, graceful strokes. His hands moved with the kind of care and precision that made his work almost hypnotic. Thomas admired the scene briefly before turning his attention to Gilbert, who was holding a ladder and motioning for him to come over.

“We’re rigging this section next,” Gilbert said, gesturing toward a beam that seemed impossibly high.

Thomas nodded, grabbing a length of rope and climbing the ladder while Gilbert steadied it. Once at the top, he realized the beam was just out of reach.

“I think we need a longer ladder,” Gilbert called up, looking around for one.

“I can get it,” Thomas replied, not wanting to waste time.

To Gilbert’s surprise, Thomas stepped off the ladder entirely, finding footholds on the frame of the set and scaling higher with practiced ease.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Gilbert exclaimed, his voice tinged with concern.

Thomas didn’t respond immediately, focusing instead on securing the rope around the beam. His movements were swift and steady, the confidence of someone accustomed to heights evident in every step. Once the knot was tied, he climbed back down just as quickly, landing lightly on the ladder before stepping to the ground.

“Heavens, that was reckless,” Gilbert muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “But also kind of impressive.”

Thomas shrugged, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face.

Gilbert chuckled, muttering something about mountain goats as Thomas leaned against the ladder to catch his breath.

The brief moment of calm was shattered by a loud crash. Cole’s ladder had tumbled, sending him flying, landing hard on the wooden floor with a sickening thud. The room fell silent for a heartbeat before chaos erupted.

“Cole, are you alright?” Gilbert was the first to rush to his side, kneeling next to him.

Cole wailed, clutching his arm, his face pale and contorted with pain.

Rachel Lynde hurried over, her voice shrill with panic. “Is he alright?”

“His wrist is definitely broken,” Gilbert said grimly, trying to calm Cole as the boy continued to cry out.

“It was an accident! I swear!” Billy Andrews blurted out, his voice carrying a note of false innocence.

But Thomas had seen it all. Billy, holding a long plank, had carelessly - or intentionally - swung it too close to the ladder, sending Cole crashing to the ground. The sight of Cole in pain and Billy’s feigned innocence sent a rush of anger surging through Thomas.

Before he realized what he was doing, Thomas was on him. Grabbing Billy by the collar, he slammed him against the wall with a force that made everyone's eyes widen in fear.

“You think this is funny?” Thomas growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Do you even care what you’ve done?”

Billy stammered, his posture crumbling under Thomas’s fiery glare. But before the confrontation could escalate further, a sharp voice cut through the commotion.

“Thomas!”

He turned to see Rachel Lynde staring at him, her face a mixture of shock and reproach. Realizing the attention he’d drawn, Thomas released Billy abruptly, stepping back as he fought to rein in his anger.

“We need to get Cole to the doctor,” Gilbert said, his tone firm but calm. He and another boy carefully helped Cole to his feet, supporting him as he whimpered with every step.

Rachel Lynde clapped her hands for attention, her voice carrying above the murmurs. “Alright, everyone, that’s enough for today. Back to your homes, all of you!”

The hall began to empty, the earlier cheer replaced by an uneasy tension. Thomas lingered for a moment, his fists still clenched at his sides. His eyes flicked to Billy, who was slinking away with his head down, and then to Cole, who was being escorted out by Gilbert and Mrs. Lynde.

As he finally stepped outside, the cold air hit him like a wall, doing little to cool the storm brewing inside. The festive hum of preparation was gone, leaving him with a sinking feeling that, once again, he’d let his temper get the better of him.

The day of Christmas Eve dawned quietly in Avonlea, but for Thomas, the atmosphere in his home felt no different from any other day. His father, as usual, remained buried in his work, his study door firmly closed. Thomas had tried to bring a small touch of festivity into the house. He’d brought in a modest pine tree earlier in the week and decorated it with what little they had. But beyond that, Christmas cheer felt absent.

After completing his daily chores, Thomas shrugged on his coat, pulling it tightly against the cold. He had a gift to deliver, one he’d been holding onto for a while now. He quietly slipped out of the house, his boots crunching through the fresh layer of snow as he made his way toward Green Gables.

When he reached the familiar house, he paused for a moment to knock the snow from his boots and remove his gloves before raising his hand to the door. His knock was answered quickly, but to his surprise, it wasn’t Anne who greeted him.

“Hello there, Thomas,” Gilbert Blythe said with a wide smile, holding the door open.

Thomas froze for a moment, caught off guard. “Uh, hi,” he stammered. A strange mix of emotions swirled within him - confusion, curiosity, and something he couldn’t quite place.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow at Thomas’s hesitation. “What brings you by? Are you here to see Anne?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Thomas said, clearing his throat and nodding.

Gilbert’s expression softened into understanding. “Hold on, I’ll get her,” he said before disappearing back into the house.

Moments later, Anne appeared in the doorway, and Thomas was momentarily rendered speechless. She was dressed in a beautiful light blue dress with puffed sleeves and delicate flounces - far different from her usual modest attire. The sight of her took him aback, though he quickly recovered.

“Thomas!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up with a warm smile. “What brings you by?”

“Hello, Anne,” Thomas replied, unable to stop a smile from spreading across his face, “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas to you as well,” she said brightly, though her expression held a hint of surprise.

Thomas reached into his coat and pulled out a parcel wrapped neatly in brown paper. He held it out to her, his movements slightly awkward as if uncertain. “I, uh… got you something,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

Anne’s smile grew even wider as she took the package. “Oh! Thank you! Wait here,” she said quickly, her excitement evident. “I have something for you too.” She disappeared inside before he could respond.

When she returned, she handed him something warm and soft, tied with a simple ribbon. “I was going to give this to you tomorrow at the pantomime,” she explained, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have anything proper to wrap it with.”

Thomas untied the ribbon and unfolded the gift - a hand-knitted scarf, rich in texture and bearing a neatly embroidered “T.”

“I made it myself,” Anne said, her voice brimming with both pride and shyness. “Although Marilla did help with the ‘T.’ ”

Thomas smiled, his chest warming with gratitude. “It’s perfect,” he said softly, wrapping the scarf around his neck immediately. “Thank you.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, they simply stood there, the cold air forgotten as a comfortable silence settled between them.

The moment was broken by Marilla Cuthbert’s voice behind Anne. “Won’t you close the door, Anne? The house is getting cold.”

Anne turned with a start, moving aside to let Marilla step into view.

“Hello, Ms. Cuthbert,” Thomas said, his voice polite but warm, “Happy Christmas.”

Marilla’s stern expression softened into a smile. “Thomas, what a nice surprise. Happy Christmas to you.” She looked between him and Anne before adding, “Anne, go on back to our guests, please.”

Anne gave Thomas a quick wave and a bright smile before slipping back inside.

Marilla lingered, her gaze thoughtful. “What brings you by, Thomas?”

“I just wanted to wish Anne a Happy Christmas,” Thomas explained. “Sorry if I interrupted anything.”

“No interruption at all,” Marilla assured him. “In fact, I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been meaning to thank you properly for what you did for us… back then.” her voice faltered slightly, she was clearly referring to the grifter incident. “Me and Matthew wanted to check on you after, but we know your father isn’t exactly fond of visitors.”

Thomas gave a small, understanding nod. “That’s alright, Ms. Cuthbert. No need to worry about it.”

Marilla studied him for a moment longer, her expression laced with a quiet guilt. “And how is your father? And you? Are you both well?”

“We’re alright, thank you for asking,” Thomas replied with a polite smile.

“Well, I shan’t keep you,” Marilla said, her tone brisk as she stepped back toward the doorway. “Do give your father my regards.”

“I will. Thank you,” Thomas said, nodding once more.

As he turned and made his way back down the snowy path, Thomas couldn’t help but reach up and trace his fingers over the scarf around his neck. The warmth of the knitted wool wasn’t the only thing keeping him warm - it was the thoughtfulness behind the gift.

Returning home, his father, still absent from sight, was likely holed up in his study as always. With a sigh, he realized a festive supper was out of the question - his father, still largely upset with the number of recent outbursts Thomas had, apparently had no time for celebration. However, passing by the parlor, where the modest Christmas tree stood, a package had appeared beneath it. The gesture felt hollow in the face of the loneliness that filled the house.

He retreated upstairs to his room, collapsing onto his bed with a heavy sigh. His fingers instinctively brushed the scarf still wrapped snugly around his neck - the gift from Anne. His thoughts drifted to Green Gables. He pictured the house alive with laughter, the dining table groaning under the weight of a grand Christmas dinner - and for some reason, Gilbert was there too.

The thought of Gilbert being at Green Gables brought an unexpected pang of jealousy to his chest, one he couldn’t quite explain. He quickly shoved it aside. The house was cold, silent. His father’s insistence on keeping Chance in the stable rather than the warmth of the house gnawed at him. He wished the puppy were there with him now, a small but comforting presence. Exhaling slowly, Thomas closed his eyes, falling into uneasy sleep.

Meanwhile, at Green Gables, the air was bright with the spirit of Christmas. Anne sat by the Christmas tree, unwrapping her gifts. Setting aside the pocket dictionary Gilbert had gotten her, she reached for the last present.

It was wrapped simply, without adornments, but it carried a quiet charm. She carefully peeled away the paper, revealing a folded note inside.

Her heart gave a small flutter as she unfolded it and began to read:

Dear Anne,

For tales beyond the ordinary and correspondences of conspiracy,

I hope you like it.

Happy Christmas.

Thomas.

A smile spread across her face, and she tucked the note aside to reveal the gift. It was a leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with delicate floral designs. Anne traced the intricate patterns with her fingertips, her smile widening as she opened it to reveal the crisp, cream-colored pages inside. What she didn’t know was that Thomas had purchased the journal from the same wandering peddler she’d encountered some time ago. 

She flipped through the pages, noticing how they could be easily removed and used for other purposes - letters, stories, or even small drawings. Already, her mind began to race with ideas. 

The evening of the Christmas Pantomime had arrived, and the town hall was a flurry of excitement and chaos. Backstage, the performers bustled about, adjusting costumes, reciting last-minute lines, and scrambling to ensure everything was in place. Among the whirlwind of activity was Thomas, his face creased with frustration as he worked to secure a piece of rigging that had come loose.

“Where in heavens is Gilbert?” he muttered under his breath, his words drowned out by the clamor around him. A nearby performer bumped into him, nearly toppling the ladder he was precariously perched on.

Mrs. Lynde’s sharp voice cut through the noise as she marched across the backstage area, calling out for Josie Pye. “Josie! Josie Pye! Where are you?” she hollered, her arms flailing in exasperation.

Thomas adjusted the rope in his hands, securing it with a firm knot before descending the ladder. His frustration was mounting, the countdown to the Pantomime’s start ticking in his ears. He turned, and to his relief, saw Gilbert rushing in through the side door, a look of apology on his face.

“Finally,” Thomas said, his tone a mix of exasperation and relief. “I’m starting to lose my mind here.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Gilbert said, raising his hands defensively. “I got delayed, but I brought help.”

A tall man stepped in behind Gilbert. He was older, with a dark complexion, a neatly trimmed black beard, and a calm yet wary expression.

“This is Sebastian,” Gilbert introduced, gesturing to the man beside him. “We worked together on the steamer, and he’s come to live with-”

“Not to be rude,” Thomas interrupted, the tension in his voice clear as he gestured to the scattered mess of ropes and props. “But we really ought to start fixing this chaos before we miss our cue.”

Gilbert smiled sheepishly, nodding. “Fair point. Bash, grab those ropes over there,” he said, pointing to a pile of tangled cords.

Sebastian met Thomas’s gaze briefly, his eyes flickering with caution as if bracing for judgement. To his surprise, Thomas extended his hand.

“Thomas,” he said simply, his tone warm but hurried.

Bash’s expression softened as he grasped Thomas’s hand in a firm shake. “Call me Bash,” he said with a smile.

The three quickly set to work, the mess of backstage slowly coming under control. Thomas directed Gilbert and Bash while making final adjustments to the rigging, his movements efficient and precise. As the trio worked, the performers scrambled to their places, and Mrs. Lynde’s voice rang out again.

“There you are!” Mrs. Lynde cried as Josie finally appeared, looking worse for wear. Her voice was raspy, nearly gone, and she clutched her throat dramatically. “Where’s your shovel? Where’s your pivotal prop?”

Josie grimaced, shaking her head. “I left it at home,” she croaked, barely audible.

Mrs. Lynde’s face turned an alarming shade of red, “Oh my, you’ve lost your voice.” She threw her hands up in despair, her eyes scanning the backstage area until they landed on Anne, who was already in costume and looking confused by the commotion.

“Anne, get over here!” Mrs. Lynde barked, marching over. “You’re gonna take over from Josie, you’ll play The Boy.”

Minutes later, the curtains opened, and the Christmas Pantomime began. Despite the last-minute scrambling, the performance flowed smoothly, with the audience laughing and cheering in all the right places. Backstage, Thomas finally secured the last of the rigging and leaned against a post, catching his breath.

“Looks like we might just pull this off,” Gilbert whispered, handing Thomas a water bottle.

But just as the words left Gilbert’s mouth, disaster struck. During a scene transition, Billy Andrews strutted on stage in his owl costume, playing to the audience’s laughter. Without warning, one of the rigged props - a faux lightning bolt - came loose and plummeted directly onto Billy’s head, knocking him flat.

The audience erupted in laughter, thinking it part of the show, while backstage descended into chaos. Gilbert and Bash swiftly pulled the ropes to conceal the scene.

The performers rushed to Billy’s side as he lay groaning on the floor, clutching his head. Moments later, the backstage door slammed open, and Mrs. Andrews stormed in, her face worried. She knelt beside Billy, holding his face in her hands, her expression quickly turning to one of outrage.

Her eyes landed on Sebastian, and without hesitation, she spat, “Is this your doing? You savage brute! Shame on you!”

Sebastian remained silent, his face a conflicted mix of worry and sadness. Thomas stepped forward, inserting himself between the two. “Enough!” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the tense air. “It was an accident, and he had nothing to do with it.”

Mrs. Andrews wasn’t so easily cowed. “Don’t you talk back to me!” she snapped, her eyes blazing. “Was it you then? It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve hurt my Billy!”

Thomas stood unfazed, his sharp gaze meeting hers, but he didn’t respond to her accusations.

Mrs. Andrews, still grumbling, helped Billy to his feet and guided him toward the exit. The performers watched as they left. Gradually, they began returning to their places, and Mrs. Lynde set about solving the problem at hand: who would replace Billy as The Owl?

Meanwhile, Sebastian stepped closer to Thomas, his voice low. “Thank you,” he said, his words laden with quiet gratitude. “It is a rare thing for someone to stand up for someone like me.”

Thomas shook his head. “It’s nothing. The Andrews aren’t the nicest of people. Sorry you had to endure that.”

Sebastian offered a small, tired smile but said nothing further.

Despite the disaster, the show carried on. Mrs. Lynde, frazzled but determined, caught sight of Matthew Cuthbert, who had appeared backstage to hand Anne the shovel needed for the play. Without hesitation, she declared him the new Owl.

Matthew’s protests fell on deaf ears as Mrs. Lynde shoved the costume into his hands. “Anne rose to the occasion, now it’s your turn!” she declared, ushering him onto the stage.

Despite being put on the spot, Matthew managed to finish the play, eliciting laughter and applause from the audience. By the time the curtains fell for the final act, the room erupted into cheers and whistles, the chaos of earlier seemingly forgotten.

As the audience began to file out into the cold night, the performers gathered backstage. Mrs. Lynde stood at the center, beaming as she thanked everyone for their hard work and perseverance.

“Despite the, ah, unforeseen challenges,” she said, her voice rising above the murmur of conversation, “this has been a smashing success! Bravo to all of you!”

Thomas, leaning against a post, caught Anne’s eye as she adjusted her costume. He stepped over, offering her a small smile.

“Good job out there,” he said. “Switching roles at the last minute like that - I don’t know how you pulled it off.”

Anne flushed slightly but smiled back. “Thank you. I knew all the lines by heart, though it was still a bit scary,” she admitted with a laugh.

“It all worked out in the end,” Thomas gave her a nod before retreating to give her space as other performers came to congratulate her.

Next, Thomas found Gilbert, who was hanging out next to Sebastian.

“Well, we survived,” Gilbert said, grinning.

“Barely,” Thomas replied with a smirk. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been part of something so chaotic, but… it wasn’t half bad.”

“Agreed,” Bash chimed in, clapping both of them on the shoulders.

With the night winding down, Thomas retrieved his coat and scarf, wrapping up tightly against the biting cold. As he stepped outside, the town hall’s warm glow spilled onto the snow-covered street, the sounds of chatter faintly audible from within.

He paused, glancing back at the building, its festive energy starkly contrasting the lonely walk ahead of him. He sighed, his breath fogging in the chill air, before turning away and beginning the trek back to his quiet home.

Chapter Text

Winter had firmly settled over Avonlea - the days were shorter, the nights longer, and the rhythm of life was steady but cold. School was a monotonous grind, marked only by the occasional interesting conversation with Gilbert and Cole. However, it was the extra training his father imposed upon him at home that truly drained Thomas. For every hour spent on grueling physical exercises, there were three more of rigorous mental lessons. Philosophy, logic, history - his father ensured his son’s mind was as sharp as any blade. By the end of each day, Thomas found himself utterly exhausted.

So, when the weekend approached, Thomas looked forward to a rare reprieve. A chance to rest, read for leisure, or perhaps wander the woods. His brief hope, however, was dashed that afternoon.

“Son, we must speak,” his father’s voice rang out, heavy with intent.

Thomas glanced up from the philosophy book he had been poring over, his heart sinking slightly. A talk with his father was rarely uplifting, and he already sensed this was no ordinary conversation.

“Yes?” Thomas closed the book, meeting his father’s eyes.

His father paced the room briefly, a habit Thomas recognized as a prelude to something important. “This weekend, you’ll have to go to Charlottetown,” he said plainly, watching for his son’s reaction.Thomas arched an eyebrow, immediately suspicious. Errands to Charlottetown weren’t unusual, but this didn’t feel routine.

His father leaned on the desk, hands splayed as he began his explanation. “We have received intelligence that an exchange will most likely be made - a letter or a document. The contents of this letter, we believe, would mark one of our accomplices for death.”

Thomas sighed, already weary of what he knew was coming. “And what am I to do about it?”

Ignoring the question, his father pressed on. “The exchange is expected to take place at a party this weekend. High-class, eccentric. Invitations only.”

Thomas frowned. “A party? That seems... unusual. Surely there are better places to conduct clandestine exchanges? Dark alleys come to mind.”

His father gave him a sharp look. “Under normal circumstances, yes. But this informant is of dark complexion and a certain reputation - such an environment will raise fewer suspicions.”

Thomas fought the urge to groan. “And what exactly is my role in this little charade?”

“You will attend the party, locate the agent and the informant, take possession of the letter, learn its contents, and return it - without being seen,” his father said with blunt precision.

Thomas blinked. “And why, exactly, do you think I’m the right person for this job?”

His father sighed, gripping the bridge of his nose, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. “Despite your recent… outbursts, your ability to blend in is unparalleled. I’ve seen what you can do, Thomas.”

Thomas rose, tossing the book aside. “And what if I don’t want to?”

For a moment, his father’s face hardened, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. But he quickly regained his composure. “You need to keep your emotions in check. Your conduct as of late has been... unbecoming. Regardless, everything is already in motion.”

“I’ve barely been able to focus lately. You’ve seen it. My temper, my loss of concentration- ” Thomas shot back, his voice rising.

“That is exactly why you need this,” his father interrupted, his tone low but forceful. “Discipline. Purpose. You’ve let your emotions control you. This task will remind you of who you are and what you’re capable of.”

Thomas wanted to argue, but the conviction in his father’s voice left little room for debate. He sighed, sinking back into his chair. “Fine. Tell me what I need to know.”

From a stack of papers, his father produced an envelope and handed it to Thomas. “This is an invitation I secured through an acquaintance. He will be unable to attend, so he is sending his ‘nephew’ - you - in his place.”

Reluctantly, Thomas opened the envelope, his name clearly printed on the ornate card. The weight of the task settled in his stomach like a stone. He tried to console himself with the thought that it was only for a day and, at least on the surface, seemed straightforward.

The remainder of the conversation was spent outlining details of the mission. His father spoke methodically, describing the party, the timings, and the importance of subtlety. Thomas listened, though his mind kept drifting. A party full of Charlottetown’s elite seemed as daunting as the mission itself.

That evening, his mind raced as he lay in bed. He turned over, tugging the blanket higher. But sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, the weight of the coming weekend pressing heavily on his chest.

The day of the party dawned gray and bitterly cold. Thomas had been up early, finishing a quick and sparse breakfast while his father sat across from him, meticulously outlining every detail of the mission once more. The older man’s voice carried its usual measured tone, but his gaze lingered on Thomas, scrutinizing his son for any sign of weakness or hesitation.

Afterward, Thomas dressed warmly, layering a thick coat over his attire and wrapping the scarf Anne had knitted snugly around his neck. Outside, his father sat atop a buggy, reins in hand, with Luna hitched and ready.

Thomas hesitated before climbing up beside him. His father rarely took the time to accompany him anywhere, and the silence between them was almost suffocating as they traveled toward the train station. The crunch of snow under the wheels was the only sound for much of the journey. Just as they arrived, his father finally spoke.

“Be safe,” he said simply, his tone devoid of warmth but carrying a weight that left Thomas conflicted.

Thomas gave a curt nod, disembarking and heading toward the platform without another word. Boarding the train, he found a secluded seat near the back and sank into it, pulling his scarf higher to fend off the cold drafts seeping through the carriage. Despite the rhythmic clatter of the train on the tracks lulling him into a light sleep, he stirred restlessly, dreams of shadowy figures and hostile faces making it impossible to fully relax.

When the train hissed to a stop in Charlottetown, Thomas disembarked, rubbing his eyes against the sharp morning air. A quick glance at his pocket watch told him he had several hours before he needed to visit the tailor his father had arranged to prepare his attire for the evening. With time to spare, he pulled his hood low over his face and began wandering the streets.

Charlottetown bustled with life, though the icy chill seemed to quicken everyone’s steps. Thomas’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere, spinning with the details of the night’s mission and the daunting expectations placed on him.

Lost in thought, he veered into a quieter part of town. The cobblestones grew uneven, and the surrounding buildings became shabbier. He snapped out of his reverie at the sound of a raised voice.

“Sir, please, let me go!” a woman’s voice echoed from a nearby side street.

Thomas turned the corner sharply and took in the scene. A burly, disheveled man had a young woman pressed against the wall, his hand gripping her arm tightly. She struggled against him, her voice shaking as she pleaded.

“I’ve been waiting too long, Clara!” the man slurred, clearly drunk.

“I told you, my name is Ms. Stacy!” she shot back, trying to wrench herself free. “Release me this instant!”

“Get your hands off her, mister” Thomas called out, his voice cutting through the cold air like a blade.

The man turned his head sluggishly, squinting at the newcomer. The woman’s gaze darted to Thomas, a flicker of relief breaking through her fear.

“Who are you?” the man barked, his grip tightening on the woman.

Thomas stepped closer, his voice steady but low. “Get off her.”

The man shoved the woman against the wall roughly before releasing her, causing her to slump to the ground. He took a step toward Thomas, sneering. “Or what, exactly?”

Without hesitation, Thomas reached beneath his coat and drew his revolver, the click of the hammer snapping into place echoing in the narrow alley. His aim was steady, his voice calm but filled with warning. “You want to find out?”

The man froze, his bravado faltering. Even through the haze of alcohol, he understood the gravity of the situation. His eyes darted between Thomas and the woman before he spat angrily, “You’re making a big mistake.” He turned and trudged away, muttering under his breath.

Thomas didn’t lower the weapon until the man disappeared from sight. Only then did he tuck it back into its holster, his breaths visible in the frigid air. He approached the woman cautiously, extending a hand to help her up. She flinched at first, eyeing him warily, but when he pulled back his hood and lowered his scarf, revealing his youthful face, her guard softened.

“Are you alright, miss?” he asked gently.

She hesitated before taking his hand. Once she was on her feet, their eyes met, and Thomas felt a strange jolt of recognition. Something about her face - her features, her dark blonde hair, same as his - stirred a memory he couldn’t place.

“I’ll be alright,” she said, brushing the snow from her coat. “Thank you, young man. You were very brave.”

Thomas shrugged, his face impassive. “You shouldn’t be wandering alone in a place like this. Let me walk you somewhere safer.”

The woman hesitated, then nodded. “I got lost looking for a shop that carries parts for my motorbike,” she explained as they began walking. Her tone was light, as though trying to mask her shaken nerves.

Thomas remained silent, letting her ramble, keeping his gaze focused ahead.

After a moment, she glanced at him curiously. “What’s a boy like you doing with a gun? You could get into a lot of trouble with that.”

Thomas grunted, not wishing to answer any questions. The woman seemed taken aback by his lack of response but didn’t press further.

When they reached a busier street, they stopped and Thomas pulled his scarf back up over his face, “This should be safe enough, take care, miss.” 

Before she could reply, he turned and walked away. The woman stood there in stunned silence, watching the boy seemingly evaporate as he stepped into the crowd.

Thomas stood before the tailor shop, his breath visible in the frosty morning air. The shopkeeper, a thin, sharp-eyed man, opened the door with a skeptical look, his expression softening only slightly when Thomas introduced himself.

“I’m here to pick up a set of clothes,” Thomas began, hesitating as he tried to recall the alias his father had given him. “Uh… the name is Jones.”

The tailor arched an eyebrow but nodded curtly. “Follow me,” he said, leading Thomas deeper into the shop.

The room smelled of fabric and polish, bolts of cloth stacked neatly along the walls. Thomas was directed to stand on a small wooden stool while the tailor retrieved a finely made suit, its dark fabric catching the muted morning light.

“Mr. Jones, stand still now,” the tailor instructed as he bustled around with his tape measure, jotting notes on a small pad. His movements were brisk and efficient, yet there was an air of pride in his work. Thomas stood awkwardly, unused to being handled like this.

After a few more minutes, the tailor clapped his hands. “There we are. You may sit while I make the final adjustments.” He gestured to a nearby chair.

Thomas settled in, fiddling with a coin he’d pulled from his pocket. “How long have you been working on that?” he asked, nodding toward the suit now draped over a mannequin.

“Several weeks,” the tailor replied, focused on his stitching. “Ever since your father put in the request.”

Thomas’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Right..” he muttered under his breath. It didn’t surprise him that his father had meticulously planned this for awhile now.

True to his word, the tailor finished quickly and presented the suit to Thomas. When he tried it on, it fit perfectly - better than anything he’d ever worn. He stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuffs and marveling at how different he looked.

“Well, if it’s alright, I’ll just keep this on,” Thomas said, smoothing the fabric over his chest.

The tailor nodded. “Payment’s already been taken care of, young sir. If you need any further adjustments, you know where to find me.”

With that, Thomas thanked the man and left the shop, stepping into the crisp air. He glanced down at the folded paper in his hand, the address scribbled in his father’s handwriting, and set off. Thomas kept his head down, mentally reviewing the details of his mission. He needed to stay sharp, composed, and focused. There was no room for error tonight.

But as he approached the address, his heart sank. He stopped in his tracks, blinking up at the familiar façade. The house was unmistakably Ms. Josephine Barry’s residence.

“Of course,” he muttered, exhaling sharply. His father hadn’t mentioned this critical detail - not that his father could have known Thomas was already acquainted with Ms. Barry. The realization made his task infinitely more complicated.

A small crowd was already gathered outside the house, dressed in their finest and chatting in lively tones as they waited for their invitations to be checked at the door. Thomas took a deep breath, his fingers brushing the edges of his own invitation tucked in his pocket.

He joined the queue, his mind racing. He’d have to tread carefully tonight, avoiding Ms. Barry and, if luck was on his side, not drawing too much attention. As the line moved forward and the sound of laughter and music spilled from within the grand house, Thomas straightened his posture and adjusted his cuffs. Whatever lay ahead, he had to focus on the mission. His father had drilled that into him time and time again.

But deep down, Thomas couldn’t shake the unease creeping over him. This was no ordinary evening, and he suspected things wouldn’t go quite as planned.

Stepping through the entrance, Thomas was momentarily stunned. The party before him was unlike anything he had ever seen. The expansive room was decorated with extravagant detail, every corner draped in cascading garlands of flowers. Massive wreaths adorned the ceilings, their petals fragrant and vibrant even in the warm glow of chandeliers. The air was alive with chatter and laughter, but what truly threw Thomas off were the outfits.

It felt like he had stepped into a whimsical carnival. Guests swirled about in brightly colored clothing, most adorned with flower garlands atop their heads, their attire ranging from the eccentric to the outright theatrical. It was a stark contrast to the formal suits and gowns he had expected. Thomas took a deep breath, adjusting his jacket and reminding himself to focus.

Carefully, he navigated around the edges of the room, trying to blend in while methodically scanning the crowd. The eccentricity of the gathering made it all the more difficult to pinpoint his targets. His father’s description, however, had been specific enough. After a few minutes, his eyes landed on a figure near the center of the room: an older man with dark skin, dressed in attire far more modest than those around him. The man was standing with quiet confidence, his sharp gaze observing the room. Thomas immediately recognized him as the informant his father had described.

Weaving through the crowd with care, Thomas kept his distance, moving closer in increments while his eyes flicked around the room for his second target - the agent who was meant to collect the letter. So far, there was no sign of him. He needed to be patient.

But just as he was steadying his resolve, his gaze was drawn to the entrance across the room. His stomach sank. Three figures had just arrived: Anne, Diana, and Cole.

Thomas froze. Of course they were here. He could now vividly recall overhearing Anne and Diana chattering excitedly at school about attending a party. But seeing them here, so radiant and out of context, caught him off guard.

Anne and Diana were dressed in beautiful, elegant gowns, the fabric flowing as they moved. Their hair had been styled to perfection, Anne’s short locks adorned with a garland. Cole, however, was dressed more simply.

He instinctively backed further into the crowd, ducking behind a group of chatting guests. His mission was already complicated, but now the prospect of being seen by his classmates - who would no doubt question his presence - made his task infinitely more challenging. He gritted his teeth and tried to calm his nerves.

Before Thomas could spiral further into his thoughts, a hush fell over the room. Ms. Josephine Barry herself had appeared at the front. She clapped her hands lightly, gathering the attention of the guests.

“Welcome, everyone!” Ms. Barry began, her voice warm and vibrant. “I’m so pleased to see so many familiar and new faces tonight. Thank you for joining me in celebrating art, beauty, and community.”

The crowd applauded politely, their gazes fixed on Ms. Barry as she continued. “And now, without further ado, I have the pleasure of introducing a dear friend and renowned artist - Cécile Chaminade.” She gestured toward the grand piano in the center of the room, where the acclaimed pianist had taken her seat.

As applause filled the room, Thomas seized the distraction to discreetly glance toward the informant. The man remained where he had been, his posture calm and unreadable, though his eyes now flickered toward the performance.

With the first notes of the piano filling the air, Thomas leaned subtly against a pillar at the edge of the room, trying to appear inconspicuous. Yet his thoughts raced, and despite the beautiful performance, his focus remained entirely on his surroundings.

The final note of the piano performance lingered in the air, followed by a wave of applause that swelled through the room. The pianist stood, offering a graceful bow as guests cheered and clapped with enthusiasm. Slowly, the gathering began to dissolve into smaller groups, guests milling about to mingle or indulge in the refreshments.

Thomas moved with calculated care, navigating through the swirling crowd while keeping his target in sight. The informant was at ease, sipping a glass of wine and engaging in idle conversation as if he had no other purpose here but to enjoy the evening. Thomas’s patience was beginning to fray. He weaved through the crowd in an elaborate dance to avoid not only Ms. Barry but also Anne and Diana who were clearly enjoying themselves.

From time to time, his gaze lingered on Anne, watching as she laughed and gestured animatedly, seemingly at home in the vibrant atmosphere. Her ease in this setting was a stark contrast to his own. For a fleeting moment, his thoughts wandered to Green Gables, to the warmth and simplicity of the Cuthberts’ home. He shook his head, forcing himself to refocus. This wasn’t the time for distraction.

Finally, the informant broke from the crowd, heading toward a mostly deserted hallway. Thomas’s pulse quickened. This had to be it. Slipping into the hallway, he kept a careful distance, his footsteps muted by the plush carpet. The man walked purposefully, disappearing through a door at the far end of the hall. Thomas crept closer, realizing with mild frustration that it was merely a lavatory. 

Just as he turned to retreat and reposition, he collided with someone. He instinctively reached out to steady the other person, only to freeze when he saw who it was.

“Thomas?” Anne’s voice carried a mix of surprise and curiosity.

He froze, his mind racing for an explanation. “Anne,” he said finally, his tone calm and measured, as though this meeting were entirely expected. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Anne repeated, her eyebrows arching as her surprise gave way to playful incredulity. “I think the better question is: what are you doing here?”

Thomas straightened, slipping his hands into his pockets as he shrugged nonchalantly. “Just taking in the sights,” he replied, glancing briefly down the hallway.

Anne tilted her head, crossing her arms. Her sharp eyes narrowed in suspicion. “The sights? Really? Because from what I’ve seen, you’ve spent most of your time lurking in the background like some sort of - what was it Diana called it? - ah, yes, a brooding lone wolf.”

Thomas smirked faintly. “Lone wolves don’t usually go to parties,” he countered smoothly.

Anne blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his quick reply, but she recovered swiftly. “Then why are you here?” she pressed. “You’ve been avoiding us all evening - don’t think I haven’t noticed. Diana said you were probably off sulking somewhere.”

Thomas sighed inwardly, despite his attempts to remain unseen, he must have miscalculated somewhere.

“Maybe I just wanted to avoid being cornered by your endless questions,” he teased, leaning casually against the wall.

Anne gasped in mock offense. “Endless questions? I’ll have you know my questions are a sign of a curious mind, and-”

“They’re exhausting,” he interrupted, his tone deadpan but his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Anne narrowed her eyes at him, clearly torn between indignation and amusement. “Fine,” she said at last, her tone dramatic. “Keep your secrets, Thomas Rockport. But don’t think I’m not onto you.”

“Noted,” Thomas replied with a small bow of his head, gesturing for her to pass. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more lurking to do.”

Anne stepped past him, still eyeing him suspiciously. “Just don’t get caught skulking around, or Ms. Barry might throw you out,” she warned over her shoulder. “She has no patience for mysterious types.”

“And yet she invited you,” Thomas quipped without missing a beat.

Anne turned back briefly, her laughter ringing softly down the hallway as she disappeared around the corner. For a moment, Thomas allowed himself a faint smile. Then, with a quick glance toward the lavatory door, he slipped back into the crowd, his focus sharpening once more.

The evening stretched on, a strange combination of liveliness and monotony, as Thomas continued his covert observations. Avoiding Ms. Barry remained a priority, but now that Anne, Diana, and Cole knew of his presence, Thomas found himself with a little more room to breathe. However, Thomas was growing uneasy. The informant’s gaze had landed on him more than once, lingering for just a moment too long. His practiced calm began to waver. Thomas straightened his posture, forcing himself to blend in, though he knew his lack of engagement in the revelry could make him conspicuous. If he was to remain unnoticed, he would need to participate in some manner.

His eyes scanned the room and fell on Anne and Diana, who were near the refreshment table. Anne’s animated gestures caught his attention as she pointed at a platter of food. Diana, with her usual apprehension, appeared unconvinced. Thomas, in a rare moment, allowed himself to observe the exchange, curious about what Anne was up to.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Diana asked hesitantly, eyeing the platter as though it might bite her.

“I’m absolutely certain,” Anne declared with unwavering conviction, though there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “It’s just food. How bad could it possibly be?”

Diana didn’t look convinced, but before she could protest further, Anne plucked a piece from the platter with her fork and popped it into her mouth. For a moment, her expression remained neutral. Then, her eyes widened, and her face turned a vivid shade of red.

“Oh, heavens,” Anne choked out, fanning her mouth. Her composure crumbled as she looked frantically for relief. “It’s… spicier than I thought…”

“Anne!” Diana exclaimed in horror, grabbing a napkin. “Are you alright?”

Anne waved her off, though her eyes were watering. Just as she seemed ready to implode, a glass of water appeared in front of her. She snatched it gratefully, looking up to see Thomas standing there, his expression as stoic as ever.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she gasped after a long gulp, her voice still shaky. “You may have just saved my life.”

“I live to serve,” Thomas replied dryly, a hint of teasing in his tone.

Anne gave him a sharp look, but Diana couldn’t suppress her giggles. “Oh, Anne, you’re always so dramatic,” she teased. “Surely it wasn’t that bad.”

Anne bristled, her pride clearly wounded. “I wasn’t being dramatic. It’s… an acquired taste.” Her gaze shifted to Thomas, a mischievous spark lighting her eyes. “If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you try it?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Are you daring me?”

“I am,” Anne declared, crossing her arms and tilting her chin up. “Unless you’re afraid.”

Without hesitation, Thomas reached for the platter, spearing one of the fiery bites. He placed it in his mouth and chewed, his expression calm and unreadable as he swallowed. He set the fork down with deliberate care before looking at Anne.

“Not bad,” he said evenly, his tone so casual it made Anne gape in disbelief.

“Not bad?” she repeated, incredulous. “That’s all you have to say?”

Thomas’s lips twitched slightly, as if suppressing a smile. “Should I write a poem about it?”

Diana burst into giggles, clutching her sides as Anne glared at Thomas. “You’re impossible,” Anne muttered, though her irritation was clearly laced with reluctant amusement.

Thomas gave a small shrug, his eyes darting around the room as he mentally recalibrated his mission. “Enjoy the party,” he said lightly, turning to leave.

Anne, still stewing, called after him. “You’re not off the hook, Thomas. This isn’t over.”

Thomas glanced back over his shoulder, his voice low but teasing. “I’ll be here.”

As he disappeared into the crowd, Diana continued to laugh, leaving Anne to grumble good-naturedly about her wounded pride.

As the evening deepened, the energy of the room began to shift. The excitement of mingling and performances had mellowed into a quiet warmth, the kind that only long, elegant gatherings seemed to cultivate. Yet for Thomas, every passing moment brought mounting frustration. Still, nothing had happened. Despite his sharp focus and constant vigilance, there had been no indication of the exchange his father had so confidently predicted. He couldn’t help but wonder if the intel had been wrong.

His thoughts were interrupted as Ms. Barry stood at the front of the room, her presence commanding the attention of all. She raised a glass, a bittersweet smile on her face, and gestured for the guests to gather close.

“Good evening,” she began, her voice soft yet resonant, “I’m thrilled to be among your lovely faces… but we feel the absence of one..”

A hushed reverence fell over the room as she spoke, her words painting a vivid picture of her late friend, Gertrude. Ms. Barry’s anecdotes were both heartwarming and somber, weaving tales of adventures and the quiet strength that Gertrude had embodied. As she concluded, she turned her gaze to Anne, a spark of encouragement in her eyes.

“And now, to give a recitation in Gertrude’s stead,” Ms. Barry continued, “I invite the always surprising, bright-eyed, big-brained Anne Shirley-Cuthbert.”

Anne’s eyes widened briefly at the spotlight, but she quickly composed herself. Straightening her shoulders, she stepped forward, clutching the leather-bound book in her hands. Her nervousness was evident, but so was her determination. The room fell silent as Anne began to read.

As Anne’s melodic voice carried through the room, weaving Gertrude’s favorite words into life once more, Thomas’s attention began to splinter. From the corner of his eye, he noticed movement - subtle, deliberate. A man who had been absent for most of the evening appeared in the crowd. His posture was stiff, his expression a mask of neutrality that didn’t quite blend with the jovial air of the party. This wasn’t a guest here to celebrate.

This had to be the agent.

Thomas’s pulse quickened as he watched the man maneuver through the crowd, his path precise and purposeful. The informant, who had spent most of the night blending seamlessly into the revelry, was also on the move, using the distraction of Anne’s recitation. Their paths crossed briefly, the informant brushing past the agent with a smoothness born of experience. Thomas’s sharp eyes caught the slight movement as something was slipped into the agent’s coat pocket - a practiced maneuver that spoke of years of thievery.

The exchange was done in a heartbeat.

Thomas’s body tensed, his senses sharpening as he locked in on the agent. The man lingered for a moment, glancing around the room, his gaze briefly scanning the guests. Satisfied that no one had noticed, he waited, not wanting to be noticed by departing now. 

Thomas moved at a measured pace. He couldn’t afford to rush and draw attention, not now. Approaching from behind, Thomas’s movements were calculated and silent. His fingers brushed the edges of the agent’s coat pocket before slipping inside with practiced ease. In one fluid motion, he retrieved the letter. The agent gave no sign of noticing. 

Thomas stepped away quickly, retreating into the cover of the crowd. He unfolded the letter with care, his eyes scanning the words as his heart pounded in his chest. The contents were stark and concise, and the name written within froze him in place.

The target outlined for execution didn’t surprise him, but seeing it inked on paper gave the threat a chilling weight. His breath hitched as he read the final line:

May The Father of Understanding guide us.

The applause that erupted from the crowd jolted him back to the present. Anne had finished her reading, her cheeks flushed with emotion. The room began to stir again, the guests dispersing into smaller clusters. Thomas’s gaze snapped back to the agent, who was already heading toward the door.

With deliberate steps, Thomas followed, weaving through the throng with ease. The agent paused briefly in the hallway and Thomas seized the moment, his hand darting out to return the letter to its original place. He passed by without a sound, not breaking his stride.

As the agent exited into the hallway, Thomas’s eyes caught a glint of silver. His gaze dropped to the man’s hand, where an unmistakable insignia adorned a ring: the Templar cross.

Thomas’s chest tightened, his suspicions now confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt. He turned away, blending back into the crowd as if nothing had happened. His mission was complete, but the evening was not yet over.

Thomas stood frozen amidst the crowd, the weight of what he’d uncovered pressing heavily on his mind. The lively music and laughter around him felt distant, a blur against the storm of thoughts swirling in his head. His eyes scanned the room instinctively, though his job was complete, as if looking for a sign that he’d missed something critical. He barely noticed as the mood in the hall shifted; the music swelled, and guests began pairing off or forming circles, dancing with wild enthusiasm.

Before he could slip away, a familiar voice pierced through the noise.

“Thomas!” Anne’s cheerful voice rang out, pulling him sharply back to the present. He turned, his stomach sinking as he saw Anne, Diana, and Cole weaving their way toward him, their expressions bright and mischievous.

“What is it now?” he muttered, sharper than he’d intended.

Anne either didn’t notice or chose to ignore his tone. “Come dance with us!” she declared, grabbing his arm with unrestrained excitement.

Thomas immediately tensed, digging his heels in. “No, thank you,” he said firmly, his voice steady and low. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Diana chimed in, taking hold of his other arm with equal determination. “It’s not that kind of dance. Just a simple circle dance, it’ll be fun.”

“I’m not sure our definitions of fun align,” Thomas deadpanned, but it was futile. Anne and Diana had made up their minds, and even Cole, standing off to the side with an amused grin, wasn’t coming to his rescue.

“I’m staying out of this one,” Cole said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “But I think it’d be nice to see you loosen up for once, Thomas.”

Despite his better judgment, Thomas realized there was no escaping this. His mission was complete, and whatever awaited him outside the warmth of this party could wait a little longer. With a sigh that conveyed his reluctant surrender, he let them pull him toward the forming dance circle in the middle of the hall.

“I hope you’re ready to regret this,” he muttered as Anne positioned him in place.

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Anne replied with a triumphant grin, grabbing one of his hands while Diana took the other. The music shifted to a faster, playful rhythm, and the circle began to move.

At first, Thomas felt like a fish out of water, his steps stiff and his movements awkward as he tried to mimic the flow of the dancers around him. Anne, however, moved with unrestrained joy, her laughter infectious as she twirled effortlessly with Diana, their dresses swishing around them. Cole, who had eventually joined in despite his earlier protests, was laughing along with them.

“See?” Anne teased, her voice light as she glanced at Thomas. “It’s not so bad.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. “Speak for yourself.”

“You’re smiling,” Diana pointed out, her voice full of triumph.

“No, I’m not,” he replied quickly, though the corner of his lips twitched in betrayal.

“Yes, you are!” Anne chimed in, her eyes sparkling as she met his gaze. “Admit it, Thomas. You’re having fun.”

“I’ll admit nothing,” he replied, his deadpan delivery drawing laughter from the others. Yet, as the circle spun faster and the music crescendoed, Thomas found himself loosening up. The laughter around him was contagious, and by the time the dance ended in a cheer, he was grinning openly, his earlier discomfort forgotten for just a moment.

Anne turned to him, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide. “See? I knew you’d enjoy it.”

Thomas rolled his eyes with mock exasperation, though the warmth in his expression undermined any attempt at irritation. “If I agree I did, will you promise not to drag me into another dance?”

“No promises,” Anne quipped, her tone mischievous as Diana and Cole chuckled beside her.

For the briefest moment, Thomas let himself savor the lightness of the moment. But as the group began to disperse, the weight of reality came crashing back down. His gaze lingered on Anne and Diana, their laughter filling the air as they leaned close to each other, sharing some private joke. The yearning to stay, to laugh with them and forget about everything waiting for him outside, tugged at him painfully.

But he knew better.

With a resigned sigh, Thomas turned and made his way toward the exit, weaving quietly through the crowd. The laughter and music faded as he stepped outside, the cold air biting at his face and extinguishing any lingering warmth. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, covering the ground in a soft, glimmering blanket.

He made his way around the side of the grand residence, where a simple black carriage awaited him, just as his father said it would. The driver, a man whose face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, gave him a curt nod but said nothing as Thomas climbed into the carriage. Inside were his belongings he left behind at the tailor shop. As the wheels began to turn and the lights of Ms. Barry’s residence faded into the distance, Thomas leaned back, his mind already shifting to the implications of what he’d learned tonight.

But as the snow fell softly against the windows, a part of him couldn’t help but cling to the memory of the laughter, the music, and the warmth he had shared, even if only briefly.

It was well past midnight when the carriage pulled to a stop in front of Creekside Manor. The wind had picked up, and the snow flurried around Thomas as he stepped out, the cold biting at his face. The driver didn’t wait for a word, snapping the reins to set the carriage rolling back down the path into the darkness.

Inside, despite the late hour, the faint glow of firelight spilled from the kitchen. Thomas entered cautiously, finding his father seated by the hearth, a mug of coffee in hand, his face illuminated by the flickering flames. His father’s eyes lifted, sharp and calculating as they met his son’s.

“And how was the party?” his father asked, his tone casual.

“Rather dull, truth be told,” Thomas lied, forcing his voice to remain steady. He had no desire to recount the night’s lighter moments.

His father stood slowly, setting the mug aside with a deliberate motion. “Well?” he prompted, his presence commanding.

Thomas straightened, “I intercepted the letter and-” His words faltered, the truth catching in his throat. He glanced toward the fire, the flames twisting and crackling, as if they might somehow provide the answer his father sought.

“And whose name was contained within? Was it Mr. Moore, as we suspected?” his father pressed.

Thomas swallowed hard, “No,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His father’s sharp gaze bore into him, waiting, unyielding. Thomas raised his eyes, forcing himself to meet his father’s gaze.

“It was your name, Father.”

Chapter Text

That night, Thomas hardly slept. His father kept him up late, relentlessly questioning him. He found himself reciting the letter’s contents word for word for what felt like the fifth time.

His father paced the room, his brows furrowed in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. “They’re relentless,” he muttered, half to himself, half to Thomas. “I can’t say I’m surprised they’re so inclined to come after me, given the damage I’ve caused their order.”

Thomas sat slouched in his chair, exhaustion pulling at his features. He watched his father closely, trying to gauge the full scope of his concern, “They know you’ve been seen in Charlottetown... but Prince Edward Island is vast. Surely, that gives us an advantage, doesn’t it?”

His father didn’t respond immediately, his focus shifting to the hearth where the embers glowed faintly. “We’ll see,” he murmured. “I need to get word to Halifax.”

Despite the tension in the air, Thomas couldn’t suppress a yawn. The hour was creeping toward dawn, and the long day he’d endured was taking its toll. His father finally dismissed him, and Thomas wasted no time retreating to his room. He barely remembered collapsing onto the bed before sleep claimed him.

The next morning, the house was quiet. Thomas woke late to find a note left on the kitchen table in his father’s precise handwriting:

Gone to town. Back this evening.

Thomas sighed, folding the note and setting it aside. Breakfast was a solitary affair, the quiet only broken by the occasional crackling of the wood stove. After completing the morning chores, he found himself restless, his thoughts tangled in the events of the past day. With no clear task ahead, he decided to take Chance, his ever-energetic puppy, for a walk in the nearby woods.

The air outside was crisp, though not unbearably cold. Snow blanketed the ground in pristine white, and the occasional rustle of branches broke the stillness. Chance darted ahead, his tail wagging furiously as he explored every scent and snowdrift.

Thomas followed at a steady pace, his mind preoccupied. The walk was meant to clear his thoughts, but his concerns only seemed to follow him like a shadow. 

Suddenly, Chance barked sharply, his ears pricking up before he bolted into the trees. “Chance!” Thomas called, breaking into a jog. His boots crunched through the snow as he tried to keep up with the dog’s trail.

“Chance, stop!” he shouted, panting as he rounded a bend. The puppy finally came to a halt, standing alert near an unfamiliar structure.

Thomas slowed to a walk, his breathing heavy as he approached. Ahead of him stood a small, weathered shack, leaning slightly to one side. Its wood was warped and worn, with patches of moss creeping up its frame. It looked as though someone had claimed it as their own, transforming it into a makeshift hideout.

“Stay,” Thomas ordered the puppy, who obediently plopped into the snow, his tail wagging.

Curiosity tugged at Thomas as he stepped forward, brushing away a hanging piece of fabric that served as a doorway. Inside, the space was surprisingly tidy, though cluttered with an assortment of trinkets. A small fire pit sat against one wall, alongside a few old books, a stack of papers, and what appeared to be a half-finished clay statue. The air smelled faintly of damp wood and earth.

“Hello?” Thomas called out, his voice low but firm. The shack remained silent.

He crouched slightly, careful not to disturb anything as he scanned the space. His eyes landed on a stack of papers in the corner. Picking up the top sheet, he skimmed over it - it was a handwritten story, the page dotted with corrections and crossed-out phrases and something about a Princess Cordelia.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, setting the page aside. He picked up another sheet, this one in neater handwriting. It seemed to be a different story, more polished and cohesive. Intrigued, he began to read.

“Once upon a time, in the flourishing Kingdom of Everdawn, there lived a brave knight whose heart burned with the fires of justice. And although he was young, his courage outmatched even the most seasoned warriors of the realm.

One fateful day, the kingdom was threatened by two nefarious villains. They arrived under the guise of opportunity, luring the townsfolk with promises of riches hidden deep within the forest. But their true intent was far darker, as they sought to plunder the kingdom and leave its people destitute.

When the treachery was uncovered, it was the brave knight who took up his sword, vowing to rid the land of the villains. Alone, he pursued them into the heart of the Forbidden Woods, where the trees whispered of danger and shadows danced like specters. Despite the odds, the knight confronted the men in a perilous battle.

The knight, though injured, stood firm against the villain’s cunning tricks and venomous words. Finally, with one last surge of strength, the knight struck down the swindlers, ensuring the safety of the kingdom.

Gravely wounded, the knight collapsed by the banks of a silver stream. His vision blurred, and he thought his end had come. But just as darkness threatened to take him, a figure appeared. It was Princess Cordelia. With her soft hands and a kiss pressed upon his brow, she breathed life back into the valiant knight.

‘Rise, brave knight,’ she said, her voice like a melody. ‘The kingdom owes you a debt it can never repay.’

And so, the brave knight returned to Everdawn a hero, not for glory, but for love of his people and the honor of his word. His story lived on in the songs of bards and the hearts of all who cherished justice.”

Thomas frowned, holding the paper tightly in his hands. The story seemed too familiar, the parallels unmistakable. The bravery of the knight, the two villains, the grievous injury - it all mirrored his own recent experience. His eyes lingered on the elegant script and the imaginative flair in every sentence.

The thought hit him suddenly: Did Anne write this?

He shook his head, quickly setting the paper back where he’d found it. The hideout, with its makeshift charm and artistic clutter, felt intimate, like stepping into someone’s mind. He suddenly felt like an intruder. This wasn’t his space, and he had no right to linger. With a quiet whistle, he called Chance, who bounded toward him happily. Together, they retraced their steps through the snowy woods, the hideout left undisturbed behind them.

The schoolhouse buzzed with energy as the new week began. Thomas entered, immediately sensing that something unusual was afoot. The air was thick with hushed voices and giggles, students leaning toward one another to share whispered bits of news.

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked as he paused by Moody’s desk.

Moody looked up with a gleam of excitement. “Prissy and Mr. Phillips are getting married. He proposed!”

Thomas arched an eyebrow, momentarily at a loss for words. It wasn’t exactly a secret that something was going on between Prissy Andrews and Mr. Phillips, but marriage? That seemed… absurd. Thomas had never interacted much with Prissy, but it was clear to anyone with half a brain that she was intelligent and capable. Why she had any interest in their insufferable, spiteful teacher was beyond him.

“That’s… something,” Thomas muttered, moving past Moody’s desk.

As he passed by the stove in the center of the room, he spotted Cole crouched low, carefully adding a log to the fire. Thomas gave him a quick tap on the shoulder. “Hey,” he greeted, his tone light. Cole turned, offering a small smile in return, before going back to his task.

Thomas had barely made it to his seat when he heard the distinct thud of someone hitting the floor. He turned sharply to see Cole sprawled on the ground. Standing over him, grinning like a cat with cream, was Billy Andrews.

“You need to be more careful, bud,” Billy said with a mocking laugh, the glee in his voice unmistakable.

Thomas’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk as a surge of anger boiled in his chest. It would’ve been so easy to stand, to close the distance and make Billy regret his actions. But he took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay seated. He reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time lately: You can’t always fight everyone’s battles.

Cole scrambled to his feet, brushing off his clothes, his expression a mix of embarrassment and frustration. He said nothing as he slid into the seat beside Thomas.

Thomas leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “You’ve got to start standing up for yourself, Cole,” he said quietly.

Cole’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze fixed firmly on his desk. “It’s not that simple,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas wanted to press further, to tell Cole that bullies like Billy only thrived when their targets stayed silent. But the pain in Cole’s expression stopped him. This wasn’t something that could be solved in one conversation.

The sound of a ruler tapping against the desk broke their exchange. “Seats, everyone!” Mr. Phillips barked from the front of the room. The students scurried into place as the teacher began the day’s lesson on arithmetic.

The midday bell rang, signaling the start of lunch recess. While the other students eagerly unpacked their meals or grouped together in lively chatter, Thomas didn’t feel much like eating. The events of the morning had left him on edge, a quiet frustration simmering beneath his otherwise calm exterior. Tossing on his coat and scarf, he stepped outside, hoping the winter air might clear his mind. 

The cold bit at his cheeks, but Thomas found it refreshing. He wandered aimlessly around the schoolyard, his boots crunching through the thin layer of snow. His mind was restless, circling back to the same nagging questions. Why couldn’t he let things go? Why did every injustice he saw ignite that fire in his chest? He’d always prided himself on keeping his emotions in check, but lately, he felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice. He kicked at a chunk of ice, watching it skitter across the frozen ground. It wasn’t just the teacher or Billy Andrews or any single person - it was the culmination of so many moments, so many slights that had gone unchecked.

Eventually, Thomas realized lunch would be over soon, and he started back toward the schoolhouse. As he passed by the windows on the side of the building, a sharp crack shattered the stillness, bringing him back to reality. He stopped in his tracks, turning toward the sound. One of the windows now bore a jagged crack running through its pane, and raised voices echoed from inside the classroom.

Frowning, Thomas quickened his steps and entered the classroom, the scene unfolding before him stopping him in his tracks.

Cole stood near his desk, his face pale and his fists clenched. Billy Andrews lounged nearby with a smug grin, and at the center of the room stood Mr. Phillips, his expression cold and unforgiving. In his hand, he held a clay ball - one Thomas recognized as something Cole had fiddled with during breaks. Without a word, the teacher turned and tossed the clay ball into the roaring stove. 

“Then your parents can pay for a new window,” Mr. Phillips said flatly, his gaze fixed on Cole.

“That’s not fair!” Anne’s voice cut through the tension, her tone fiery. “Billy threw it at him!”

“I’m speaking to Mr. Mackenzie!” Mr. Phillips snapped, cutting her off.

Cole turned toward Billy, his voice trembling with anger. “Why don’t you tell the truth for once?”

“I was just doing what you told me to. I was giving it back,” Billy’s mock innocence was infuriating, and Thomas had to fight the urge to step forward and knock the grin off his face.

Thomas moved closer, weaving his way through the cluster of students. His irritation was growing with every passing second, but he forced himself to stay quiet - for now.

Cole faced the teacher, his voice quieter now. “My parents can’t afford that.”

“Then we’ll have to punish you in some other way,” Mr. Phillips declared, his voice devoid of sympathy. He strode to his desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a wooden stick. The sight of it made the room go still.

The teacher returned to Cole’s side, tapping the stick lightly against his palm. “Open your hand,” he demanded.

Cole hesitated, his face stricken. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mr. Phillips’s eyes narrowed. “You are the most disruptive student in this classroom!” he accused, his voice rising.

Thomas’s jaw tightened as he stepped forward instinctively, his body moving before his mind had time to catch up. He stopped himself at the last moment, his muscles coiled and trembling. Why wasn’t anyone else saying anything? Why was it always the same silence, the same complacency? He felt like he was suffocating under the weight of it. 

Then Cole lifted his chin, his voice steady and clear despite the fear in his eyes. “That is your perception,” he said, “but it is not fact. If you want to hate someone, you should look in the mirror.”

The classroom fell silent, the tension palpable. Mr. Phillips’s face darkened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the stick. “Open. Your. Hand,” he barked.

“No,” Cole said simply.

They stared at each other, the air between them electric. Then, without another word, Cole turned on his heel and pushed past the other students, heading for the door. The teacher remained frozen for a moment, his jaw tight with anger, before stepping forward as if to follow him.

That was when Thomas moved.

He stepped into Mr. Phillips’s path, blocking the teacher’s advance. “Leave him be,” Thomas said, his voice low but firm. 

Mr. Phillips glared at him, his anger redirecting. “Move aside!” he ordered, his tone icy.

Thomas didn’t budge. The teacher reached out, trying to push past Thomas, with no success. Mr. Phillips stepped back, abruptly bringing his hands back down. The motion sent the stick in Mr. Phillips’s hand slamming against the top of Thomas’s palm with a sickening crack. 

The room collectively gasped as the sound echoed.

Thomas didn’t flinch. He raised his hand slowly, staring at the thin, bloody line now crossing his palm, right next to his faded scar. A single drop of blood fell to the floor, stark against the wood.

He lowered his hand and locked eyes with Mr. Phillips, his gaze cold and unyielding. The teacher seemed frozen, stunned by Thomas’s lack of reaction.

Then, with deliberate calm, Thomas turned and began walking toward the exit. His steps were measured, his back straight. The room was silent except for the sound of his boots against the floorboards. Just as he reached the door, Mr. Phillips snapped out of his stupor, rushing after him and grabbing his shoulder.

“Get back here, right now!” the teacher bellowed.

The moment the teacher’s hand connected with Thomas’s shoulder, he spun around and with a move so swift most of the students missed it, sent the teacher staggering backward. Mr. Phillips stumbled, his balance failing, and he fell heavily to the floor.

The classroom erupted into chaos. Students gasped and murmured, some too shocked to speak.

Thomas didn’t spare the teacher another glance. He turned back toward the door, opened it, and stepped outside, slamming it shut behind him. The sound reverberated through the silent room.

Thomas took a deep breath of the cold air, his pulse pounding in his ears. He began to walk away, his thoughts a storm of anger and regret.

Thomas’s mind was ablaze, the world around him a blur of snow and skeletal trees as he stormed through the woods. His heart pounded like a war drum, each beat fueling the fire in his chest. He didn’t know where he was going - he didn’t care. Every step was an attempt to outrun the anger clawing at his insides.

His hands trembled at his sides, clenched into tight fists, as if he could keep the emotion from spilling over. The image of Mr. Phillips’s smug face loomed in his mind, his mocking tone echoing in his ears. And Billy Andrews, always grinning like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, pushing people around without consequence. The injustice of it all was suffocating, and for a moment, Thomas wished he had struck harder - made them both feel the weight of their actions.

He stumbled to a halt near a towering oak tree, its gnarled branches reaching skyward like ancient arms. His breath came in ragged clouds, the cold air biting at his throat. He closed his eyes and leaned against the tree’s rough bark, willing himself to calm down. Inhale. Exhale. Yet as he tried to steady himself, his thoughts betrayed him, dragging him back into the storm. The memory of the classroom rushed over him like a wave.

Before he realized what he was doing, his fist struck the tree. A sharp crack split the silence of the woods as his knuckles connected with the bark. He hit it again, harder this time, then again, his anger pouring out in each swing. The pain barely registered, muted beneath the roar in his mind.

Finally, his arms fell limp at his sides, the adrenaline draining from him all at once. He slumped down against the base of the tree, his breath shaky, his knuckles raw and slick with blood. He stared at his hands, the evidence of his outburst glaring back at him. He clenched them into fists again, more out of habit than anger, and pressed them into the snow, letting the cold numb the sting.

His vision blurred, and he felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest, like a dam on the verge of breaking. The edges of his eyes grew misty, but he furiously wiped them with his sleeve. “No,” he whispered harshly, his voice breaking. He gritted his teeth. He hadn’t cried in years - not since his mother had died - and he wasn’t about to start now.

For a long while, he sat there, the cold creeping through his coat as he stared blankly ahead. He felt lost, not just in the woods but in himself. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he control this anger?

A soft rustling sound broke his thoughts. He raised his head sharply, scanning the shadows ahead. His gaze locked onto a small brown fox a few yards away, its bright eyes fixed on him. The creature was frozen, its sleek body poised as if deciding whether to stay or flee. Thomas held his breath, watching it in silence.

For a brief moment, the two regarded each other, their worlds colliding in quiet understanding. Then, with a flick of its tail, the fox darted away, vanishing into the trees.

Something about the encounter grounded him. The fox’s calm, measured movements reminded him of the stillness he craved, a contrast to the storm within him. He pushed himself to his feet and looked around, trying to get his bearings. The forest suddenly seemed larger, more daunting, and he realized with a pang of unease that he had wandered farther than he thought.

He trudged through the snow, his boots crunching softly in the silence. The woods stretched endlessly in every direction, the branches casting jagged shadows on the ground. For a while, he wandered aimlessly, the cold air clearing his mind bit by bit. He began to recognize familiar landmarks - the twisted birch tree, the mossy boulder he used to sit on during hunts - and his heart eased as he realized he was heading in the right direction.

By the time he reached the edge of the woods, the light was beginning to fade, the sky tinged with the pale hues of evening. The sight of Creekside Manor in the distance filled him with a mix of relief and dread. He clenched his jaw, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

As Thomas neared the house the sound of raised voices reached his ears, carrying clearly through the air. One voice was unmistakable - his father’s, sharp and agitated.

“For the last time, lass, he is not here, and I’ve no time for you! Be on your way!” his father growled, his tone laced with irritation.

Thomas quickened his pace, his brows furrowing as the scene came into view. On the porch stood Anne, the short red hair cascading down her shoulders unmistakable. She faced his father, whose tall frame loomed in the doorway, his face set in a deep scowl.

As Thomas came into view, his father noticed him instantly. The older man’s expression darkened further, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He glared at Thomas but said nothing. Anne turned at the sound, following his father’s gaze until her eyes landed on Thomas. Her expression shifted from frustration to relief. Without hesitation, she muttered something under her breath and hurried down the steps toward him. His father retreated into the house with a loud slam of the door that echoed in the stillness.

“Anne,” Thomas said quietly as she approached, his voice soft but full of concern.

She stopped a few steps away, her hands clutching a bundle close to her chest. Her face was a mixture of worry and exhaustion, and her eyes shimmered with the faintest hint of tears. She cast a brief glance back toward the house before returning her gaze to Thomas.

“Why is he like that?” she asked, her voice tight with exasperation and hurt, but also a hint of curiosity, as if she were searching for some great revelation about human nature.

Thomas sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I...” He hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t come. “I don’t know. It’s a long story.”

Anne shook her head, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’ve read many stories about mysterious, reclusive figures. They’re usually guarding a treasure, or they’ve been cursed by some tragic past… but I don’t think your father is hiding a chest of gold, is he?” she muttered, discreetly wiping her eyes.

Thomas huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. “No treasure, no curses.”

She took another step forward, holding out the bundle of books and a slate. “You left these behind, and... I wanted to check on you.”

Thomas reached out, taking the bundle from her with a grateful nod. “Thanks,” he murmured, holding her gaze for a moment before glancing down at his belongings.

Anne’s eyes flicked to his hand as he reached for the bundle, and her expression changed to one of alarm. “Thomas - your hand,” she said softly, her voice filled with concern.

Before he could respond, she instinctively reached out, gently taking his injured hand in hers. The unexpected touch made Thomas flinch slightly, but he said nothing, allowing her to examine the bruised and bloodied knuckles. The thin wound from earlier was still visible, a small bead of blood welling up once more.

“You’re still bleeding,” Anne whispered, her voice almost a reprimand as she released his hand, her own now stained with a faint trace of his blood.

“It’s nothing,” Thomas said quickly, shaking his head. Anne didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press the matter. “Did you see Cole? How is he?” Thomas asked, his voice quieter now.

Anne hesitated, her gaze dropping for a moment. “He’s... as well as can be, all things considered. When I told him what happened after he left, he was exasperated.”

Thomas sighed once more. “I hope he doesn’t blame himself,” he said, beginning to walk slowly toward the stable. Anne fell into step beside him.

“Mr. Phillips locked himself in the supply room for the rest of the day, which - truth be told - was a vast improvement,” Anne continued, her tone tinged with disbelief. “Billy was saying awful things. He told anyone who would listen that you’d be expelled.”

Thomas let out a soft, bitter laugh. “He’d love that, wouldn’t he?”

Anne looked up at him, her expression sad but sympathetic. “He would,” she admitted, offering him a faint smile that he returned despite himself.

Before either of them could say more, the sound of rapid paws crunching through the snow interrupted their conversation. Chance came barreling out of the stable, his tail wagging furiously as he made a beeline for the pair.

“Hey, Chance,” Thomas greeted, his tone softening as he crouched to ruffle the dog’s ears.

Chance barked happily, leaping up slightly to nuzzle Anne’s hand. She giggled, crouching beside Thomas to stroke the dog’s sleek coat. For a fleeting moment, the weight of the day seemed to lift. “Good boy,” Anne said fondly, scratching behind Chance’s ear.

After a moment, they rose again. Anne stood beside him, her expression shifted, a blend of curiosity and quiet frustration. “Thomas,” she began hesitantly, her voice soft but carrying an edge of insistence, “Why did you do it? I mean, really - what were you thinking? Or perhaps you weren’t thinking at all, which seems much more likely considering how things turned out.”

Thomas kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the setting sun painted the sky in muted oranges and purples. For a long time, he said nothing.

“Because someone had to,” he finally replied, his voice quiet but firm.

Anne tilted her head slightly, her brows knitting together in thought. “But why you?” she pressed gently, searching his face. “Why must you always take it upon yourself to stand in the line of fire? Surely there are other, less dangerous ways to solve problems. What you did got you hurt. Again.”

Her words hung in the air, and Thomas turned to her fully, his expression shadowed by something she couldn’t quite place. The faint light glinted off his eyes as he spoke, his tone tinged with frustration.

“People get hurt every day because no one steps up for them,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a quiet intensity. “Cole doesn’t deserve what he’s been through. None of us do. And if it takes me stepping in to make them think twice, then so be it.”

Anne’s gaze faltered, her arms crossing over her chest as if to ground herself against the weight of his words. She wanted to argue, to tell him that he didn’t have to put himself in harm’s way, but she couldn’t deny the truth in what he said. She hesitated, then spoke again.

“You’re braver than most people I know, Thomas. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry everything on your shoulders.”

Thomas’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, the hardened steel in his gaze softened, revealing the exhaustion beneath. “Maybe,” he murmured, his voice low. “But lately it seems like it’s the only thing I’m good at.”

Anne’s expression softened, the sharp edges of her earlier frustration giving way to something gentler. “Oh, Thomas,” she said, her tone light but full of feeling, “you’re good at plenty of things - more than you probably realize. You’re just failing to see it. And if you can’t take my word for it, take Cole’s. He thinks the world of you, even if you do scare him half to death sometimes.”

Thomas’s lips twitched faintly, as if her words had managed to break through the wall he kept so carefully built around himself. “Thanks, Anne.”

Anne’s gaze drifted to the darkening sky, her breath misting in the cold air. “I really ought to be going,” she said, though she lingered for a moment longer. “Marilla and Matthew will start to worry, and there’s nothing worse than a worried Marilla.”

Thomas nodded, his posture loosening ever so slightly. “I’ll see you at school, I guess? Hopefully.”

“I should hope so,” she said with a bright smile, though it didn’t quite hide her lingering concern. “The classroom would be a much duller place without you to make Mr. Phillips’s blood boil.”

They exchanged farewells, and she turned and began walking briskly back toward the path, her boots crunching in the snow. Chance darted after her, bounding through the drifts with his tail wagging before pausing, as if unsure whether to follow her all the way. Anne turned back briefly, offering one last wave before disappearing into the fading light.

Thomas watched her go, the lingering traces of her words settling into the corners of his mind like an echo. He looked down at Chance, who had returned to his side, his large brown eyes full of unwavering loyalty.

For a moment, the weight on Thomas’s chest felt a little lighter. He turned toward the house, the orange glow of the hearth flickering faintly through the window. Drawing in a deep breath, he steeled himself. Whatever awaited him inside, he felt just a bit more prepared to face it now.

Thomas stepped inside the house, his earlier resolve wavering as the door creaked shut behind him. The air inside was heavy, the kind of silence that promised an impending storm. His father was seated in the dimly lit parlor, his figure still and brooding. The glow of the fire outlined his features, sharp and stern. He didn’t move when Thomas entered, but his voice, cold and cutting, rang out.

“I had a visit today,” his father began. Slowly, he stood, his imposing frame casting long shadows on the walls as he approached. “From a member of the school board. And your teacher.”

Thomas froze in place, his bruised knuckles curling at his sides as his father stopped mere inches from him. His piercing gaze bore into him, scrutinizing every inch of his expression. Thomas fought the instinct to look away, holding the stare as best he could, though his heart pounded against his ribs.

After what felt like an eternity, his father stepped back and gestured toward the chair by the hearth. “Sit,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Thomas sank into the chair reluctantly. His father remained standing, towering over him, the firelight flickering ominously in his sharp eyes.

“Explain yourself,” his father demanded, his tone low and controlled, though it threatened to crack under the weight of his anger.

Thomas swallowed, his voice tight as he began. “He has no right to treat the students the way he does. I wasn’t just going to stand by and-”

His father cut him off sharply, his voice raising slightly, “It is not up to you to defend these people! How many times must I tell you not to draw attention to yourself? Time and time again, you have defied this most basic rule!”

“Not up to me?” Thomas’s voice rose in frustration, his emotions spilling over. “Isn’t this entire thing - this life you thrust upon me - about that? About defending those who can’t defend themselves? About justice?”

“Silence!” his father roared, the sudden thunder of his voice echoing through the room.

Thomas fell silent, stunned by the rare explosion of fury. His father loomed over him, his gaze hard and unrelenting.

“You seem to forget the tenets,” his father finally said. “The second and third in particular. Name them!”

Thomas knew where this was going, and a wave of resentment welled within him. Still, he obeyed. “Hide in plain sight,” he recited, his voice detached.

“And?” his father prompted.

“Never compromise The Brotherhood,” Thomas added, quieter this time, his voice almost a whisper.

“Surely I do not need to remind you of the meaning behind th-..” his father did not get to finish, as it was Thomas’s turn to cut in.

“You know it’s not always that simple,” he interrupted, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and despair. “It’s not always black and white.”

His father didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he moved to the window, gazing out into the darkness, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “Many times,” he began, his voice quieter now but no less stern, “I have wondered if sending you to that school was a mistake. Since then, it seems every step forward has been met with three steps back. Perhaps it is a distraction you can no longer afford.”

Thomas sat up straighter, alarmed by the implications in his father’s words. “What are you talking about?”

“The school board has decided to suspend you,” his father said flatly, turning to face him again. “Indefinitely. Although Mr. Phillips insisted you be expelled outright.”

The weight of the words hit Thomas like a blow, leaving him momentarily speechless. His mind raced as he tried to process the gravity of the situation.

“B-but,” he stammered, “Mr. Phillips is leaving soon, isn’t he? For Toronto? There’ll be a new teacher. Surely I can return then?”

His father’s eyes narrowed, studying him closely. “That remains to be seen,” he said curtly. “But let me be clear. If you do not learn to control yourself - there will be no forgiveness.”

Thomas felt the sting of the warning deep in his chest. “I’m trying,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. He couldn’t meet his father’s eyes.

For a moment, the room fell silent save for the crackling of the fire. Then his father let out a long sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “At least there’s one silver lining to all this,” he muttered, almost to himself. “We won’t be receiving any invitations to that damned wedding.”

Thomas didn’t respond, the thought of Prissy Andrews and Mr. Phillips’s nuptials the last thing on his mind. His father waved a hand dismissively, his tone firm. “We will speak more of this later. For now, off to bed. Tomorrow, you will work harder than ever. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas replied quietly, his shoulders heavy with defeat. He rose from the chair, the firelight casting long shadows over his weary figure.

As he ascended the stairs to his room, he felt the weight of the day pressing down on him like a shroud. He shut the door behind him and collapsed onto the bed, pulling the blankets over him as if they could shield him from the storm brewing both outside and within.

Chapter Text

The days without school felt endless to Thomas, an unrelenting monotony of chores and the demanding training his father imposed. Despite his solitary nature, he found himself missing the noise and chaos of the classroom. Isolation weighed heavy, but Thomas focused on what he could control: his emotions. Every day, he worked on taming the simmering anger within him.

One day, as he returned inside after tending to the stable, his father called him into the parlor. “You’ve been summoned,” his father said, his tone as formal as ever.

Thomas blinked. “Summoned?”

“By the school board,” his father clarified, setting his coffee mug down. “To evaluate your reinstitution ahead of the new teacher’s arrival. The meeting is tomorrow morning.”

A knot tightened in Thomas’s stomach. He had anticipated this, but now that it was real, unease clawed at him. “What do I need to-”

“Everything you’ve done before this day will speak for itself,” his father interrupted, his tone clipped. “The question is whether you’ll let them see the side of you that loses control.”

Thomas bit back a retort, nodded, and excused himself to his room. Once there, he tried to distract himself by strumming his guitar, but the four walls seemed to close in on him. No matter how much he played, the weight in his chest refused to lift.

He sighed heavily, grabbed his coat, and slung the guitar over his shoulder. He fetched Chance from the stable, and the dog eagerly followed as they ventured into the woods. The crisp air bit at his cheeks, but it was a welcome contrast to the suffocating warmth of the house. He walked until he found a large boulder, brushing snow from its surface before perching atop it. Chance wandered nearby, sniffing the underbrush as Thomas began to play.

At first, his fingers stumbled over the strings, the cold numbing his movements, but soon a melody took shape. It was raw and impromptu, weaving itself together as his thoughts quieted. For a few fleeting moments, the world around him seemed to hold its breath, the notes of his guitar the only sound.

When he finished, the silence lingered until a voice startled him.

“That was breathtaking. Like a symphony for the heart.”

Thomas spun around, his heart racing. Behind him stood Anne and Diana, watching with wide eyes. Anne looked particularly impressed, her face alight with wonder.

“Good heavens, how long have you been standing there?” Thomas asked, his cheeks flushing with a mix of irritation and embarrassment.

Anne tilted her head, a teasing smile on her lips. “Hello to you too.”

“Just a few minutes,” Diana added, smiling politely.

Thomas ran a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. “I didn’t know you played,” Anne said, stepping closer.

“Not as much as I’d like to,” he admitted, shrugging. He cast them a wary glance. “What are you two doing out here?”

Anne and Diana exchanged a look, and for a moment, it seemed neither would answer. Finally, Diana spoke. “We’re… going somewhere,” she said vaguely.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, his suspicion growing, but before he could press further, Chance returned from the underbrush, his tail wagging as he brushed against Thomas’s side.

“Oh, hello again, boy,” Anne said warmly, crouching to pet the dog. Chance eagerly leaned into her touch, his tongue lolling happily.

Diana hesitated, staying back slightly. Thomas noticed her unease and stepped closer, motioning toward the dog. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “He’s friendly. His name’s Chance.”

Diana hesitated a moment longer before tentatively reaching out. When Chance licked her hand, she let out a surprised giggle, her initial fear melting away. She knelt to pet him properly, her laughter blending with Anne’s as they both showered the dog with affection.

Thomas watched the scene unfold with a small smile before his thoughts turned to Cole. “Have you two seen Cole lately? How’s he doing?”

Anne straightened, her expression shifting slightly. “We’re actually going to see him right now,” she said quickly, but then froze, realizing she’d said too much. She glanced sheepishly at Diana, who sighed in resignation.

“It’s alright,” Diana murmured.

Thomas frowned, confused. “What’s going on?”

Anne stepped closer, her eyes narrowing slightly with determination. “You can come with us,” she said, her voice earnest but carrying the dramatic flair she so often displayed. “But only if you swear on your honor to keep what we show you a secret. Swear it solemnly.”

Thomas looked between the two girls, trying to gauge the weight of their request. Finally, he nodded. “Alright,” he said, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder. “Lead the way.”

Thomas followed Anne and Diana through the woods, his breath visible in the crisp air as Chance bounded ahead, chasing stray scents. After a few minutes, their destination came into view. Thomas immediately recognized the weathered structure - it was the hideout he had stumbled upon days earlier. A faint wisp of smoke curled from the crooked chimney, and the outside had been adorned with a collection of clay sculptures, likely Cole’s handiwork.

Anne gestured grandly toward the shack, a proud smile on her face. “Welcome to our sanctuary. It started as a story club, but now it’s become something more - a place to escape the troubles of the world.”

“Sanctuary for self-expression,” Diana added, smoothing her coat as they approached.

Pulling back the fabric over the doorway, she stepped inside, beckoning the others to follow. The small room was warm and inviting, lit by the soft glow of a fire crackling in the firepit. Inside, Cole was hunched over a clay sculpture, his hands coated. When he noticed Thomas, his brow furrowed in surprise.

“Thomas?” Cole set down the clay carefully, wiping his hands on a rag. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too,” Thomas replied dryly, his tone edged with humor. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the trinkets, papers, and half-finished projects scattered about. “I have to say, this is quite the setup you’ve got here.”

Anne beamed as she closed the fabric behind them. “Isn’t it marvelous? It’s our hideout, a little world of our own.”

Diana nodded, settling onto a cushion near the firepit. “Cole’s been working on something special for the past week. We’ve been trying not to disturb him too much.”

Thomas moved closer to Cole’s project - a clay sculpture frozen in a dance pose. It was intricate, delicate, and undeniably impressive. “You’ve got talent,” he said, his voice tinged with genuine admiration.

Cole ducked his head, muttering a quiet thanks, but a hint of pride gleamed in his eyes. As they all settled onto mismatched cushions around the room, the atmosphere grew lighter, the initial awkwardness of Thomas’s unplanned visit dissipating. Chance flopped onto the floor by Thomas’s side, his tail wagging lazily.

The conversation meandered from the weather to Anne’s latest story ideas. Anne recounted her work with animated gestures, and Thomas found himself smiling at her enthusiasm, though he mostly stayed quiet. Eventually, the topic turned more serious.

“We’ve missed you at school,” Diana said softly, her sincerity evident.

Thomas hesitated, his fingers brushing the strap of his guitar. “Yeah… about that. I’ve been suspended.”

Anne and Diana exchanged looks of surprise, while Cole frowned. “Suspended? For how long?”

“Indefinitely,” Thomas said with a sigh. “I’ve got a meeting with the school board tomorrow to figure out if they’ll let me back.”

Anne’s expression hardened with determination. “You stood up for what was right, Thomas. That has to matter. The board will see reason - they have to, now that Mr. Phillips won’t be around anymore to cloud their judgment.”

Thomas gave a small, humorless chuckle. “Here’s hoping. Though congratulations are probably in order for him and Prissy.” His lips quirked faintly with sarcasm. “Not that I’ll miss him.”

At this, Anne and Diana exchanged mischievous glances, their eyes alight with a secret they were itching to share.

“You don’t know, do you?” Anne said, leaning forward.

“Know what?” Thomas asked.

“Prissy left Mr. Phillips at the altar,” Diana said with barely contained glee.

Thomas blinked, stunned. “She what?”

“She ran out of the church,” Anne clarified, a giggle bubbling up. “In front of everyone. Just bolted and never looked back.”

Thomas’s expression shifted, his lips twitching as he tried to hold back a reaction. But then, the absurdity of the situation hit him, and he let out a laugh - a rare, unguarded laugh that filled the small shack. The sound startled his companions, who stared at him in surprise for a moment before joining in. The four of them laughed until their sides hurt, the shared mirth a much-needed reprieve from the heavier topics of the day.

When the laughter subsided, Diana’s eyes fell on the guitar behind Thomas’s back. “You should play something again,” she said hopefully.

Anne perked up. “Yes! And do you sing? Oh, please say you do.”

Thomas hesitated, glancing at the instrument. “I’m not sure-”

“Come on,” Cole encouraged. “It’d be nice to hear.”

Even Chance seemed to tilt his head as if in agreement. With three expectant faces staring at him, Thomas sighed heavily. “Fine,” he relented, pulling the guitar into his lap. His gaze fell as he thought of what to play.

His thoughts turned to the first song he learnt, that his mother taught him long ago back in England - The Parting Glass. His fingers began to glide across the strings. He strummed the guitar for a while, and just as the trio watching him though he might not sing…

“Of all the money that e’er I had,

I spent it in good company.

And all the harm I’ve ever done,

Alas, it was to none but me…”

His voice was quiet and rich, carrying an unexpected warmth that seemed to resonate in the very bones of the listeners. The words hung in the air, and as the song continued, the shack seemed to shrink around them, drawing them closer to the raw emotion in his voice. When he finally strummed the last chord, the room was steeped in silence, the spell unbroken.

Anne was the first to speak, her voice a hushed whisper. “Thomas… that was…”

“Beautiful,” Diana finished, her wide eyes glistening.

Cole nodded, still staring at Thomas in awe. “I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

Thomas ducked his head, thoroughly embarrassed. “It’s just a song,” he muttered, setting the guitar aside.

“It’s not just a song,” Anne said firmly. “It was incredible.”

Thomas shrugged, though the warmth in their words settled somewhere deep in his chest. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but for the first time in days, he felt lighter.

Anne’s gaze lingered on Thomas longer than she realized, her thoughts swirling as she tried to piece him together in her mind. Over the past year, she had thought she had begun to understand him - a reserved, sharp-witted boy with a mysterious past and a strong sense of justice. But moments like these, when the walls he carefully built around himself seemed to crack, revealed a depth she hadn’t yet uncovered. The way he sang, the emotion behind it - it was a glimpse of someone she hadn’t expected to find beneath his guarded nature.

It wasn’t until she noticed his brow furrowing slightly that she realized she had been staring. Heat rose to her cheeks as her mind scrambled for an excuse.

“Are you alright?” Thomas asked, his voice calm but tinged with curiosity. His intense eyes studied her, as if trying to read her thoughts.

Anne quickly averted her gaze, waving a hand dismissively. “Yes, of course. There was, uh, a bug. On the wall behind you.” She gestured vaguely toward the corner of the hideout, her voice a touch too quick.

Thomas raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further, shrugging it off. He turned his attention back to Diana, who was animatedly trying to explain a lesson they had learned in school to both him and Cole. Anne released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, mentally chastising herself.

Time seemed to slip through their fingers in the cozy hideout. As the daylight outside began to fade, the four of them reluctantly acknowledged it was time to leave. The chill of the evening air greeted them as they stepped outside, their breaths visible in the cold. Diana and Anne turned to leave, but Anne paused, glancing over her shoulder at Thomas. 

“Thanks for coming today,” she said, her voice soft. “It was... nice.”

Thomas tilted his head slightly, his expression softening. “Thanks for letting me in on the big secret,” he replied. “I’ll keep it, you know.”

“I know,” Anne said with a small smile. For all his mystery, she trusted Thomas, perhaps more than she’d realized.

Anne hesitated, then nodded, catching up to Diana as they disappeared into the trees. Thomas watched them go, the shadows of the woods swallowing their silhouettes. Chance nudged his hand, bringing him back to the present.

“Come on, boy,” he muttered, turning toward the path that would take him home.

The following day dawned cold and gray, the kind of morning that seemed to seep into one’s bones. Thomas rose early, the weight of the upcoming evaluation pressing heavily on his mind. He moved through his morning routine mechanically - pulling on a neatly pressed shirt and trousers, lacing his boots, and wolfing down a simple breakfast. His father was nowhere to be seen, likely avoiding any interaction that could derail Thomas’s focus.

When Thomas finally stepped outside, the sharp air stung his face, jolting him fully awake. The walk into town felt endless, each step accompanied by the gnawing anxiety of what lay ahead.

The meeting was being held in a municipal building near the center of Avonlea. As Thomas entered, the chill seemed to deepen. The room was dimly lit, with a long wooden table at its center. Seated around it were six individuals, their expressions ranging from stern to mildly curious. At the head of the table sat the minister, his severe gaze fixed on Thomas as he stepped forward. To the minister’s right was Mrs. Lynde, her sharp eyes flicking over him like a hawk sizing up prey. The remaining board members were older men, their faces lined with years of authority.

“Thomas Rockport,” the minister began, his elderly voice cutting through the silence, “you’ve been summoned to address your recent behavior at Avonlea School. As you are aware, your actions have led to your indefinite suspension.”

Thomas inclined his head slightly, his throat tightening. “Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Lynde leaned forward, her tone more probing than harsh. “Do you understand the seriousness of your situation, young man?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas replied, his voice steady but quiet.

One of the board members, a thin man with a monocle perched on his nose, interjected. “This isn’t your first offense, young man. In fact, your reputation precedes you. There was an incident last year, was there not? An altercation with Billy Andrews?”

Thomas’s chest tightened. “Yes, sir,” he admitted, his gaze flickering briefly to his hands.

The man adjusted his monocle, his tone sharp. “You assaulted a classmate. What excuse could you possibly have for such behavior?”

Thomas hesitated, his mind racing. He recalled the incident vividly - Billy’s cruel words about Anne, how his fists had moved before his brain could stop them. 

“I was defending someone,” he said finally, his voice measured. “Billy was spreading slander about one of my classmates.” 

Mrs. Lynde raised an eyebrow, her lips pursed. “While I’m not one to condone fighting, I’ll say this - Billy Andrews has been known to cause trouble since before Thomas arrived in Avonlea. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?” She cast a pointed glance at the other board members. A few murmured in agreement, though the monocled man looked less than convinced. 

The minister nodded slowly. “Still, Thomas, that incident, combined with what Mr. Phillips has reported about your behavior in class, paints a troubling picture. Numerous disruptions, questioning authority-” 

Thomas felt his frustration rise, but he tamped it down. “If I spoke out, it was because something needed to be said. Mr. Phillips treated some students unfairly. Should I have stayed silent while that happened?” 

Another board member, a man with a graying mustache, scoffed. “And you think it’s your place to decide what’s fair? You’re a student, not a teacher.”

The minister cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the silence. “Let's turn to the matter at hand, the more recent.. altercation that took place in the Avonlea school.” 

One of the board members leaned forward, their sharp eyes narrowing. “Let’s not mince words. You assaulted a teacher, Thomas. A teacher!” 

“I-” Thomas began, but his voice faltered. The weight of his accusation was heavier than he anticipated. 

Another board member spoke next. “Behavior of this kind, it is unheard of. What do you have to say for yourself?” 

Thomas’s throat felt dry. “I-uh, I didn’t mean-” 

“Didn’t mean to, boy?” interrupted another man, his voice gruff. “Then why do it? Do you lack discipline? Respect? Is this the behavior your father taught you?”

Thomas’s hands clenched in his lap, his mind scrambling for words. “It wasn’t like that,” he managed weakly, but his voice lacked conviction.

The ministers voice rose, cutting through the room. “Not like that? A teacher claims you struck him down, and witnesses confirm it. What else could it be? You think you’re above the rules, Thomas? Above the rest of us?” 

The accusations stung, each one landing like a blow. For a moment, Thomas’s mind raced with excuses, justifications, but none seemed adequate. The faces before him blurred, and his chest tightened.

But then, in the quiet of his mind, another voice surfaced - Anne’s words from the day before. You stood up for what was right. That matters. 

Thomas inhaled sharply, straightening his back. He locked eyes with the minister, his gaze fierce but expectant. 

“You’re right,” he said quietly, his voice steadying. “I did strike Mr. Phillips. I won’t deny it.”

The room fell silent, the air thick with anticipation. Even Mrs. Lynde seemed taken aback by his admission.

“But I didn’t do it because I think I’m above the rules,” Thomas continued, his voice growing stronger. “I did it because someone needed to. Mr. Phillips humiliated Cole Mackenzie, time and time again. He singled him out, made him feel less than human, and when it came to that window, Billy Andrews was the one who broke it. Yet Cole was the one punished.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping the board. “What kind of example does that set? That the strong can do whatever they want while the rest of us look away? If standing up to that makes me a troublemaker, then so be it.”

The monocled man raised an eyebrow. “And do you believe violence is the answer, young man?”

“No,” Thomas admitted, his tone firm. “But neither is silence. I know I could’ve handled it better. I lost my temper, and for that, I take responsibility. But what I won’t do is stand by while someone is treated unfairly.”

Mrs. Lynde folded her arms, her expression unreadable. The minister stroked his chin thoughtfully. One of the older men nodded slowly, as if grudgingly impressed. 

The minister finally spoke. “You’re well-spoken, Thomas, I’ll give you that. But words are one thing. Actions are another. How do we know this won’t happen again?”

Thomas met his gaze without flinching. “You don't. But I’m not here to cause trouble. I want to learn. And I believe that school is the place to do that. But I can’t promise I’ll stay quiet if I see someone being wronged.”

The room was silent for a long moment. The minister exchanged a glance with Mrs. Lynde, who gave a curt nod. One of the older men cleared his throat.

“Well, the boy’s got fire, that’s for sure,” he said gruffly. “And maybe some sense in him, too.”

The minister nodded solemnly. “Very well. The board has decided to reinstate you, Thomas. Consider this your final chance.” 

Thomas exhaled slowly, relief washing over him. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

As he rose to leave, Mrs. Lynde offered him a small smile. “You’ve got potential, Thomas. Don’t waste it.”

Outside, Thomas paused for a moment, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. He had made it through the meeting, though the road ahead was still uncertain. As he began the walk home, a faint smile crossed his lips. He couldn’t wait to return to school.

Monday morning arrived warmer than usual, the snows briefly disappearing, but Thomas barely noticed. The prospect of finally returning to school had him feeling restless and eager. After a hasty breakfast, he threw on his coat and scarf, determined not to risk being late. He knew his return might be complicated, given the reason for his absence, but the arrival of their new teacher might provide a convenient distraction.

The coatroom was already buzzing with activity when he arrived. Students were chatting animatedly as they hung up their hats and coats. Thomas spotted Anne, Diana, Ruby, Tilly and Josie clustered together, their conversation lively.

“I heard she’s from the mainland,” Ruby said, her voice hushed, as if revealing some great secret.

“I heard she’s a spinster,” Tilly said, her tone half-scandalized, half-impressed.

Thomas raised an eyebrow at their discussion but said nothing, slipping past them quietly. He was halfway through unbuttoning his coat when Billy Andrews swaggered in, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder.

The room stilled as his voice cut through the chatter. “Oh, look. It’s the unhinged one,” Billy announced loudly, his grin mocking.

Thomas felt several pairs of eyes flick in his direction, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Good morning to you too, Billy,” he replied evenly, flashing a tight smile. His collected response seemed to throw Billy off for a moment, but the boy quickly recovered, shaking his head and turning to Moody for attention.

Thomas focused on putting away his scarf, determined not to let Billy’s words get under his skin. He heard Billy’s voice again behind him, loud enough for the room to hear.

“That fox is gonna be dead meat. I think I’ll make it into a hat,” Billy declared with misplaced confidence.

Thomas stiffened. He had a good idea of which fox Billy was referring to.

“Fox? What fox?” Anne’s voice came sharply from the classroom, her concern evident.

“The one with the dark tail that’s been stealing the chickens,” Moody supplied helpfully.

“Well, there is no fox here, so how’s about you put the gun away? I’d like to live to meet the new teacher,” Gilbert called out from his desk. Billy gave a noncommittal shrug.

Anne shot out of her seat and strode across the room toward the coatroom, her eyes locking onto Thomas with startling intensity. Before he could react, she grabbed his shirt with both hands, her knuckles white with determination.

“Thomas,” she said, her voice urgent, “I know you hunt. Please, leave the fox be.”

Thomas blinked, caught completely off guard. “Um, yeah. Sure. No hunting foxes,” he stammered, unsure how to respond. Anne’s sheer intensity was enough to draw stifled laughter from the coatroom onlookers.

“Uh, Anne?” Thomas glanced around nervously, painfully aware of the growing audience. “Could you maybe let go of me?”

Anne seemed to realize her grip on his shirt, and her face turned crimson. She released him abruptly, taking a step back. “Sorry,” she muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Thomas straightened his shirt and lowered his voice so only she could hear. “Just so you know, foxes are very evasive,” he said, attempting to reassure her. “Even a seasoned hunter would struggle. And Billy is anything but that.”

Anne’s lips twitched slightly, and the tension in her posture eased. “You’re sure?” she asked, her tone softening.

“Positive,” Thomas replied.

Anne nodded, finally relaxing. She hurried back to her seat, her cheeks still tinged pink. Thomas exhaled and adjusted his collar. 

As he walked to his seat, he became acutely aware of the looks following him. Some students watched him with curiosity, their eyes darting away quickly when he glanced their way. Others wore expressions of unease, their postures stiffening when he passed. A knot formed in his stomach as the realization hit him - what he had only suspected before now seemed glaringly obvious. Some of his classmates were afraid of him. The weight of their wariness settled on his shoulders, making his journey to his desk feel far longer than it was. Thomas lowered himself into his seat, his jaw tightening as he stared straight ahead, determined not to let their stares linger in his mind - but the sting of their judgment remained.

The sound of the door opening sharply cut through the classroom chatter, and all heads turned as their new teacher entered. She was unceremoniously burdened by an abundance of bags, her arms full as she juggled an assortment of items. As if to add to the chaotic entrance, a globe slipped from her grip and rolled across the floor, stopping at Billy Andrews’ feet.

“I just laid the world at your feet, didn’t I?” she said warmly, a bright smile lighting up her face. “Good morning, everyone!”

A few students mumbled greetings, Anne’s enthusiastic voice standing out above the rest. Billy bent down to retrieve the globe, clearly relishing the attention as he handed it back to the new teacher.

“Here you go, little lady,” Billy said, his tone dripping with misplaced charm.

“My name is Miss Stacy,” she corrected him, her smile unwavering. “And please take that gun outside. The classroom is no place for a weapon.”

Billy faltered, clearly caught off guard. “Sure. I was… just about to do that,” he muttered, retreating awkwardly to deposit the rifle outside.

Thomas, meanwhile, stared at Miss Stacy, recognition hitting him like a brick wall. She was the woman from Charlottetown - the one he’d rescued from the drunken assailant on the day of Ms. Barry’s party. His mind reeled as he shrank slightly in his seat, feeling as though fate was playing an elaborate joke on him.

“What a pretty room!” Miss Stacy said, her voice breaking into his thoughts. She looked around, her expression delighted. “So many windows. I love to see green.”

She made her way to the front of the class, setting her belongings on the desk and shedding her scarf and coat. “Alright, let’s get to know each other,” she announced, clapping her hands together. “Everyone, please stand up.”

The students exchanged puzzled glances but complied, rising to their feet. Anne stood with enthusiastic purpose, while Thomas dragged himself upright with far less conviction.

“Now, please move all the desks to the side and take a seat on the floor,” Miss Stacy instructed.

Josie Pye frowned, crossing her arms. “The floor?” she repeated, her tone incredulous.

Miss Stacy replied with a smile, “We’re going to form a circle and make introductions.”

The students began shuffling desks to the side, Thomas paired with Gilbert to move one. Once the room was cleared, they sat in a rough circle on the floor. Thomas made a point of positioning himself where he could avoid the teacher’s direct gaze, though he could feel her presence keenly.

“Now,” Miss Stacy began, “you’ll each have a turn. I want you to share two words that represent you, using the first letters of your given name and surname. I’ll start.”

She rose to her feet, her posture poised yet relaxed. “Muriel Stacy - Mischievous and Scholastic.”

She sat back down, her smile encouraging as she gestured for the next student to begin. Anne, seated beside her, was practically glowing with admiration, her eyes never leaving their new teacher.

“Ruby Gillis,” Miss Stacy called.

Ruby stood hesitantly. “Romantic… Girl?” she said, her voice uncertain.

“Well done,” Miss Stacy said encouragingly.

Anne, unable to help herself, chimed in, “Ruby has a crush on Gil-” She was cut off as Miss Stacy called on the next student.

“Gilbert Blythe?”

Gilbert stood, pondering for a moment. “Global,” he said. After a pause, he added, “And Bookish.”

Anne, undeterred, added her commentary. “He traveled the world for a year. Everyone thinks he’s the smartest student.”

Miss Stacy shot Anne a pointed look, who seemed oblivious. 

“Thomas Rockport?” the teacher called next.

Thomas felt a knot form in his stomach as all eyes turned to him. He rose reluctantly, meeting Miss Stacy’s gaze briefly before looking past her. He tried to think of something meaningful, but his mind was clouded with self-doubt. Finally, he settled on two words he thought others might use to describe him.

“Thoughtful,” he said first, his voice measured.

Anne, ever the commentator, interjected, “He’s always thinking, though nobody quite knows what about.”

Distracted by her remark, Thomas blurted out the second word without fully considering it. “Reckless.”

Anne’s voice piped up again, her tone teasing but not unkind. “I can see that, given what happened with Mr. Phillips.”

Miss Stacy’s gaze lingered on Thomas for a moment longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. Feeling exposed, he sat back down quickly, avoiding further eye contact.

The activity continued, with each student sharing their words. Anne’s endless commentary came to a head when Prissy Andrews was called upon. In her excitement, Anne made a tactless remark about Prissy’s recent failed marriage. Miss Stacy’s expression hardened, and she addressed Anne directly.

“No need to provide me with gossip,” she said firmly, “I don’t condone it.”

Anne’s face fell, and she shrank back slightly. The teacher then called upon Anne to take her turn. Anne stood, but seemed completely out of it, unable to come up with anything.

“I’m sure you’ll think of some later. Why don’t you see me after class?” Miss Stacy said.

Anne sat back down, her earlier excitement gone, as the teacher continued calling upon the rest of the students.

The rest of the day passed quickly, Miss Stacy’s unconventional teaching methods keeping the students engaged and curious. When the final bell rang, Thomas gathered his things, ready to slip out quietly. Miss Stacy was in the middle of a conversation with Gilbert, discussing something about his plans to accelerate his studies.

“Thomas,” Miss Stacy called, her tone stopping him in his tracks. “Could you stay a moment?”

Thomas sighed, resigned, and wandered toward the desk as Gilbert gave him a quick nod before leaving. Anne was next, bounding up to Miss Stacy, her words spilling out in an unrestrained ramble. Miss Stacy listened patiently, then gently but firmly silenced her.

She then lectured Anne for her earlier behavior, and declared she write an essay on the perils of gossip. Anne’s face fell, the sting of reprimand evident. Her usually bright demeanor dimmed as she turned to leave. Passing by Thomas, her eyes flicked up to his briefly, her disappointment clear before she hurried out.

Thomas glanced after her, feeling a pang of sympathy, but Miss Stacy’s voice brought him back to the moment. “Thomas,” she called, motioning for him to step forward.

He approached the desk cautiously, his posture guarded. Miss Stacy leaned against the desk, her arms folded, her sharp eyes studying him. The room felt heavier without the bustling energy of his classmates.

“I assume you know why I wanted to speak with you,” she began, her tone measured.

Thomas shifted on his feet, trying to mask his unease. “I think I can guess.”

Miss Stacy nodded, her gaze unwavering. “I thought so. I recognized you the moment I saw you. You’re the boy from Charlottetown - the one who intervened that day.”

Thomas froze, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second before he quickly recovered. “I don’t think I remember what you’re talking about,” he replied, his voice neutral.

Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Don’t you? A drunken man, a dark side street... and a gun?”

Thomas’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing slightly. He didn’t respond, instead letting the silence stretch between them.

“You saved me from a very frightening situation,” Miss Stacy continued, her voice softening. “For that, I’m grateful. But you also left me with a great many questions.” She straightened, taking a step closer. “Such as why a boy your age is carrying a weapon.”

Thomas shrugged, keeping his gaze fixed on a point over her shoulder. “I had my reasons,” he said curtly. “But I don’t make a habit of it.”

Her sharp eyes lingered on him, as though trying to piece together a puzzle. “You disappeared so quickly that day,” she said. “I didn’t even have the chance to ask your name.”

“It was better that way,” Thomas replied, his voice clipped.

Miss Stacy tilted her head, “Your reasons must have been significant. You’re not exactly the picture of an ordinary boy, are you?”

“I’m just me,” Thomas said, his tone dismissive.

Miss Stacy studied him for a moment, her sharp gaze taking in every detail - the guarded posture, the clipped tone, the way he seemed to weigh each word before speaking. “You’re an enigma, Thomas Rockport,” she said finally. “Since arriving here, I’ve heard quite a few stories about you.” 

Thomas stiffened slightly. “I’m sure not all of them were flattering.”

“Not all, no,” she admitted. “But many paint a picture of someone fiercely loyal to his friends, unafraid to stand up for what’s right. That’s a quality I admire.”

Her words caught him off guard, and for a moment, he faltered. “It hasn’t exactly earned me a good reputation,” he said finally.

“That depends on who you ask,” Miss Stacy replied with a small smile. Then her tone turned serious. “You don’t seem the type to seek out trouble, yet it finds you often enough. Why is that?”

“Maybe I’m just lucky,” he said dryly, though his sarcasm fell flat.

Miss Stacy’s gaze softened slightly. “What about here at school? I’ve heard about the incidents you’ve had. Do you regret them?”

“Does it matter?” he asked quietly. “They’re in the past.”

“It matters if you want to move forward,” Miss Stacy countered. “I’m here to help my students grow. But that means understanding them first. You make that... difficult.”

Thomas looked down, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m fine, Miss Stacy. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Her expression softened further. “I believe there are better ways to handle situations like that - ways that don’t compromise who we are. You’re smart, Thomas. But if you let your anger control you, you’ll fight battles you could have avoided.”

The weight of her words pressed on him. “It’s not always easy to stay calm,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” she said gently. “But if you want people to see the good in you, you have to show them. And not with your fists.”

He looked up at her then, surprised by the sincerity and understanding in her eyes. He’d expected a lecture, a scolding, but what he got felt more like guidance. It unsettled him, stirring something both hopeful and uncertain within him.

He nodded slowly, her words sinking in. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” she said. “And if you ever need to talk - about anything - you can always come to me. No judgment.”

Thomas held her gaze, that sense of recognition surfacing again - she was reminding him of someone. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Miss Stacy nodded. “You’re dismissed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As he left the classroom, Thomas felt a mix of emotions swirling inside him - relief, apprehension, and, strangely, a flicker of hope. For the first time in a long while, he felt like someone might actually understand him.

Chapter Text

The next day, the classroom was buzzing with excitement. Word had spread quickly about Miss Stacy’s unconventional approach to teaching, and the students could barely contain their curiosity about what she had in store for them today. As Thomas entered the classroom, he caught sight of Anne, animatedly talking to Miss Stacy, with none other than Marilla Cuthbert standing beside her.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, setting his things down and catching snippets of their conversation. Something about a fox, a fire, and an essay. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of mischief Anne had been involved in this time.

Nearby was Gilbert, his nose buried in a thick book. Thomas, feeling unusually sociable, wandered over and leaned against the wall next to him.

“Morning,” he greeted.

Gilbert looked up, his easy smile greeting him back. “Morning, Thomas.”

Thomas tilted his head toward the window. “Did you catch what Miss Stacy rode in on this morning?”

“A motorcycle,” Gilbert replied, setting his book down for a moment. “Thought I was seeing things.”

Thomas lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. “You think she’d let me take it for a ride?”

Gilbert smirked, leaning back in his chair. “With your track record? Not a chance.”

Thomas smiled, glancing across the room. 

“So,” Gilbert said, his tone teasing, “‘Thoughtful’ and ‘Reckless’, huh? Bit of a paradox.”

Thomas groaned. “Don’t remind me. I panicked.”

Gilbert’s grin widened. “Could’ve been worse. Billy called himself ‘Best and Admirable.’”

With a smirk still tugging at his lips, Thomas moved off to greet Moody, who had just arrived, and settled on the floor next to others as the classroom began to quiet. Miss Stacy clapped her hands once, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Alright, class, let’s begin,” she said brightly.

Miss Stacy gestured for the students to gather around a small table in the center of the room, where an assortment of items were laid out - nails, copper wire, and, most curiously, several potatoes. The students exchanged puzzled looks as they shuffled closer.

“Science changes the world for the better,” Miss Stacy began, her enthusiasm infectious. “Does anyone know what electricity is?”

“Light!” Anne immediately called out.

“Yes. And?” Miss Stacy prompted, her eyes scanning the group.

“A form of energy,” Gilbert added confidently.

“Exactly,” Miss Stacy said, her smile broadening. She began to explain, using vivid analogies to describe electrical currents, comparing them to lightning bolts in a storm and explaining how atoms and matter worked together to create energy. As she spoke, her hands moved deftly, assembling a peculiar contraption from the items on the table.

Thomas found himself captivated, leaning slightly forward as he tried to piece together what she was making. The stark contrast between Miss Stacy’s engaging, hands-on teaching style and Mr. Phillips’ monotonous lectures wasn’t lost on anyone. Even Josie Pye, who usually had something snide to say, was watching with genuine interest.

Finally, Miss Stacy revealed the missing piece of the puzzle - a light bulb. She held it aloft, its delicate filament gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“How many of you have ever seen one?” she asked.

Several hands went up - Anne, Diana, Gilbert, and Thomas.

“In New York, actually,” Gilbert offered, a touch of pride in his tone.

“In Charlottetown,” Anne chimed in eagerly.

“My aunt Josephine has electricity,” Diana added.

Thomas hesitated before adding, “Uh… London and Halifax. And Charlottetown, I guess.”

Miss Stacy nodded approvingly, before diving right back into the lesson, explaining how the light bulb works. 

"So, here in Avonlea, with a little ingenuity and some Prince Edward Island potatoes, we have electricity!" Miss Stacy finally concluded, as she attached the light bulb to the contraption and it lit up, casting a soft, warm glow over their astonished faces.

A collective gasp filled the room, followed by enthusiastic applause. Anne’s eyes sparkled with wonder, and even Marilla, who had stayed to observe, was taken aback.

However, the joyous atmosphere was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat at the back of the room. The noise cut through the chatter like a knife, and the students turned as one to see a group of older women standing in the doorway. At the forefront was none other than Mrs. Rachel Lynde, her sharp gaze scanning the room. Behind her, Thomas recognized some familiar faces - Billy’s mother, Mrs. Andrews, Moody’s mother, and a couple of others. Their expressions were one of stern disapproval.

“Why, hello!” Miss Stacy greeted warmly, her hands clasped together. “Good timing. We were just brightening our day. Won’t you join us?”

The women remained unmoving, their scrutinizing gazes fixed on Miss Stacy. Undeterred, she approached them with her characteristic poise, her smile unwavering.

Meanwhile, the students began to whisper among themselves, their earlier excitement now tinged with nervous energy. Thomas glanced at the group of mothers, his expression neutral but his mind racing. He knew Mrs. Lynde’s reputation for enforcing tradition and order, and he doubted she was here to congratulate Miss Stacy on her innovative methods.

Amidst the murmuring, Moody, ever the curious one, leaned closer to the potato contraption still on the table. His eyes lit up with a mischievous idea.

“Don’t!” Gilbert warned.

“Moody, no!” Anne cried out, alarmed.

But it was too late. The moment his tongue made contact with the wire, a sharp jolt of electricity coursed through him. He yelped in surprise, his arms flailing. In his panic, he knocked the entire contraption off the table, sending the light bulb crashing to the floor, where it shattered into countless pieces.

The classroom erupted into mild panic. Moody’s mother rushed forward, her face a mix of alarm and fury. 

Miss Stacy was quick to stop everyone. She declared everyone to stay still while she fetched a broom. The Progressive Mothers watched her every move, their expressions growing more critical by the second.

When the mess was finally cleaned and the students temporarily dismissed, the women wasted no time launching into their lecture. Mrs. Lynde took the lead, her voice sharp and commanding. They spoke of expectations of order and calm, and sticking to the curriculum. Miss Stacy remained composed, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

As the criticisms continued, Gilbert stepped forward. “Pardon me, but Miss Stacy is a dedicated and capable teacher,” he said.

Anne, never one to hold back, quickly joined in. “I hope to be exactly like her someday,” she declared, her tone filled with admiration. “She’s a smart, lovely career woman and a superior educator despite overcoming a tragic romance!”

Miss Stacy’s calm composure faltered for a fraction of a second at Anne’s last remark. The Progressive Mothers, however, seemed intrigued by this tidbit of gossip, exchanging curious glances.

Thomas stood at the edge of the room, watching the exchange unfold. A part of him wanted to step forward and defend Miss Stacy as well, but he hesitated. He knew the group of mothers likely held him in little regard. And with Mrs. Lynde present, the last thing he wanted was to provoke them further and risk undoing the progress he had made with the school board.

Finally, they were done chastising and prepared to go, some of them already gathering their children. Once the mothers were gone, the classroom felt lighter, though a residual tension lingered in the air. Miss Stacy turned back to the students who remained, offering them a reassuring smile.

“Well,” she said brightly, “I think that’s enough excitement for one day. Class dismissed.”

As the classroom emptied, Anne’s voice cut through the gentle hum of departing chatter.

“I still can’t believe Miss Stacy managed to light up that bulb with just potatoes,” she marveled, her enthusiasm uncontainable. “It’s like she brought a little bit of magic into our classroom.”

Thomas adjusted the strap of his satchel, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not magic - it’s science. But I’ll admit, it was... impressive.”

Anne tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Impressive? That’s it? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you weren’t paying attention.”

Thomas shrugged. “I was paying attention. I just don’t feel the need to become poetic about potatoes.”

Anne rolled her eyes dramatically but couldn’t suppress a grin. “You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?”

Before Thomas could respond, her gaze shifted past him, and her playful demeanor faltered. Marilla stood near the exit, her arms crossed and her watchful eyes fixed on them. 

Anne’s expression turned brisk. “I’d better go,” she said quickly, her tone clipped. “See you tomorrow.”

Thomas nodded, his smile fading as Anne hurried toward Marilla. “Yeah. See you.”

Outside, the crisp air carried the faint scent of damp earth and pine. Thomas reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the folded grocery list his father had handed him that morning. He scanned the neat script, mentally cataloging the items as he began the familiar path toward the general store.

As he crossed the schoolyard, a movement caught his eye. Billy Andrews and two of his cronies were trudging across the field toward the woods, rifles slung over their shoulders. Their voices carried faintly on the wind, punctuated by occasional laughter. He knew exactly what they were after - the fox with the dark tail. Thomas watched them for a moment, unease prickling at the back of his mind, but continued onwards - he knew it was unlikely they’d find the fox.

At the General Store, Thomas took his time, methodically selecting the items on his list. He wasn’t in a hurry to return home, where his father’s simmering tension awaited him. Once his purchases were complete, began the trek home. The rhythmic crunch of his boots against the gravel road was almost soothing, but that sense of calm evaporated the moment he rounded the final bend.

There, on the porch, stood Miss Stacy. She was engaged in what could only be described as a one-sided conversation with Thomas’s father. His irritated tone carried across the yard, unmistakable in its impatience.

“Heavens, Miss, how many times do I need to repeat myself?” his father grumbled. “There is nothing to discuss here.”

Miss Stacy’s tone, in stark contrast, remained measured and calm. “I understand if this is a bad time,” she said, her voice light but resolute. “I could come back later, but this is something I believe would be beneficial to talk about.”

Thomas quickened his pace, his curiosity piqued. Miss Stacy’s presence was unusual enough, but her persistence in the face of his father’s temper was almost impressive.

“I’ve said all I’m going to say. He’s fine. We’re fine. There’s no more to it than that,” his father said sharply, crossing his arms.

At that moment, Thomas stepped onto the porch. Both adults turned to him - Miss Stacy with a sheepish smile and his father with a narrow-eyed glare.

“This has gone on long enough. I have matters to attend to,” his father grumbled, brushing past Thomas without another word. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Thomas and Miss Stacy standing in awkward silence.

Miss Stacy cleared her throat, breaking the tension. “My apologies for the unannounced visit,” she said, her tone apologetic but firm. “I was hoping to speak to your father, but it seems I’ve come at a bad time.” She hesitated before adding, “Perhaps I could speak to you instead?”

Thomas blinked, surprised by her suggestion. He set his satchel and grocery bag against the porch wall, motioning toward the path that led around the back of the house. “Alright,” he said simply.

As Thomas and Miss Stacy walked along the tree-lined path, she broke the silence with a light remark. “Your home is beautiful,” she said, her voice warm. “The way it’s nestled here among the trees, it feels... peaceful.”

Thomas glanced at her briefly, unsure how to respond. “It’s quiet,” he said finally.

Miss Stacy smiled faintly. “There’s a kind of freedom in quiet, don’t you think? Time to think, to sort things out.”

Thomas didn’t respond, keeping his gaze forward. He suspected she wasn’t here to talk about the scenery, and his suspicion was confirmed when her tone shifted.

“I came today hoping to speak with your father,” she began, her words careful but direct. “To learn more about you and see if there’s anything I can do to support you.”

Thomas stiffened slightly, but he didn’t stop walking. “Support with what?” he asked, his tone guarded.

“With whatever you need,” she replied gently. “School, life, anything that might help. I want all my students to thrive, Thomas. But to really help, I have to understand them.”

“I don’t think my father’s the kind of person who’ll help you understand much,” Thomas said, his voice quieter now. “He’s... private.”

“I gathered that,” Miss Stacy said with a soft chuckle, her tone free of judgment. “But that’s okay. I came to speak with you, too, because your perspective matters just as much.”

Thomas exhaled, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry about him,” he muttered. “He’s... not exactly approachable.”

“You don’t need to apologize for him,” Miss Stacy reassured, her voice steady. “I understand that everyone’s got their way. My goal isn’t to intrude, Thomas. It’s to let you know someone’s paying attention.”

Thomas nodded slowly, though unease still lingered in his chest. While Miss Stacy seemed to mean well, he couldn’t help but think her interest might lead to complications. Yet her sincerity made it difficult to dismiss her outright.

Miss Stacy shifted the conversation, her tone light but curious. “You mentioned London earlier today in class. That must’ve been quite the experience, growing up in a city like that.”

Thomas’s steps faltered for a moment before he quickly resumed walking. “It was... different,” he said vaguely. “Loud. Busy.”

She nodded, sensing his reluctance but pressing gently. “Did you live there for long?”

“A few years,” Thomas replied, his voice clipped. “When I was younger. My mother used to li-...” He stopped abruptly, clearing his throat and fixing his gaze firmly ahead. “Anyway, after that, Halifax.”

Miss Stacy studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes picking up more than he was comfortable sharing, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she offered a small nod of understanding. “London must’ve given you a unique perspective,” she said softly. “It’s clear you’ve experienced more of the world than most your age.”

Thomas shrugged. “It’s just another place.”

Her lips quirked in a faint smile, but before the conversation could lapse into silence, she brought up another subject. “Anne has mentioned Cole Mackenzie to me,” Miss Stacy said carefully. “She’s told me about the incident with Mr. Phillips, and how you stepped in to defend him.”

“Anne talks a lot,” he said dryly, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness.

“She does,” Miss Stacy replied with a small smile, “but she speaks highly of you and Cole.”

Thomas hesitated, glancing at her briefly before sighing. “Cole’s... a friend,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “He hasn’t been to school since... well, since then.”

Miss Stacy nodded thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine how difficult that must’ve been for him. Or for you, stepping into a situation like that.”

“I didn’t think about it much,” Thomas said, his tone growing distant. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

“And it was,” Miss Stacy said gently. “Not everyone would’ve had the courage to stand up the way you did. It speaks to the kind of person you are, Thomas.”

Thomas said nothing, though his jaw tightened slightly. Miss Stacy’s words hung in the air between them, her steady gaze inviting him to say more, but he remained silent. Finally, she continued, her voice soft but firm. “If Cole decides to return, I’ll do my best to make sure he feels safe here. And I’ll be counting on you and Anne to help.”

Thomas nodded slowly, his hands sliding into his coat pockets. “I’ll do what I can.”

She stopped walking and turned to face him. “Thomas, I want you to know I see great potential in you,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “I understand that life might not have been easy for you, but you don’t have to go it alone. If things ever feel overwhelming, you can always come to me.”

Thomas looked at her, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone. “You’ve already said something like that yesterday,” he replied, a slight edge to his voice.

“And maybe you needed to hear it again,” she said with a soft smile. “No pressure, of course.”

He sighed. For a moment, he considered brushing off her words, but instead, he gave a small nod. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Miss Stacy’s smile widened slightly, her expression gentle. “That’s all I needed to hear. I’ll let you get back to your day.”

She turned and began walking back toward the main road, her steps light but deliberate. Thomas watched her retreating figure for a moment before sighing and turning toward the house. Her words lingered in his mind, stirring emotions he wasn’t ready to face.

When Thomas stepped back inside, the door clicking shut behind him, his father was already pacing the parlor. The moment he spotted Thomas, he let out a groan of frustration. “This is what happens when you can’t keep a low profile,” he grumbled, his tone sharp. “A schoolteacher sniffing around, asking questions. It’s exactly what we don’t need.”

Thomas leaned against the doorframe, his expression guarded. “She just wanted to talk. Nothing came of it.”

His father scoffed, running a hand through his dark hair. “It doesn’t matter what she wanted. What matters is the risk. People like her, they dig too deep, and when they do, it’s only a matter of time before they find something.” He turned sharply to face Thomas, his eyes dark and intense. “Stay away from her. Keep your distance. I don’t care what excuses you make.”

Thomas hesitated, the memory of Miss Stacy’s earnest tone and kind words lingering in his mind. “Fine,” he said reluctantly, though the word left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Good,” his father said firmly, but there was something off about him - a tension in his movements, a flicker of unease in his usually controlled demeanor. His pacing seemed more erratic, and his voice carried a strain that wasn’t there before. Thomas watched him carefully, his unease growing as the silence stretched between them.

Without another word, his father turned and retreated into his study, the door closing heavily behind him.

The next morning, Thomas walked to school with a cloud hanging over him. His father’s words from the previous night looped in his head, heavy with frustration and a touch of guilt. The decrees of secrecy, of staying away from Miss Stacy, felt like chains tightening around him. By the time he reached the classroom, the lively chatter of his classmates felt distant, as if muffled by the weight on his shoulders.

Sliding into his seat, Thomas placed his head on the desk, his satchel slumping to the floor beside him. He barely registered Billy’s voice rising above the hum of conversation from the back of the room. Something about his “perfect aim,” but Thomas couldn’t muster the energy to listen, let alone care. His thoughts drifted aimlessly until the sharp sound of the door slamming open yanked him back into focus.

He turned, along with the rest of the class, just in time to see Cole Mackenzie storm into the room, his face set with fury. His eyes locked on Billy Andrews, and without a moment’s hesitation, Cole charged.

The room erupted into chaos.

“Cole!” Anne’s voice rang out as she burst through the doorway behind him, but her words didn’t reach him in time. Cole had already tackled Billy, sending him sprawling to the floor. Gasps and shrieks echoed as the two boys rolled, grappling and punching wildly. For a moment, it seemed like Billy might regain the upper hand, but Cole moved with a determination that none of them had seen before.

Thomas shot to his feet, his instincts screaming to intervene. Billy’s cronies hesitated, glancing at each other, unsure whether to step in. One finally lunged forward, but Gilbert Blythe grabbed his arm, holding him back.

Billy let out a grunt of pain as Cole landed another punch. The anger in Cole’s eyes was raw, unrestrained, and so unlike his usual gentle demeanor that Thomas could hardly believe what he was seeing. But then, in a single frantic movement Cole shoved Billy backward with all his strength, right into the hot stove in the middle of the room.

The sickening sizzle of burning flesh filled the air, followed by Billy’s scream - a sound of pure, agonizing pain. He writhed on the floor, clutching the side of his head as tears streamed down his face.

The smell hit next, acrid and unmistakable. Students recoiled, some covering their mouths and noses as Prissy Andrews rushed forward to her brother’s side, her hands trembling as she tried to help him sit up.

Cole stumbled back, his expression shifting from anger to sheer panic. He stared at his own hands as though they belonged to someone else, then at Billy writhing on the floor. Miss Stacy appeared then, emerging from the backroom with a calm yet commanding presence. Her sharp eyes took in the scene, the toppled chairs, the scattered books, and the students frozen in shock.

Cole’s panic overtook him, and he bolted for the door.

Cole!” Anne called after him, her voice desperate.

The panicked voices around Thomas became a blur, blending into a cacophony of sound that seemed distant and unreal. He stood nearby, watching as Billy writhed on the floor, his cries of pain cutting through the air while Gilbert and Prissy did their best to help him. The scene before Thomas was disturbing, but he couldn’t muster any sympathy. If anything, it felt like karma.

Billy Andrews had caused so much suffering, tormenting others without a second thought. The dark corner of Thomas’s mind whispered a sinister wish - that it had been his hands, not Cole’s, that had delivered this comeuppance. As the thought took form, he shook it away violently, a shudder passing through him. This wasn’t who he was. Or at least, it wasn’t who he wanted to be.

A sharp motion caught his eye as Diana returned from somewhere, holding a damp cloth. She handed it to Gilbert, who pressed it carefully against Billy’s burn, his expression grim.

“Everyone. Students!” Miss Stacy’s voice cut through the chaos, firm and commanding. “Gather your things and be on your way. Class is dismissed for today.”

The words barely had time to register before Anne bolted for the door, her fiery red hair disappearing in a flash.

The other students followed her lead, murmuring nervously to each other as they grabbed their belongings and filed out. The room grew quieter with each departure, but Thomas remained rooted to his spot, his gaze locked on Billy. It wasn’t until the classroom was nearly empty, save for Miss Stacy, Billy, and his sisters, Prissy and Jane, that the spell finally began to break.

“Thomas?” Miss Stacy’s voice cut through the haze, steady but gentle.

Thomas blinked slowly, his eyes dragging up to meet hers. He felt detached, as if his mind and body were operating in two separate realms.

“Thomas, are you alright?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern. “The class is dismissed. You can go home now.”

“I’m fine,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction. He slung his satchel over his shoulder and made his way toward the door with deliberate, measured steps.

The crisp air outside greeted him like a slap to the face, clearing his head just enough to remind him where he was. He stepped a few paces from the exit and stopped, tilting his face to the sky. The cold seemed to seep into his bones, yet he stood unmoving, his thoughts swirling in a chaotic mess he couldn’t untangle.

Behind him, Miss Stacy emerged from the schoolhouse, escorting Billy and his sisters toward their home. She cast glances over her shoulder, her eyes lingering on Thomas. He was still standing there, rigid and unmoving, his silhouette stark against the pale winter sky.

When Thomas finally stirred from his frozen stance outside the schoolhouse, he knew one thing for certain - he couldn’t go home. Not yet. The suffocating weight of his father’s words from last night, coupled with the chaos of the morning, made the thought unbearable. He needed somewhere to go, something to do. His thoughts immediately turned to Cole. If anywhere, Cole would be at the hideout.

With quickened steps, Thomas headed toward the woods. As he neared the familiar clearing, he slowed, a sense of unease curling in his chest. The sight that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks.

The hideout was in ruins.

The once-cozy shack that had been a sanctuary for Cole, Anne, Diana, and Ruby was now nothing more than a heap of broken wood and scattered debris. The clay sculptures that Cole had poured so much time and care into lay shattered and trampled.

Nearby, Anne, Diana, and Ruby stood huddled together, their faces streaked with tears. Anne’s shoulders shook as she clung to Diana for support, and Ruby dabbed at her reddened eyes with a handkerchief.

Thomas felt his anger rise, simmering just beneath the surface. His fists clenched at his sides as he lingered at the edge of the clearing, watching the devastation. Anne noticed him then, her tear-filled eyes meeting his across the distance. Her expression was one of silent pleading, but Thomas couldn’t bring himself to step closer. He turned on his heel and walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to keep moving. His feet carried him aimlessly until he found himself near the Blythe farm. It wasn’t a place he visited often, but the sight of Gilbert struggling with a loose fence post caught his attention. Gilbert’s movements were sharp and frustrated, and it was clear the task wasn’t going well.

“Need a hand?” Thomas called out, stepping closer.

Gilbert looked up, his expression wary at first. “I’ve got it,” he said shortly, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Thomas replied, raising an eyebrow. “Besides, I’m not doing anything else right now.”

Gilbert hesitated, then sighed and stepped back. “Fine. Grab that end and hold it steady.”

Thomas moved into place without another word. Together, they worked to set the post upright and secure it, the combined effort making quick work of the task. As they worked, a tense silence hung between them until Thomas finally broke it.

“You seem... annoyed,” he said, glancing at Gilbert.

Gilbert chuckled dryly. “I could say the same about you.”

Thomas shrugged, his grip tightening on the post. “Billy destroyed Anne’s, Diana’s and Cole’s hideout in the woods. That’s why Cole went after him this morning.”

Gilbert paused mid-swing, his jaw tightening. “Of course he did,” he muttered. “That idiot never knows when to quit.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said quietly, his voice heavy. “It was a nice place. They worked hard on it. Cole’s sculptures... they’re all gone.”

The weight of his words settled between them. Gilbert shook his head and hammered a nail into the post with more force than necessary. “He doesn’t get to ruin everything,” he said firmly. “Cole’ll bounce back. He’s got people who care about him. That counts for something.”

Thomas nodded but didn’t respond. The two worked in silence for a while longer, the rhythm of their movements grounding them both. Eventually, Thomas shifted the conversation.

“What about you?” he asked. “You seemed pretty out of sorts when I got here.”

Gilbert hesitated, then leaned against the fence, letting out a heavy sigh. “I messed up,” he admitted. “Sebastian - my friend from Trinidad - he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Thomas frowned. “Why?”

Gilbert ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “We had an agreement. I was supposed to stay here longer, help him settle, find his footing. But I’ve been so focused on accelerating my studies, preparing for college... I left him to handle things on his own.”

Thomas leaned against the fence beside him, considering Gilbert’s words. “And now he’s left?”

Gilbert nodded, his gaze distant. “He’s in the Bog, near Charlottetown. It’s my fault. I should’ve been there for him.”

Thomas was quiet for a moment, then said, “Sounds like he’s a good friend. He’ll probably forgive you if you talk to him.”

“Maybe,” Gilbert said, though his tone was uncertain. “I just hate that I let it get to this point. He’s been through so much already. He didn’t deserve to feel abandoned.”

Thomas’s gaze drifted to the horizon as he spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “Sometimes we mess up. Sometimes we let people down. But it doesn’t mean we stop trying.”

Gilbert turned to him, surprised by the unexpected wisdom in his words. “Thanks,” he said after a moment. “You’re right.”

The two fell into an easier rhythm as they finished up the fence. The physical work was a welcome distraction, and by the time they drove the last nail into place, both of them seemed calmer.

As they straightened and dusted off their hands, Gilbert turned to Thomas with a small smile. “Thanks for the help. I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it,” Thomas replied. “Besides, it gave me something to do.”

Gilbert chuckled, shaking his head. “See you tomorrow?”

Thomas nodded. “Yeah. See you.”

As he walked away, Thomas felt a flicker of satisfaction. Helping Gilbert - and hearing about his own struggles - had been a welcome distraction.

Chapter Text

The following day, as Thomas approached the schoolhouse, something felt... off. From the outside, it seemed quieter than usual, and when he stepped inside, the sight that greeted him made him pause. The classroom was packed, the rows of desks now crammed with younger children alongside his usual classmates. At the front stood a balding, elderly man in a faded suit, his lethargic demeanor setting the tone for what promised to be a painfully dull day.

Thomas glanced around, spotting Anne seated near Diana, her face set in a stormy expression.

“What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice.

Anne sighed, her frustration evident. “Miss Stacy has been put on probation. The board asked the lower school teacher to ‘assist’ - but we all know what that really means. She’s probably going to be dismissed.”

Thomas frowned, the news hitting harder than he expected. He glanced toward the front of the room, where the lower school teacher was shuffling through a stack of papers, moving with the speed of molasses.

“Figures,” Thomas muttered. 

Before Anne could respond, the teacher cleared his throat - a long, wheezy sound that drew everyone's reluctant attention. “Alright, students,” he began, his voice slow and monotone, “the lower school children will practice their cursive. Upper school children should read chapter nine.”

Anne’s hand shot up immediately, her fiery spirit refusing to be stifled. “But we already read that chapter when Mr. Phillips was here” she said.

The old man adjusted his glasses, peering at her with faint irritation. “Repetition,” he said curtly, “is the key to learning. Now hold your tongue. I will brook no further disruption in this classroom.”

Anne huffed but didn’t respond, her eyes fixed firmly on her book. Thomas shifted in his seat, already dreading the hours ahead. The day dragged on, the dullness of the teacher’s voice making it nearly impossible to stay awake. By the time recess arrived, Thomas bolted outside, desperate for fresh air and an escape from the cramped, noisy classroom.

He leaned against a tree near the edge of the schoolyard, savoring the moment of quiet. But his solitude was short-lived. A group of familiar faces approached him - Anne, Diana, Ruby, and Moody, their expressions ranging from determined to nervous. Anne, as always, was the one to take charge.

“We need your help,” she announced, her hands on her hips.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, already wary. “With what?”

Anne launched into an impassioned explanation, detailing their plan to convince the town to let Miss Stacy stay. She spoke of going to Charlottetown tomorrow to prepare, her voice brimming with urgency. Diana and Ruby nodded along, and even Moody chimed in with the occasional “Exactly!” 

Thomas listened in silence, his arms crossed. The plan sounded ambitious - if not outright reckless - and he couldn’t ignore the gnawing voice in his head reminding him of his father’s warning. This was the opposite of keeping a low profile. And yet... Miss Stacy didn’t deserve this. She was a good teacher, the best they’d had, and she had gone out of her way to support her students, even when it put her at odds with the town.

“And why do you need my help?” Thomas asked finally, his tone skeptical.

Anne’s eyes narrowed, her temper bubbling to the surface. “Because you’re no stranger to adventure,” she snapped. “And the more people we have, the better. Or do you prefer studying under the lower school teacher for the rest of the year?”

Thomas opened his mouth to respond, but Moody cut in. “Come on, Thomas. You’re always standing up for what’s right. Isn’t this one of those times?”

He hesitated, the group’s expectant gazes fixed on him. He didn’t like this - not the risk, not the attention it would bring. But as he glanced at Anne, her fiery determination unyielding, and at Diana and Ruby, whose quiet hopefulness was equally compelling, he felt his resolve weaken.

Finally, he sighed. “Fine. I’ll help.”

The relief on their faces was immediate, and Anne’s stern expression softened into a grateful smile. “Good. We’ll meet early tomorrow morning.”

As he watched them head back toward the schoolhouse, Thomas couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just agreed to something far bigger than he realized.

The following morning, Thomas moved quietly through the house, careful not to alert his father. The early hours brought a chill to the air, and he pulled his scarf tighter as he stepped outside, the world still draped in the soft light of dawn. Today’s plan lingered in his mind, filling him with a mix of unease and determination.

Their mission required each of them to contribute something to sell in Charlottetown, a way to fund the next stage of their effort to save Miss Stacy. Thomas had considered simply bringing the money himself - it would have been easier, and he could afford it - but he knew that wouldn’t fly. This was meant to be a collective effort, and he didn’t want to undermine that. So, he brought along a quality pocket knife he’d owned for years, one he knew the pawn broker might find valuable.

When he arrived at the meeting spot, Moody was already there, sitting atop a small wagon hitched to a sturdy-looking horse. Moody waved him over.

“Morning,” Moody greeted, his tone bright despite the early hour.

“This is such a bad idea,” Thomas muttered, climbing onto the seat next to him. He shifted nervously, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“It’ll be fine,” Moody said, his optimism unshaken. “You’ll see.”

Moments later, the sound of chatter and laughter announced the arrival of the girls. Anne, Diana, and Ruby appeared, their cheeks flushed from the cold, their energy contagious as they climbed into the back of the wagon.

“Alright!” Anne called out, her voice brimming with excitement. “Everybody ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Moody replied, though he cast a quick glance at Thomas for reassurance.

“I can’t tell if I’m scared or excited,” Diana said, her tone caught between nervousness and enthusiasm.

“We’re going to get in so much trouble,” Ruby sighed, though her resigned tone betrayed a hint of amusement.

“You got that right,” Thomas muttered under his breath, earning a grin from Moody.

Anne wasn’t fazed. She leaned forward, her eyes alight with determination. “What’s our battle cry?”

“What?” Moody asked, clearly confused.

“No idea,” Ruby said, shaking her head.

“‘Save Miss Stacy,’ of course!” Anne proclaimed, extending her hand into the center of the group.

For a moment, there was hesitation. Then, one by one, they all placed their hands atop Anne’s, even Thomas, who rolled his eyes but couldn’t help a small smirk.

“Save Miss Stacy!” they cried out together, their voices ringing into the crisp morning air.

With that, the wagon creaked into motion, heading toward the Bright River train station. The road wound through familiar countryside, the rhythm of the horse’s hooves mingling with the murmur of their conversation. The group’s excitement grew as they neared the Mackenzie farm. In the distance, they spotted Cole working in the field, his figure hunched over a rake as he cleared debris from the soil.

They stopped the wagon, and Anne waved to Cole, motioning him to come over. Cole hesitated, glancing at the rake in his hands, then back at the group in the wagon. He looked unsure, but after a moment, he set the rake down and trudged toward them, brushing dirt off his hands.

“Get in. We’re going to Charlottetown,” Anne said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Now?” Cole asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Moody chimed in from the front seat.

“Why?” Cole pressed, his tone skeptical.

Anne crossed her arms, clearly not in the mood for prolonged questioning. “I’ll tell you on the way,” she said. “You’re coming with us. You need to see Ms. Barry. She’ll have some advice for you - I’m sure of it.”

Cole hesitated, glancing at the group in the wagon. Diana and Ruby offered him encouraging smiles, and even Thomas gave a small shrug.

With a sigh, Cole caved. He climbed into the back of the wagon, settling in next to Diana and Ruby, who immediately started filling him in on the plan. The wagon jolted forward, and the group was off once more, the road stretching out before them.

The group arrived at the Bright River station with a mix of nervous energy and excitement buzzing between them. The train was already at the platform, its whistle blowing intermittently, steam hissing from its undercarriage. They moved quickly, staying low, as Anne led them away from the ticket booth toward the freight carts at the far end of the train. Thomas frowned as Anne stopped near the rails, gesturing for everyone to huddle close. A burly station worker in a thick coat was making his way along the freight cars, inspecting each one meticulously. The group watched him with trepidation, and it wasn’t long before Anne’s plan became clear.

“We’re hopping a freight cart?!” Cole’s head snapped up, his face a mixture of disbelief and alarm

“I can’t breathe,” Diana murmured, clutching her coat tightly.

“We’re all going to die,” Ruby added, her voice faint.

Anne, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed. “It’ll be fine,” she said confidently. “People do it all the time. I read about it in a book.”

“A book ?” Moody sputtered. “You’ve never done it before?!”

Anne glanced at him, shrugging. “How hard could it be?”

Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m inclined to agree with Ruby. We’re all going to die.”

Anne rolled her eyes. “We just need to get the timing right. I’ll go first.”

Before anyone could stop her, Anne began to step forward, her gaze fixed on the nearest cart. But Thomas’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm.

“Wait,” he said firmly. “I’ll distract the worker while you all get on.”

“Are you sure?” Diana asked, her unease written all over her face.

“Yes,” Thomas replied, his voice steady. “Trust me, it’ll be safer this way.”

Anne hesitated, glancing at the others, who all looked equally uncertain. Finally, she nodded. “Be careful.”

Thomas nodded back, then disappeared down the track in the direction of the station worker, who was inspecting the carts further ahead.

They waited in tense silence, their breaths visible in the crisp morning air. After a moment, Anne motioned for them to follow her. “Alright, let’s go.”

Anne moved quickly, darting toward an open cart. Diana followed close behind, clutching Ruby’s arm as they scrambled inside. Moody trailed after them, but in his haste, he tripped over the rail. His yelp was muffled, and before he could recover, Cole was already behind him, pulling him to his feet.

“Careful,” Cole muttered, his eyes darting nervously.

Finally, they were all aboard, crouching low in the freight cart. The train let out a loud whistle and lurched forward, but Thomas was still nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Thomas?” Anne asked, her voice edged with worry.

“I don’t know,” Moody replied, peeking out from the cart. “I can’t see him.”

“We have to close the doors, or someone will see us,” Cole said, his voice tight with unease.

“But what about Thomas?” Ruby asked, her voice trembling. “We can’t just abandon him.”

“What else can we do?” Moody asked, his tone grim. Reluctantly, he slid the door shut, plunging them into dim light. For a moment, the group sat in tense silence, the rhythmic clatter of the train’s wheels the only sound as it picked up speed.

Suddenly, a loud thud from the roof of the cart made everyone jump. Diana gasped, clutching her chest, while Moody nearly toppled over. They stared at the door as a rapid knock echoed through the metal.

“What was that?” Ruby whispered, her voice trembling.

“Did they find us?” Diana asked, her eyes wide.

Cole hesitated, then moved toward the freight car door, his hand hovering over the latch. The others held their breath as he slid the door open a crack. Outside, the landscape rushed past, but there was no sign of anyone.

Before anyone could respond, a shadow loomed above them, and in a flash, Thomas vaulted into the freight car from the roof. He landed with a thud in the middle of the group, startling everyone as they scrambled back in surprise.

“Thomas!” Anne exclaimed, her voice a mix of relief and astonishment. “How?!”

Thomas straightened, brushing dirt off his coat and catching his breath. “There was a... complication.”

The others stared at him, waiting for an explanation, but Thomas simply leaned back against the cart wall, crossing his arms.

“You jumped onto a moving train,” Cole said flatly, his expression a mixture of disbelief and awe.

“Technically, the train wasn’t moving yet,” Thomas corrected, his lips twitching in a faint smirk. “But let’s not split hairs.”

The group erupted into a mix of laughter and cheers, the tension melting away as Moody slid the door shut once more. Anne clapped him on the shoulder, her eyes shining with admiration.

“You’re unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

“Save Miss Stacy!” Moody declared, raising a triumphant fist.

“Save Miss Stacy!” the group echoed, their spirits lifting as the train rumbled along the tracks, carrying them closer to Charlottetown and the next step of their mission.

As the train slowed to a halt at Charlottetown station, Cole pushed the freight car door open. The group immediately froze in surprise. Standing just outside the car, arms crossed and an amused expression on his face, was Gilbert Blythe.

“What are you doing here?” Anne asked, her voice filled with surprise.

Gilbert tilted his head, smirking. “I figure I should ask you the same question.”

The group exchanged uncertain glances before filing out of the car. They began walking down the station platform, Gilbert falling into step with Anne near the front while the others trailed behind. Thomas hung back slightly, watching the exchange ahead.

Anne explained their mission to save Miss Stacy, her words filled with passion and determination. Gilbert listened intently, nodding as she detailed their plans. When she finished, he sighed, his expression softening.

“Well, I’m here to find Sebastian,” he admitted. “I need to convince him to come back. I... made mistakes, and I hope he’ll forgive me for being so selfish.”

“I’m sure you can make things right,” Anne reassured him.

As they reached the end of the platform, Gilbert glanced at the group and then back at Anne. “Well, good luck with your mission to save Miss Stacy.”

Anne smiled, her eyes bright with determination. “See you on the other side of the war.”

“See you,” Gilbert replied, giving her a small wave before heading in the opposite direction.

Thomas watched as Cole moved closer to Anne, leaning in with a smirk. “You know Gilbert has a crush on you, right?” he said, his voice low but loud enough for Thomas to catch.

Anne’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing. “What?! No, he doesn’t!”

Thomas hesitated, the words lingering in his mind. He wasn’t sure if Cole’s observation was true, but it sent a pang of something sharp and unfamiliar through him. He quickly shook it off, refusing to dwell on it.

Cole slowed his pace, stepping away from the group. “See you at the afternoon train,” he called, heading toward Josephine Barry’s residence.

“Say hello to Aunt Jo for me!” Anne shouted after him. “And it’s not true!”

“What’s not true?” Diana asked, catching up to the group.

Anne waved her off quickly, her tone brisk. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

Anne led the way through the bustling streets of Charlottetown, her confidence unwavering despite the occasional glances from passers by. Finally, they stopped in front of a modest pawn shop with a faded sign hanging above the door.

“This is it,” Anne announced, pushing the door open with purpose.

The pawnbroker, a stout man with an impressive mustache, looked up from behind the counter. His sharp eyes landed on Anne, narrowing slightly. “I know you,” he said, his tone skeptical.

“Let’s talk numbers,” Anne retorted, unfazed.

The man’s mustache twitched as he grinned, clearly amused by her boldness. The group placed their items on the counter. What followed was an intense match of bartering, Anne matching the pawnbroker’s every skeptical comment with sharp wit and unrelenting determination.

By the end of it, they had just enough money. They hurried to the nearby general store that sold light bulbs. The price was steep, but they could just about afford a full box, which Moody took a hold of.

“Does anyone else feel as triumphant as I do?” Anne asked, her voice brimming with pride.

But her triumph was short-lived. As they stepped outside, Moody stumbled on the uneven pavement, the box flying out of his hands. Time seemed to slow as it hit the ground with a sickening crash.

Everyone gathered around quickly, helping Moody to his feet. He was already opening the box, his hands shaking as he lifted the lid.

“No, no, no,” Moody muttered, his voice trembling. He pulled back the lid to reveal shards of broken glass glittering in the sunlight. Every single bulb was shattered.

A collective groan of despair rose from the group as they slumped onto the sidewalk. The weight of defeat hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke.

Ruby buried her face in her hands. “Now what?” she asked weakly.

Anne stared at the box, her expression frozen somewhere between disbelief and determination. “We can’t give up,” she said finally, though her voice lacked its usual conviction.

Thomas leaned back against the steps, running a hand through his hair. “I hate to say it, but we’re out of options.”

Reluctantly, the group rose to their feet and began walking toward Josephine Barry’s house. The excitement of their earlier plans had all but evaporated, replaced by a somber quiet.

The atmosphere inside Ms. Josephine Barry’s grand parlor was subdued, the group gathered in various states of frustration and defeat. Anne sat on the edge of a plush chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she recounted the series of unfortunate events that had led them here. Ms. Barry listened attentively, her fingers lightly tapping the armrest of her chair.

“My, this is a dreadful turn of events,” Ms. Barry said finally, her voice tinged with concern.

“What are you going to do now?” Cole asked, his tone quiet but expectant.

Anne hesitated, lowering her gaze. “I... I might be out of ideas,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly.

A collective hush fell over the room, broken only by Ruby’s soft, despairing cry. “But you’re never out of ideas!” she said, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“It’s all my fault,” Moody muttered, slumping further into the sofa. “Again.”

“It was an accident,” Diana tried to reassure him, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“My whole life’s an accident,” Moody mumbled, burying his face in his hands.

Standing in the back of the room, Thomas leaned against the wall, sipping from a glass of water Ms. Barry’s butler had brought. He felt a pang of sympathy for Moody, but he didn’t know what to say to lift the boy’s spirits. The group seemed on the verge of falling apart when Ms. Barry stood, crossing to the wall and flicking a light switch, illuminating the room.

“Rollings,” she called to her butler, “Do we have any ladders?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rollings replied, his brow furrowing slightly in question.

“Good,” Ms. Barry said. She turned back to the group with a smile. “Let’s gather the light bulbs from the house. I believe we can spare a few to aid your noble cause.”

For a moment, the group stared at her, stunned. Then Anne sprang to her feet, her eyes wide with renewed hope. “Ms. Barry, you’re brilliant!”

“It’s nothing, my dear,” Ms. Barry said with a wave of her hand. “Now, let’s get to work.”

The group dispersed through the house, guided by Rollings, who provided ladders and tools to help unscrew the light bulbs. Spirits lifted, the gang bustled with energy, the earlier defeat melting away as each bulb was carefully removed, inspected, and placed into the box. Even Moody seemed to regain some of his usual enthusiasm, standing on tiptoes to reach one of the bulbs.

Thomas worked silently, but he couldn’t help feeling a sense of camaraderie as he moved through the house with the others. By the time the box was refilled, it felt as though they had salvaged more than just light bulbs - they had salvaged hope.

As they prepared to leave, Ms. Barry handed Diana a small purse to cover their train fare back to Avonlea. She then turned to Thomas, her sharp eyes appraising him.

“Mr. Rockport,” she said smoothly, “a word?”

Thomas stiffened but nodded, stepping aside with her as the others busied themselves preparing to leave. Ms. Barry regarded him thoughtfully, her expression unreadable.

“I must say, I wasn’t surprised to see you involved in this little adventure,” she began. “Tell me, was it your idea?”

Thomas shook his head. “No, ma’am. It was all Anne’s plan.”

Ms. Barry’s lips quirked in a small smile. “I thought as much. Anne does have a knack for such things. However, I couldn’t help but remember something as I watched you here today.”

She paused, and Thomas felt his stomach tighten.

“The party I hosted some time ago,” she said, her tone casual but deliberate. “I was aware of your attendance, despite your clever disguise. I wasn’t under the impression that you were Robert Callahan’s nephew.”

Thomas exhaled slowly, meeting her gaze evenly. “I’m not,” he admitted.

Ms. Barry’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise, though her composure didn’t falter. “I see. That raises... quite a few questions.”

“I don’t have many answers,” Thomas said evasively.

Ms. Barry studied him for a long moment, then inclined her head. “Fair enough. But do be careful in your endeavors, Mr. Rockport. The world can be unkind to those who walk its edges.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas replied, his voice quiet.

With that, Ms. Barry patted his arm lightly and sent him on his way. He rejoined the group just as they were heading out the door, the box of light bulbs now securely in Anne’s hands.

When they arrived at the station, they found Gilbert waiting for them. He greeted the group with a smile, taking the box of bulbs from Anne. Inside the train, the group settled into the seats. But as the train’s whistle blew, signaling its imminent departure, Thomas noticed Cole and Anne were missing. 

Peering through the window, he spotted her on the platform with Cole, the two deep in conversation. Cole’s face was calm but resolute, while Anne’s was filled with distress. Thomas quickly opened the window and leaned out.

“What’s going on?” he called.

Anne glanced back at him, her voice thick with emotion. “Cole’s not coming. He’s staying here - with Aunt Jo.”

Thomas’s gaze met Cole’s, and for a moment, they studied each other in silence. Then Cole nodded, as if affirming his decision.

“It’s better this way, Anne,” Cole said gently. “I can be who I am here.”

Thomas exhaled, understanding the weight behind Cole’s words. “I get it,” he said, his tone steady. “Take care of yourself, Cole. We’ll see you again soon.”

Cole’s expression softened in gratitude. The train let out a final, urgent whistle. 

“Go,” Cole urged Anne, motioning toward the car. “You’ll miss the train. Go!”

Reluctantly, Anne climbed aboard, her face streaked with tears. 

With Anne safely out of earshot, Cole turned his gaze back to Thomas. “Take care of Anne for me.”

Thomas, still leaning partway out of the window, looked at Cole and shook his head faintly. “I think she can take care of herself.”

Cole smiled slightly, a mix of fondness and understanding in his expression. “She can. But it doesn’t hurt to have someone watching her back.”

Thomas didn’t respond, but he gave a small nod of acknowledgement before pulling his head back into the train car. Anne sat down across from Thomas, her forehead pressed to the window, watching Cole’s figure grow smaller and smaller in the distance. 

The train carried them onward, but Thomas couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a turning point - for Cole, for Anne, and perhaps, for himself.

The journey back to Avonlea was marked by anticipation and nervous energy. By the time the group arrived at the town hall, the meeting was already underway. The rest of their classmates were already waiting and they hurried up the steps to the balcony overlooking the hall. The muffled drone of the minister’s voice carried through the walls - a tone so heavy and monotonous it might as well have been a funeral service.

Inside, the main hall was packed, townsfolk filling every bench, their faces expectant and serious. From their vantage point on the balcony above, Thomas peered down at the stern figures of the school board members seated near the front, led by Mrs. Rachel Lynde and the minister. He quickly noted the absence of Miss Stacy.

“They didn’t even invite her,” Anne whispered bitterly, her voice shaking with frustration.

The minister continued his droning speech, extolling “what’s expected” of a teacher - values like order, discipline, and respect for tradition. Thomas rolled his eyes and leaned back against the railing.

“Come on, Thomas,” Anne whispered sharply, beckoning him over. He turned to see the others already hard at work on the balcony floor, kneeling over their makeshift contraptions. Nails, copper wires, and potatoes were spread out like tools in an inventor’s workshop.

Thomas sighed, crouching beside Moody and Ruby. “This plan is completely mad,” he muttered under his breath, though his hands were already helping Moody wrap wire tightly around a nail.

“It’s brilliant,” Anne corrected, her voice brimming with determined energy. “Miss Stacy deserves this.”

Thomas didn’t argue further. He wasn’t sure what was more exhausting - the plan or Anne’s unrelenting optimism. And yet, despite himself, he worked faster.

Suddenly, the air in the hall shifted. The sound of rattling and the sharp backfire of an engine echoed from outside. The droning stopped. Heads turned. A second later, the heavy doors at the back of the hall swung open with a gust of cold air, and there she was - Miss Stacy, her face set with quiet determination.

“Miss Stacy!” Mrs. Rachel Lynde’s sharp voice cut through the hall, her expression a mix of irritation and disbelief. “If you don’t mind, we’re conducting a meeting. I don’t recall your presence being requested!”

Miss Stacy’s footsteps echoed as she strode purposefully down the center aisle, her eyes unwavering. “Indeed, my presence was not requested,” she replied calmly, a faint smile curving her lips. “But I feel I have a right to speak on my own behalf.”

The murmur of the crowd subsided. The board members exchanged glances, and Rachel Lynde reluctantly sat down. Miss Stacy turned to face the room, her gaze sweeping over the townsfolk.

“It would be easier on all of us if I left,” she began, her voice clear and steady. “You cannot imagine I want to cause dissent in your community, or that I appreciate being accused of purposefully doing so.”

The room fell silent. Even from the balcony, Thomas could see the weight of her words settling over the crowd. She paused, letting the silence hang for a moment before continuing.

“I’m here tonight because I asked myself a question that I now ask you: What is the most important thing to focus on regarding your children’s education? ”

A few townsfolk exchanged uneasy looks.

“Petty jealousy?” Miss Stacy continued. “Prejudice? Fear?” Her voice softened, but the conviction remained. “The important question to ask yourself is: Are your children learning? I believe the answer is yes.”

She spoke with conviction, admitting her methods are unusual, but that hands-on learning has proven to be more effective. She acknowledged that change can be uncomfortable, but that it is inevitable for growth. She explained how she wants to prepare the students to be able to bring positive change to the world.

“That’s why I’m here,” she concluded.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. At that moment, Anne gave a quick nod, and the students emerged into the hall. Thomas followed his classmates, holding his own contraption with a careful grip. Together, they marched down the center aisle, their faces glowing with quiet determination. In their hands, the copper wires and potatoes had done the impossible - each light bulb illuminated, a testament to what they had learned.

Gasps echoed through the hall as the crowd turned, mouths agape. Thomas could see the faces of the townsfolk - curiosity, surprise, even awe. Miss Stacy’s expression softened as her eyes settled on her students, and for a brief moment, Thomas thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes.

Anne took her place at the front of the group, her light bulb held high. “What you’ve just witnessed is the effect of Miss Stacy’s methods in action,” she declared proudly, her voice carrying through the room. “She taught us about electricity, but she also showed us the spirit of enthusiasm and curiosity we needed to make this happen.”

Miss Stacy gave her a small, proud smile.

“Miss Stacy is an inspiration,” Anne continued. “We learned more from her in a week than we learned in a year.” She paused before adding, “Tell me, and I forget. Teach me, and I remember. Involve me, and I learn. Different isn’t bad - it’s just not the same.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Matthew Cuthbert rose slowly from his seat, his voice tentative but resolute. “There’s always another way to look at things.”

Gilbert was next, stepping forward with confidence. “Miss Stacy supports my ambition to become a doctor,” he said. “I believe she’s our chance to help us realize our dreams and become more than we are now.”

Marilla Cuthbert rose next, her voice carrying strength. “Change is the only way to grow and learn,” she said firmly.

Finally, despite his father’s warnings, Thomas felt compelled to step forward as well.

“Miss Stacy cares deeply for the well-being and growth of each and every one of her students,” he said, his voice steady and calm. “She is the teacher Avonlea needs.”

Finally, Rachel Lynde stood. “Let’s put this to a vote,” she announced. “All in favor of keeping Miss Stacy?”

She raised her own hand, a small but unmistakable smile curling at her lips. One by one, hands began to rise across the hall. Slowly at first, but then all at once. The students erupted into cheers and laughter.

“We did it!” Anne exclaimed, her voice filled with triumph.

As the celebration swirled around him, Thomas noticed his father lurking in the back of the hall, his eyes sharply fixed on him. Thomas met his gaze, defiantly raising the lightbulb contraption above his head. His father turned and left.

Chapter Text

The schoolhouse hummed with a renewed energy that morning. The sun filtered through the large windows, casting a golden hue over the classroom. The wooden desks, once occupied by a room of uncertain students, now housed bright-eyed learners eager to begin the day under Miss Stacy’s guidance once more.

She stood at the front of the classroom, her eyes softened as she looked out at her students - the very ones who had fought to keep her here.

“I hope you all know just how much last night meant to me,” she began warmly. “What you did - standing up for me, for what you believe in - was nothing short of courageous.”

Thomas, sitting toward the back, kept his gaze low, listening intently but not quite meeting her eyes. He had been part of that moment, part of the defiance, and yet it felt… complicated. He had seen his father’s expression before leaving the town hall the previous night. That lingering warning had stayed with him.

Miss Stacy continued, her voice gentle but firm. “I want you all to remember something. Education is about more than just books and lessons. It’s about learning how to think for yourselves, how to challenge ideas, and how to stand firm in what you believe is right. And that is exactly what you all did.”

Anne sat straighter in her seat, beaming with pride. Thomas sighed. If only things were that simple, he thought.

Miss Stacy’s expression grew thoughtful. “And that, my dear students, leads us to today’s lesson: perspective.”

She strode to the chalkboard and, in a fluid motion, drew a simple number on the board: a sideways 6, or 9, depending on the direction you looked at it from. She turned to the class, tapping the chalk against the board.

“What do you see?” she asked.

The students hesitated, then a few voices chimed in.

“Six!” Ruby said confidently.

“Nine!” Charlie countered.

A murmur of disagreement rippled through the classroom as students looked at each other, some twisting in their seats to get a different angle.

Miss Stacy smiled. “This is the foundation of perspective. You’re all looking at the same thing, yet you see it differently. That doesn’t mean one of you is wrong. It simply means you are seeing it from different angles.” She stepped back, tapping the board. “Perspective changes everything. Sometimes, what we believe to be true isn’t the only truth - there’s another side to every story.”

Thomas leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. 

Miss Stacy continued, “To explore this further, we’re going to do something a little different. A debate exercise.” A few groans echoed. “I will assign you pairs, and you’ll each be given a viewpoint to argue - whether you personally agree with it or not.”

She moved through the names, pairing off students. Thomas only half-listened until he heard -

“Thomas, you’ll be with… Josie Pye.”

His head snapped up.

Josie Pye groaned audibly. “Oh, fantastic.”

Miss Stacy ignored her reaction and gave them their debate topic: "Are rules meant to be followed unconditionally, or should they be questioned?"

Thomas exhaled sharply. This is going to be a disaster.

Josie, of course, took the side that rules should always be followed. “Without rules, everything would fall apart,” she said, tilting her nose up. “Society thrives on order.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Blindly following rules without questioning them is how you end up with corruption. Just because something is written down doesn’t mean it’s right.”

Josie scoffed. “Spoken like someone who’s always getting in trouble.”

Thomas clenched his jaw. “Spoken like someone who never thinks for herself.”

As the debate went on, Josie’s arguments grew more circular, filled with contradictions she didn’t seem to notice. She insisted that rules were made by people who always knew better and should never be questioned, yet in the same breath, she whined about the school board trying to remove Miss Stacy. Thomas pointed this out, and Josie sputtered indignantly.

“I - I didn’t mean those rules!” she snapped.

“Oh, so we only question rules when they inconvenience you ?” Thomas shot back, his irritation growing.

Before it could escalate further, Miss Stacy stepped in, her gaze knowing. “Alright, let’s switch things up. Thomas, you’ll partner with Anne.”

Thomas sighed in relief, moving across the classroom to sit beside Anne.

Their topic was "Is imagination more important than practicality?"

Anne, naturally, championed imagination, while Thomas argued for practicality. At first, it seemed like they would be at odds, but as they discussed, they found themselves genuinely considering each other’s points.

“You can’t only be practical,” Anne insisted. “Some of the greatest minds in history were dreamers before they were inventors.”

“And some of the worst disasters in history happened because people didn’t think realistically,” Thomas countered. “Dreams don’t build bridges - plans do.”

“But without imagination, those plans wouldn’t exist in the first place!” Anne exclaimed.

Thomas had no immediate comeback to that. He hesitated, then smirked. “Alright, fair point.”

Anne beamed, satisfied.

Miss Stacy watched them closely, her eyes glinting with quiet approval.

Lunchtime arrived with a flurry of activity as students unwrapped sandwiches, shared sweets, and huddled in their usual groups. The classroom was still buzzing from the morning’s debate exercise, but now the conversations had turned to more casual matters.

Anne, Diana, Ruby, and Moody sat together in the far corner of the room, their lunch spread between them as they chattered enthusiastically. Thomas, however, stood a short distance away, leaning against the windowsill with a newspaper in hand, skimming through the headlines. He had yet to touch his lunch, his focus shifting between the printed words and the idle chatter of his classmates.

The conversation soon drifted toward Cole, and Anne’s enthusiasm dimmed instantly. Her sandwich rested forgotten in her lap as she frowned.

“I still can’t believe he stayed in Charlottetown,” she complained, her voice tinged with sadness. “I just… I feel like we left him behind.”

Thomas, still absorbed in the paper, casually chimed in, “It’s what he wanted, Anne.”

Anne whipped her head toward him, her frustration clear in the sharpness of her voice. “Thomas, how can you be so..-so unfeeling about this?”

Thomas sighed, lowering the newspaper and folding it neatly before setting it aside. He turned to face her, his expression unreadable.

“I’m not,” he said simply. “It was his choice.”

Anne crossed her arms. “That doesn’t mean it was the right choice.”

Thomas exhaled, shifting from the windowsill and walking over to the group. He took a seat beside them. Ruby, who had been sitting next to Diana, immediately perked up and dug into her lunch basket, pulling out an apple. With a small, shy smile, she offered it to Thomas.

Thomas blinked in slight surprise before taking it, nodding his thanks, “Much obliged.” 

Ruby’s smile doubled in brightness, and she ducked her head, focusing intently on her sandwich. Diana shot her a knowing look but said nothing.

Thomas turned his attention back to Anne. “Look, I get it,” he admitted, turning the apple in his hand. “You miss him. I do too. But I’m not going to selfishly try to change his mind when he made a decision that was right for him .”

Anne hesitated, her lips pressing together. She knew Thomas had a point, but that didn’t mean she liked it.

Diana, ever the peacemaker, placed a gentle hand on Anne’s arm. “He did seem happy there, Anne. He felt like he belonged.”

Anne sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I know,” she conceded quietly. “I just wish he could have found that here.”

The group sat in silence for a moment, letting the weight of Cole’s absence settle over them. Then, as if sensing the need for a change in mood, Anne perked up slightly.

“Oh! But let’s not wallow in sorrow forever,” she said, eyes gleaming once more. “I have some thrilling news!”

That was all it took. Ruby and Diana leaned in eagerly, while Moody arched a curious brow. Thomas, chewing thoughtfully on his apple, merely waited.

“What is it?” Diana asked.

Anne grinned. “Sebastian is getting married this weekend in Charlottetown!”

The reaction was immediate.

Diana gasped in delight, her hands clasping together. “Oh, how romantic!”

Ruby let out a small squeal, her face alight with glee. “A wedding? Oh, I love weddings! Do you think it’ll be a big one? With a beautiful gown and music and-”

Thomas and Moody exchanged an amused look as the girls descended further into their gossip, and remained silent observers.

The afternoon light slanted through the schoolhouse windows, painting the wooden floor in golden hues as the lesson wound to a close. Miss Stacy was just finishing up the day's discussion when the classroom door creaked open, drawing everyone's attention.

A man stood in the doorway, adjusting his hat with an apologetic smile. He was well-dressed but not overly formal, with a neatly trimmed mustache and sharp eyes that immediately scanned the room with curiosity.

“Pardon the intrusion,” he began, his voice smooth and practiced, the tone of someone used to addressing crowds. “My name is Edwin Carter. I’m a journalist from The Charlottetown Gazette .”

A murmur spread through the classroom. Thomas stiffened in his seat.

Mr. Carter continued, stepping further inside. “I’ve heard about the controversy surrounding Miss Stacy’s teaching methods - how unconventional they are - and how the students of Avonlea stood up for their teacher. Quite a remarkable story.” His lips curved into a knowing smile. “And I’d like to write about it.”

Anne practically vibrated in her seat, her excitement barely contained. “A newspaper article ! Oh, how marvelous! Just imagine - our story, printed for all of Prince Edward Island to see!

Miss Stacy, though surprised, remained composed. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Carter,” she said warmly. “If you believe this is a story worth telling, I’d be happy to assist you.”

“I would love to hear from some of the students as well,” the journalist added. “The ones who spoke up at the meeting, who demonstrated such passion and courage.”

As Miss Stacy turned to select the students who would stay behind, Thomas shifted uneasily in his seat, then raised a hand slightly.

“Miss Stacy,” he began, “ I, uh-..I really should be getting home. My father asked me to help him with, um… fixing the roof.” He glanced up, trying to appear earnest.

Miss Stacy turned to him, her expression calm but skeptical.

Before she could answer, Anne piped up cheerfully from the side.

“But I thought you said your father was gone until tomorrow?”

Thomas froze. His jaw clenched as he slowly turned to give Anne a look of quiet exasperation.

Miss Stacy’s gaze lingered on Thomas for a long moment before she replied evenly.

“You’ll be staying, then.”

Thomas sighed and sat back, silently cursing his luck.

A handful of students - Anne, Gilbert, Diana, Ruby, and Thomas - were chosen, having played the biggest roles in Miss Stacy’s defense. The rest of the students gathered their belongings and filed out, whispering amongst themselves about the unexpected excitement.

Thomas, however, remained in his seat, unmoving. His stomach twisted. This is bad.

He had spoken in front of an entire hall of people in defense of Miss Stacy, but a newspaper article ? A written account with his name in print for anyone to read? That was an entirely different level of exposure. The exact kind of attention his father had warned him against.

The interviews began, with Mr. Carter speaking to each student in turn. Anne, of course, took center stage, launching into an impassioned speech about Miss Stacy’s brilliance, the importance of education, and how change should be embraced, not feared. Gilbert followed, speaking eloquently about how Miss Stacy’s teaching encouraged students to think critically. Diana and Ruby added their own voices, emphasizing how Miss Stacy had made learning enjoyable in a way that Mr. Phillips never had.

Thomas barely heard any of it. His mind was racing, scrambling for a way out. If he left now, it would look odd. If he refused to answer, it would raise questions. He needed an excuse, something-

“Thomas, was it?” Mr. Carter called, turning toward him with interest. 

Thomas hesitated. He felt the weight of multiple gazes - Anne’s, Miss Stacy’s, the journalist’s - settle on him. There was no way out of this.

“Yes,” Thomas replied with a short nod.

Mr. Carter smiled, expecting more. When none came, he pressed on. “You were there at the town hall meeting. You stood up to speak on Miss Stacy’s behalf?”

“I did,” Thomas said, his tone unreadable.

“What made you do it?” Mr. Carter asked, his voice warm, trying to draw him out.

“It felt right,” Thomas said, his words clipped.

Mr. Carter blinked, thrown off by the brevity. “And what about Miss Stacy’s teaching do you find most… impactful?”

Thomas looked toward the window, letting a moment pass. “She teaches,” he said.

“She… teaches,” Mr. Carter repeated, confused. “Well-yes, of course, but how is it different from other teachers you’ve had?”

Anne, who had been watching him closely, noticed the tension in his posture, the clipped way he spoke. This wasn’t like Thomas. He wasn’t the most expressive person, but this - this was different .

“She listens,” Thomas said. “Treats us like we matter.”

The reporter’s pen hovered over his notebook. “Right. And how did it feel, being part of such a public stand? That kind of attention isn’t easy for everyone.”

“It was a moment,” Thomas said. “It passed.”

“You don’t seem particularly eager to be in the spotlight,” Mr. Carter observed.

“I’m not,” Thomas answered flatly.

Mr. Carter seemed to sense the resistance but pressed forward anyway. “Well, you seem like someone who doesn’t shy away from speaking his mind. Would you say-”

“I don’t have anything else to say,” Thomas cut him off abruptly.

An awkward silence fell over the room. Mr. Carter blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden shutdown. Miss Stacy’s sharp gaze flickered between them, noting the change in Thomas’s demeanor.

Mr. Carter opened his mouth to press further, then thought better of it. “Right. Of course,” he said, scribbling a few final lines in his notebook. “Well, thank you for your time.”

Miss Stacy gave a polite nod. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Carter. I trust you’ll handle the story with care.”

“I always do,” Mr. Carter replied, tipping his hat as he made his way to the door. “Best of luck to all of you.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, a strange silence fell over the classroom.

Anne turned to Thomas slowly. “You were… strange,” she said, studying him.

Thomas was already reaching for his satchel. “Just tired,” he replied, not meeting her eyes.

Anne narrowed hers, unconvinced. “Are you sure—?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Thomas interrupted, already moving toward the door.

Miss Stacy’s expression was unreadable, but her concern had deepened. She had suspected for some time now that Thomas was guarding something - something important. And today had only strengthened that suspicion.

She was beginning to wonder if whatever Thomas was hiding… was more serious than she had originally thought.

“—and everyone was so thrilled to have Miss Stacy back! Her lesson today was unforgettable!”

Anne’s voice rang through the kitchen at Green Gables like a windchime in a spring breeze. She was perched on the corner of the old wooden table, swinging one foot absentmindedly while stuffing her mouth with one of Marilla’s fresh currant scones, still warm from the oven. Between bites, she continued, words muffled with pastry.

“She talked about perspective , and made us all debate opposing sides of things - even things we disagreed with! It was brilliant, Marilla. Absolutely brilliant.”

Marilla glanced at her over a bowl of peeled apples, a dry smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Mind you don’t choke on your brilliance,” she said calmly, handing another apple to Matthew without looking.

“Oh, and then—then! You’ll never believe it,” Anne said with a dramatic gulp, swallowing the last bite. “A real journalist! From Charlottetown! He came to the school just to write an article about Miss Stacy. Apparently, our little protest and the potato-light demonstration made quite the stir.”

Matthew, sitting quietly near the window let out a soft chuckle. “Is that so?”

“Isn’t it marvelous?” Anne beamed, hugging her knees. “He even interviewed a bunch of us after class - Ruby, Diana, Gilbert... everyone was so excited to be asked!”

She paused, the warmth in her voice dipping ever so slightly.

“Well... almost everyone.”

Marilla’s paring knife slowed just enough to catch the shift. She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

Anne went quiet. Her gaze drifted out the kitchen window, her thoughts spiraling toward the one person who hadn’t shared in their excitement.

Thomas.

She tilted her head slightly, resting her chin on her knees. He was always quiet, always carried himself like someone keeping watch over something no one else could see. But today... it had been different. Detached, like he was halfway out the door even when standing right in front of her. His answers to the journalist had been clipped, cold. His eyes hadn’t met anyone’s. She could still picture him leaving the schoolhouse, his shoulders stiff like stone, vanishing down the path without a word.

She frowned faintly. Something was wrong. She just didn’t know what.

Before she could dwell on it further, Matthew’s voice broke through the haze.

“Anne, would you mind grabbing that twine from the barn for me? I’ve gone and forgotten it again.”

Anne blinked, startled out of her thoughts. “Of course,” she said quickly, hopping off the table. Her skirt swished around her legs as she moved, but her mind remained behind in the kitchen, still trailing after the boy who’d walked away without saying goodbye.

Days later, the morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of the Creekside manor, casting long bars of gold across the kitchen floor. Thomas stood stiffly near the hearth, arms crossed, as his father scribbled the last of a note and folded it crisply.

“You’ll go to Blythe’s today,” his father announced without looking up. “The apples are ready.”

Thomas blinked, caught off guard. “Apples?”

“A crate. Every month. We’re paying him fair, it’s settled already. You’ll collect it.”

Thomas hesitated. “But why apples from them all of a sudden? We have our own—”

His father’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing with sharp finality. “It’s not your place to ask. You’ll go.”

Thomas held his tongue. He knew better than to push his father, especially now. He had been extra cold lately given Thomas’s disobedience. Luckily, he had not heard of the journalist and the article.

He stepped out into the cool spring air. The path to the Blythe farm was familiar, but it still felt foreign to him - perched on a rise with open skies and the scent of tilled earth drifting through the breeze.

By the time he reached the porch, the midday sun had warmed the wood beneath his boots. He knocked firmly on the door.

A pause. Then, the door creaked open.

A woman stood on the threshold, her complexion dark, her eyes scanning him with immediate suspicion. Her expression was wary - not unkind, but certainly guarded. She was holding a cloth in one hand, drying her fingers as if she'd come straight from the kitchen.

“Yes?” she asked plainly.

Thomas cleared his throat, trying not to appear caught off guard. “Sorry—uh, I’m here for the apples. My father arranged it with Gilbert?”

Her brow arched slightly. “Gilbert’s gone into Charlottetown for the day.”

That answer left an awkward pause lingering in the air. Her gaze didn’t waver. She was studying him, trying to place him.

Thomas shifted on his feet, then offered a slight smile, gesturing vaguely. “You must be—Mrs. Lacroix?”

Her expression flickered—surprise? Amusement? Uncertainty? It was hard to tell. “I am.”

“I… I heard about the wedding,” Thomas said, a little sheepishly. “Congratulations. To both of you. It’s… it’s good to see new faces around here.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if testing for sarcasm or some hidden barbed sentiment. There was none. Thomas’s voice held a quiet sincerity.

“Thank you,” she replied, cautiously.

Before the awkward silence could deepen, a familiar voice rang out from behind her.

“Thomas Rockport! As I live and breathe.”

Sebastian appeared from around the side of the house, wiping dirt from his hands with a rag. His face lit up in recognition. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you today.”

Thomas allowed himself a brief smile. “Apparently my father has developed a taste for your apples.”

Bash chuckled. “Can’t say I blame him. Come on, I’ll help you with the crate. Mary, this is the boy I told you about - from the Christmas play.”

Mary gave him another measured look, then nodded politely. “I remember. You stood up for my Bash.”

Thomas dipped his head slightly, modest. “It was the right thing to do.”

Mary didn’t smile, but something in her posture softened - just a little.

“Come on,” Bash said, patting Thomas on the shoulder. “Cellar’s this way.”

They descended together into the cool dim of the cellar, lantern light casting soft golden glows across the wooden shelves stacked with preserves, vegetables, and sacks of stored goods. Bash tugged at one of the burlap sacks resting on a low shelf and tore it open, the scent of ripe apples wafting out.

Thomas grabbed an empty crate and the two of them began to fill it together in a quiet, companionable rhythm. Bash whistled softly as he worked, the tune light and casual. For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

“You always this quiet, or am I just that intimidating?” he asked with a lopsided grin, glancing at Thomas over the rim of the apple sack.

Thomas looked up briefly, catching the slight edge of uncertainty in Bash’s voice. It wasn’t overt, but it was there - the kind of unease that came from too many sideways glances. Thomas recognized it. 

“Only around towering men with impeccable beards,” Thomas replied dryly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Bash blinked, then barked a laugh. The tension broke.

“Alright, I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, shaking his head. “Gilbert mentioned you were sharp. Says you two always compete for top marks, along with Anne.”

Thomas shrugged. “I guess. ”

There was another brief silence.

“You strike me as someone who keeps to himself,” Bash said finally.

Thomas shot him a glance. “What makes you say that?”

Bash looked away, “Just a feeling. I used to be the same way. Took me a long time to stop looking over my shoulder.”

Thomas didn’t answer, just picked up another apple and set it gently into the crate.

“It’s not wrong to be guarded,” Bash continued. “Some places, some people, teach you it’s safer that way. But eventually, you find a place—or a few people—that make it worth letting your guard down.”

Thomas stood still for a beat, then tilted his head toward Bash. “You always give out wisdom with the produce?”

That earned another rich laugh from Bash. “Only to folks who look like they need it.”

Thomas cracked a genuine smile then, the first in days.

As he walked down the path back home, the weight of the apples pressed into his shoulder, but his thoughts lingered behind him - on Bash’s advice.

It wasn’t much. But it was different.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The morning had begun dry, but by noon the clouds hung low and sullen, trading moments of calm with short, sharp bursts of rain. Thomas walked through the soft mud of Avonlea’s main road, his coat damp and his hood drawn up as he made his way toward the general store.

The bell above the door gave a dull ring as he stepped inside. The air within was warm and thick with the scent of flour, dried herbs, and tobacco. It was more crowded than usual, filled with the soft murmur of conversation and the sound of boots on old wooden floors. Thomas brushed the rain from his sleeves and took his place in line behind a familiar figure.

Ruby Gillis stood at the counter, arms full and visibly flustered, trying to manage a basket of goods and her coin purse with limited success. Her cheeks were pink as she fumbled to hand over her payment.

“That’ll be sixty-five cents,” the shopkeeper said, scooping the coins into his hand and hastily dropping a few back into Ruby’s palm. She murmured a quiet “thank you” and turned to leave.

Thomas’s eyes lingered on the exchange. Something didn’t sit right. As the shopkeeper turned to the till, Thomas stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” he said evenly, “but I think you gave her too little back. She paid with a full dollar.”

The man blinked, frowning. “Did I now?”

Ruby turned, startled. “Oh… I didn’t— I didn’t notice…”

Thomas could hear the nervousness in her voice. She genuinely hadn’t realized. He wasn’t sure why he had bothered to say anything, but it felt wrong to let it pass.

The shopkeeper grumbled under his breath, counted again, and sighed. “So I did. Sorry about that, miss.” He handed her the remainder.

Ruby accepted it with wide eyes and a soft, “Thank you,” barely more than a whisper. She glanced at Thomas, but quickly looked away, her blush deepening.

Thomas offered a small nod and turned to the counter.

“Just the matches,” he said, placing the small box down.

The shopkeeper rang it up without comment. Thomas paid, pocketed his change, and stepped outside into the humid air, now dry again—for the moment.

To his mild surprise, Ruby was still there, standing beneath the overhang by the window, clutching her parcel and looking out toward the road with quiet uncertainty. The air between them felt faintly charged as he approached.

“I—thank you,” Ruby said softly, her eyes not quite meeting his. “Back there. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It happens,” Thomas replied. “They get careless when it’s busy.”

A pause settled between them.

“I was waiting for the rain to stop,” she added, glancing up at the sky. “It’ll start again soon, I think.”

Thomas followed her gaze. “Probably. You heading home?”

She nodded.

“So am I,” he said. “If you don’t mind the company.”

He didn’t know why he’d offered. He was usually fine walking alone. But something about Ruby’s stillness made him feel... responsible, maybe. Or just curious.

Ruby looked up at him then, the barest flicker of surprise in her eyes. She hesitated for a breath, then gave a small nod. “I don’t mind.”

They stepped off the wooden porch and onto the road, heading in the direction of the path that curved out toward the open fields. Thomas kept pace beside her, his boots squelching in the soft earth.

“I usually do the errands with my sisters,” Ruby said after a while, her voice low. “But Prissy came by and swept them off on some... urgent business. So I was left alone.”

She wasn’t complaining. If anything, it sounded like she was trying to explain why she’d ended up in town without company, as if it needed justification.

Thomas nodded, unsure what to say. 

A stretch of silence followed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He caught a few glances from Ruby—quick ones, like she was trying to figure out whether or not to say something more.

Then, without warning, the clouds opened again - this time harder than before. The downpour came fast and heavy, soaking them in seconds.

“Here!” Thomas called, gesturing toward a large maple tree just off the road. The two of them darted beneath it, the wide canopy shielding them from the worst of it.

They stood close together, catching their breath. Water dripped from Ruby’s sleeves, her parcel now damp despite her attempts to shield it.

“Guess we weren’t fast enough,” she said, brushing rain from her forehead.

Thomas pushed his hood back. “Could be worse. At least there’s cover.”

The space beneath the tree was quiet, save for the rhythmic patter of rain above. He could hear her breathing, light and quick beside him.

She seemed smaller somehow, under the tree like this—quieter than she was among the chattering girls at school.

Ruby stole a glance at him. “You’re... good at noticing things.”

Thomas raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Back at the store. I wouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t even realize.”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

They stood in silence again, listening to the rain. Then, just as it began to lighten, a voice called out from up the path.

“Thomas? Ruby?”

Miss Stacy emerged from the bend, umbrella in hand, her dark coat buttoned high. She looked at them both with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

“Taking shelter under a tree—very practical,” she said with a knowing smile.

Ruby straightened, her posture stiffening slightly. “Hello, Miss Stacy,” she offered quickly.

“I’ll walk with you from here,” the teacher said, stepping closer and raising her umbrella a little. “Best not to tempt another cloudburst.”

Thomas and Ruby stepped from under the tree, and together the three of them continued down the lane, the puddles glistening faintly as the last of the storm faded behind them.

They walked in silence until the road split, one path leading north toward the Gillis farm, the other veering eastward toward the fields and the wooded trail beyond. Ruby paused at the fork, adjusting the damp parcel in her arms.

“This is me,” she said softly.

Thomas nodded. “Alright then.”

She hesitated, as though wanting to say more, but instead offered a small smile. “Goodbye.”

He dipped his head. “Goodbye.”

Ruby glanced once at Miss Stacy, murmured a polite “Good afternoon,” and turned to walk her way, her boots squelching in the wet earth as she disappeared up the lane.

Miss Stacy and Thomas continued on, their footsteps falling into an easy rhythm.

“She’s a good-hearted girl,” Miss Stacy said, glancing briefly back toward the fork. “Not as confident as she wishes to be, I think, but thoughtful.”

Thomas didn’t reply at first. He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t used to being asked for his thoughts on people.

“She tries,” he said after a moment.

Miss Stacy gave a nod, a quiet smile forming. “So do you.”

They walked for a while without speaking. The rain had stopped, but the smell of damp fields and wet grass hung thick in the air. Birds had begun to call again, timidly testing the sky.

“You know,” Miss Stacy said gently, “it’s not easy for someone new to find their place here. Avonlea doesn’t always take kindly to change. But you’ve managed, in your own way.”

Thomas kept his eyes forward. “I suppose.”

“Not everyone does it with grace,” she added. “You keep to yourself, but you don’t hide. There’s a difference.”

Thomas glanced at her, uncertain what she meant. His father’s voice flickered in his head. He’d promised to keep his distance, but it was harder than expected. Especially when someone was kind without asking anything in return.

Before he could reply, a sharp sound broke the calm — a frantic thudding of hooves, fast and uneven.

Miss Stacy stopped short. “What on earth—?”

Then the horse appeared.

It tore around the bend ahead of them, eyes wild, nostrils flared, its reins trailing behind and hooves kicking up clods of wet dirt. Soaked and terrified, it barreled straight down the path toward them.

Miss Stacy froze.

Thomas didn’t. He seized her arm and pulled her off the road with a firm, controlled motion, both of them pressed against the ditch's edge as the animal thundered past, missing them by only a few feet.

The horse veered into the open field beside the path, circling and tossing its head, still frenzied.

Far in the distance, an older man was hobbling after it, shouting hoarsely. He was limping, clearly struggling to keep pace.

Thomas’s eyes followed the panicked animal. “Stay here,” he said, already moving.

He jumped the ditch and over the fence into the field, approaching with slow, deliberate movements. The horse caught sight of him and reared slightly, striking the air with its forelegs.

Thomas stopped a good distance away, unmoving, letting the horse see him. It snorted, pawed at the earth, tossed its head again. He waited. Then, slowly, began to close the gap.

Miss Stacy watched from the path, her hand still pressed to her chest, breath shallow. The way Thomas moved — no fear, no hesitation, only quiet control — was unlike anything she had seen before, especially from someone so young.

The horse reared again, but Thomas sidestepped it with fluid ease, calm as ever. He didn’t flinch, didn’t shout. Just waited, patient. Let it see that he wasn’t a threat.

Finally, the horse’s panic seemed to wane. Its movements slowed. Thomas stepped closer again, extending a hand toward the bridle. The horse huffed, ears twitching - but didn’t pull away.

Gently, Thomas laid his hand on its muzzle.

“There you go,” he murmured, barely audible.

He took hold of the reins just as the older man reached them, panting and red-faced.

“Saints above,” the man wheezed. “You— you caught him! Oh, bless you, lad. Thank you. Thank you.”

Thomas nodded, passing the reins into the man’s hands. “He's just scared. Make sure the harness is dry next time.”

The man gave a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve got a gift, you do.”

Miss Stacy had stepped closer now, watching as Thomas turned and made his way back to the path, shaking mud from his sleeves. There was no swagger in him, no pride — only that quiet, composed calm.

“Are you alright?” he asked her.

“I should be asking you that,” she replied, still a little stunned. “That was... quite something.”

He looked away. “Just didn’t want anyone getting hurt.”

They resumed walking, the sound of the horse and its grateful owner fading behind them.

“You didn’t hesitate,” Miss Stacy said after a time. “That sort of instinct doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

Thomas said nothing.

A moment passed. Sensing Thomas’s reluctance, she tried a different approach.

“You know,” she said, “when I was your age, I used to fantasize about running away with the circus.”

That earned a faint glance from him, brow slightly raised.

“True story,” she continued, undeterred. “I thought I’d ride bareback on galloping horses and wear those ridiculous feathered costumes. My father told me I was daft.”

Thomas remained silent, but she could see the faintest edge of a smile trying not to surface.

“What changed your mind?” he asked at last.

“I realized I liked teaching more,” she said. “And I learned that being brave isn’t always about doing something wild. Sometimes it’s about showing up where people don’t expect you to.”

They walked a bit farther.

“I suppose that’s what you did,” she added. “No feathers or galloping horse, but not many people could’ve done what you just did.”

“I just didn’t want anyone to get trampled,” Thomas muttered.

Miss Stacy gave a small laugh. “A practical answer, from a very unordinary boy.”

They reached the turnoff near the schoolhouse where her path veered.

“This is me,” she said, pausing. “Back to collect some forgotten papers.”

Thomas nodded.

“Thank you for the company,” she said warmly. “And for today. You showed a great deal more than you meant to, I think.”

He gave a faint nod. “Good day, Miss Stacy.”

“And you, Thomas.”

She watched him go a little longer than she needed to.

A few days later, the skies had cleared and Avonlea Schoolhouse sat beneath a soft spring sun, its windows aglow with afternoon light. Inside, the students were restless, shifting in their seats as Miss Stacy stood at the front, hands clasped.

“For the remainder of the lesson, you’ll be working in pairs” she said brightly, “Not only that—but this will be a test of your wit, practicality, and perhaps a bit of imagination.”

A collective groan rippled across the room. Thomas slouched slightly in his seat.

Miss Stacy scribbled a single word on the board behind her: Farming.

Another louder groan followed, this time from nearly every corner.

“Yes, I know,” she continued with a playful smile. “But farming is the heart of our community. If you want to make change in a place like Avonlea, you must first understand what sustains it.”

She turned back to the board and began writing swiftly.

“Each pair will be given a hypothetical plot of land, a modest budget, and a list of available tools, livestock, and crops. Your task is to design a working farm: what will you grow? Where will you build? How will you spend your money? Think about the seasons, the soil, the risks of drought or blight. The pair with the most thoughtful, practical plan will be declared the winners.”

“That’s a lot to do,” Moody muttered from behind his notebook.

Miss Stacy turned, one brow raised. “Indeed, which is why winners will also receive—” she paused for effect, “a reward.”

That brought the class upright.

“What kind of reward?” called out Tillie.

“A small prize of my choosing,” Miss Stacy replied mysteriously. “But trust me, it’s worth competing for.”

A ripple of new energy ran through the class.

“I’ve already made the pairings,” she added, with just enough authority to stop the murmuring. “So no trades, bribes, or appeals.”

Thomas leaned back slightly in his seat, arms folded across his chest.

Miss Stacy began reading out the names.

“Anne and Gilbert.”

Predictable. He glanced over. The two were already exchanging a look—half excitement, half rivalry. They’d win. No doubt about it.

“Moody and Josie.”

A groan from Moody, a theatrical sigh from Josie.

“Ruby and Thomas.”

Thomas blinked. Of course.

His eyes flicked briefly to Miss Stacy, who had already moved on to the next pair without missing a beat. He knew better. This wasn't a coincidence. Not a chance.

Across the room, Ruby sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looking like she might vanish into her desk if she sat still enough. Her cheeks were already pink.

They hadn’t really spoken since the store. Not properly. Nor had they ever been paired for a task. And now they had to work together?

Still, he rose, slipping his journal under his arm and moving across the room to her desk. She shifted nervously as he sat down.

“Hey,” he said simply.

Ruby nodded. “Hello.”

Miss Stacy began handing out assignment sheets, and the class settled into work.

Thomas skimmed the instructions quickly, scanning the crop list, tool inventory, and budget line. He was no farmer, and knew little of it. Still, he picked up the pencil and began making notations in the margins, calculating costs, outlining storage placement, drafting a rough grid of the field layout.

Around them, quills scratched and whispers drifted. Thomas glanced around - Anne and Gilbert were already writing, heads bent close, discussing something intently.

Next to him, Ruby hadn’t touched her page.

He kept writing, but after a few minutes, stole another glance.

Still empty. Her pencil hovered above the paper, unmoving. Her eyes were downcast, her brow furrowed in quiet panic. 

Thomas found himself growing impatient — not with her, but with the situation. It would be easier to do it alone. He was used to relying only on himself, solving problems without distraction or delay.

“You haven’t started.”

She jumped slightly, then nodded—too quickly. “I— I just… I’m no good at this,” she said in a hushed voice. “I don’t know where to start.”

He watched her a moment longer. She looked like she was on the verge of tears, and clearly doing her best to hide it. Something about it tugged at him — not guilt, exactly, but a kind of quiet awareness. He recognized the look. Trying and failing, and knowing you were failing in front of someone else. He'd lived it, once.

“You live on a farm, don’t you?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

“Then what would your family do?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh—I—well, I don’t know, it’s not like I decide things—”

He slid the pencil across the desk toward her. “Try. Just start with something.”

Ruby hesitated, looking at him as if uncertain he was serious. She reached for the pencil, fingers trembling slightly. “I— I might get it wrong.”

“So what?” Thomas said quietly. “Then we fix it.”

She looked at him, unsure, then down at the paper. Her first attempt was a faint scribble of “oats” in one corner of the crop section.

“There,” he said. “That’s something.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I just… I always get nervous with things like this.”

He shrugged. “It doesn't have to be perfect.”

For a moment, she didn’t reply. Then, very softly, “We always grow oats first. They come early. Then potatoes.”

He nodded and marked down planting months beside them. “And what about turnips?”

“Late. They stay in the ground longer.”

Bit by bit, she began to open up, coaxed gently by Thomas’s steady questions. Her voice remained quiet, but her answers grew firmer. She pointed to the building layout he’d drawn and corrected him—“That’s too low, it floods there.” When he suggested building the barn before the fencing, she shook her head. “You lose too many animals that way.”

He didn’t argue. He listened, adjusted, rewrote.

They found a rhythm, her practical knowledge of farm life complementing his instinct for planning and balance. She focused on crops, seasonal tasks, livestock care. He focused on budget, layout, contingencies.

By the time Miss Stacy called “five more minutes,” their paper was full, the borders covered with notes and arrows, small corrections and calculations.

“I think that’s everything,” Ruby said, voice almost in disbelief.

Thomas looked it over and gave a faint nod. “It’s solid.”

When Miss Stacy came by to review their work, she spent more time than she had at any other desk. Her eyes scanned every inch of the paper, following the layout and scribbled notes. She didn’t say a word—just smiled faintly and moved on.

At the end of the lesson, she returned to the front.

“I’ve looked over all your plans,” she announced. “Some of you are clearly preparing for barn dances more than actual production—” laughter followed, “but one pair impressed me with their balance of realistic planning and firsthand knowledge.”

She held up their sheet.

“Thomas and Ruby.”

A short silence followed—then a burst of surprised applause, mostly from the girls, with a few hesitant claps from the boys. Ruby froze, staring wide-eyed at the front of the class. Thomas blinked. He was certain it would be Gilbert and Anne who’d win.

Miss Stacy handed them a small paper parcel—inside, a jar of toffee and two ribbons marked “Merit for Excellence.” Ruby stared at it as though she might cry, though this time from joy.

“I’ve never won anything before,” Ruby whispered to Thomas, clutching the prize as though it might disappear.

Thomas gave her a sidelong glance. “You earned it.”

Miss Stacy stepped forward again. “And that brings us to the end of the day. You’re all free to go.”

The scraping of chairs and chatter erupted instantly. Ruby barely had time to turn before she was surrounded—Diana, Anne, even Josie crowding in with surprised congratulations. She looked overwhelmed but radiant, laughing softly under the attention.

Thomas, meanwhile, slipped back to his desk, quietly gathering his books and papers. He didn’t mind the lack of fanfare. In fact, he preferred it.

As he made his way toward the door, he caught sight of Miss Stacy standing near the blackboard, arms crossed.

She didn’t say a word—just offered him a warm, knowing smile, with a glint of mischief behind it.

Thomas gave the faintest nod, but as he stepped out into the afternoon light, a thought lingered:

What exactly is she up to?

Chapter Text

The sun was still low, its light slanting over the treetops and casting long shadows across the backyard of the Creekside manor. The morning air was crisp, damp with the dew that clung to the overgrown grass. Thomas stood in the back clearing, hands raised, breath steadying. Across from him, his father moved with deliberate precision, his stance balanced despite the limp in his leg.

They circled each other in silence. Then, without warning, his father struck.

Thomas blocked the first blow, barely. The second came faster - a sweeping hook meant to test his reaction, followed by a feint that turned into a palm against his chest.

He stumbled back, trying to focus, but his mind was distracted. Summer crept closer with each passing day, and with it, the unspoken chance that his time in Avonlea might be nearing a pause, just like the year before.

He half-expected his father to come to him any day now, telling him to pack. Another long trip. Another hidden destination. To distant towns, to men who sharpened him with colder lessons than his father’s fists. He hadn’t forgotten the secret, dangerous tasks either.

But so far - nothing.

If anything, his father had been more absent than usual lately. Leaving the manor for long hours with vague remarks—“sending letters,” “meeting informants”—but never giving explanation. Thomas didn’t ask. Part of him didn’t want to know. The silence bought him time, and a brief, guilty sense of peace.

Another blow landed—sharp and sudden—catching him off-balance.

Thomas grunted as he hit the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs.

His father loomed over him, impassive. “You hesitate again, you die again. Control your thoughts.”

Thomas exhaled hard, pushing himself up and brushing dirt from his sleeves. His shoulder ached, but he said nothing.

“You must learn to silence the noise,” his father added coldly. “It will get you killed before the blade does.”

Before they could begin another bout, the sharp echo of a voice from the front of the house carried over the wind.

“Hello! Anyone home?”

His father turned, scowling, already displeased. “Stay here,” he muttered.

But Thomas didn’t. He followed a few paces behind as they rounded the side of the house toward the drive.

A buggy stood just outside the gate, its reins tied loosely to the fence post. And standing beside it was Mr. Cuthbert, his hat in hand and an apologetic look in his eyes.

“Matthew,” Thomas’s father greeted curtly, his tone not quite unfriendly, though the edge remained.

“Mr. Rockport,” Matthew nodded politely “Apologies for dropping in like this.”

His father said nothing, only extended a hand, which Matthew shook.

Thomas lingered back, watching.

“We’ve had some trouble at Green Gables,” Matthew continued. “The footbridge across the creek collapsed on one side. My farmhand, Jerry, he’s been ill for the past week, and I need another pair of hands to help put it back up so the cattle can get across. Was wondering…” he glanced toward Thomas, then back again. “...if your boy might be available for the job.”

Thomas felt his father’s pause more than saw it. The older man glanced back over his shoulder.

“How long will it take?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a day. Just a repair job. I’d be paying him proper for his help.”

Another pause. A long one. Then: “Fine.”

Thomas blinked. That was quicker than expected.

“Thank you,” Matthew said sincerely. “I’m much obliged.”

His father turned without ceremony. “Change your clothes. Wash your face. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Thomas was already halfway back to the house, barely suppressing a smirk. In truth, the work was welcome. Building a bridge — tangible, physical labor — was far more appealing than another hour of being thrown to the dirt.

He ducked inside the house, washing up in the basin near the kitchen and changing into sturdier work clothes. As he splashed cold water on his face, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—scraped at the temple, bruised at the jawline, and yet… lighter, somehow. Almost hopeful.

Within minutes, he was back outside, boots tied and hair still damp as he climbed up beside Matthew on the buggy seat. As the buggy rumbled back down the long lane, he stole a glance over his shoulder at the manor.

The windows stared back, blank and cold.

And his father was already gone from sight.

The buggy rolled to a stop beside the fence of Green Gables, the familiar porch framed in blooming lilacs. Thomas hopped down, stretching his legs, while Matthew secured the reins and motioned for him to follow.

“This way,” Matthew said, leading him around the side of the house, past the barn and the laundry lines dancing gently in the breeze. A narrow path curved past the vegetable garden and followed the gentle sound of running water.

The creek glimmered in the morning sun, swollen slightly from recent rains. What remained of the footbridge lay in disarray - rotted boards split and scattered, one support beam cracked clean through.

But more notably, someone was already there.

Gilbert Blythe stood at the water’s edge beside a pile of timber and a toolbox, sleeves rolled to the elbows and shirt already smudged with dust. He looked up as they approached and offered a brief grin.

“Morning, Thomas,” he called. “Didn’t think I’d have company.”

“Lucky you,” Thomas replied.

Matthew gestured toward the mess. “I asked Gilbert last night if he’d lend a hand, seeing as I’d be tied up on the far pasture today. Figured two heads’d be better than one.”

Gilbert gave a mock salute. “I came prepared. Got blisters waiting.”

Matthew chuckled and pointed out the basic layout: where the new beams should be anchored, which planks were cut to size, and which ones still needed trimming. “I’ll check in time to time—just holler if something gives you trouble.”

With that, he tipped his hat and wandered back toward the house, leaving the two boys alone with their task.

Thomas dropped to one knee beside the toolbox, flipping it open and examining the contents. “So. Any clue what you’re doing?”

“None at all,” Gilbert said cheerfully. “But I’m very confident about it.”

Thomas huffed a quiet laugh, grabbing a hammer and setting to work measuring the anchor posts. “Confident and clueless. Bold combination.”

They worked in a steady rhythm, the creek bubbling beside them as tools clanked and wood creaked under pressure. Conversation flowed naturally, shaped by the casualness of shared labor.

“Did you hear Moody recite that poem the other day in class?” Gilbert said between strikes of his hammer. “I swear he’d practiced it in the mirror all evening.”

Thomas smirked. “If he smiled any harder his face would’ve split in two.”

Gilbert snorted. “Ruby nearly fainted. Though, to be fair, she faints over someone different every week.”

Thomas didn’t answer that, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

They paused for a moment to wipe sweat from their brows. The sun had broken free of the clouds, the warmth settling pleasantly over the fields.

Then the sound of chattering rose from around the house - voices, high and unmistakably familiar. A whole flock of girls swept past the far hedgerow, led by Anne Shirley herself, arms flailing animatedly as she recounted something or other. Diana trailed close behind, then Ruby, Tillie, and Jane. They disappeared inside the house in a blur of skirts and laughter.

Gilbert nudged Thomas with his elbow. “Well. That’s more lace and ribbons in one room than this house has seen since Christmas.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Should we be worried?”

Gilbert grinned. “Only if they come back armed with teacups and questions.”

Before long, the faint creak of Anne’s bedroom window echoed in the distance. Thomas didn’t have to look to know they were being watched.

Sure enough, a moment later, a face peeked from behind the curtain - Diana, followed by Anne, then Ruby and then Jane. They giggled and ducked, only to reappear seconds later with wide eyes and theatrical shushing.

Gilbert waved up at them with exaggerated grace. “Girls...” he muttered. “You’d think we were putting on a stage play.”

Thomas shook his head, biting back a laugh. “You’re going to encourage them.”

“Someone has to.”

Despite their best efforts, the girls lingered at the window, whispering and laughing as if the sight of two boys repairing a bridge was the height of entertainment.

“Ignore them,” Thomas said, reaching for the next beam.

“Impossible,” Gilbert replied. “They can smell fear.”

They returned to work, tools in hand, the quiet camaraderie growing stronger beneath the late spring sun.

Anne’s bedroom was awash with warm sunlight and the scent of lilacs drifting through the open window. Teacups sat forgotten on the dresser, and a plate of biscuits had been pushed to the edge of the bed as all five girls crowded toward the window, peering outside with uncontainable curiosity.

“They’re still out there,” Diana whispered, stifling a giggle as she peered over Anne’s shoulder. “Hammering away like proper men of industry.”

“Gilbert and Thomas,” Anne said under her breath, as if naming them aloud might draw their attention. “How unexpected.”

Tillie leaned in from the back, her tone playful. “Unexpected and very much appreciated.”

The others laughed. Anne rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree.

“I didn’t know Thomas was so handy,” Ruby said, watching intently as he steadied a beam for Gilbert to nail into place. “He’s always so... neat. I’d have thought he’d avoid dirt at all costs.”

“Looks like he handles a hammer just fine,” Jane teased. “And I daresay you’ve noticed plenty about him.”

Ruby flushed but smiled sheepishly. “Well, I notice things.”

“You notice everything with a pulse,” Tillie said, raising an eyebrow. “Honestly, Ruby, first Gilbert, then Moody, then Thomas... You can’t like all the boys.”

“I don’t like all the boys,” Ruby protested, eyes widening. “Just... the interesting ones.”

That earned a fresh round of laughter.

Anne pulled back slightly from the window, trying to appear disinterested, though her eyes betrayed her. “Thomas is a bit of a mystery. You never quite know what he’s thinking.”

“Whereas Gilbert,” Diana said with mock drama, “always makes sure you know what he’s thinking.”

“He knows exactly what he’s doing,” Anne muttered, crossing her arms. “It’s infuriating.”

Then, in a sudden flourish, Anne flung herself onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “Not that I care. I am destined to walk this earth alone - untethered, unloved, and wildly misunderstood. Like a wind-tossed willow in a field of daisies.”

There was a beat of silence - then all the girls burst out laughing.

“Oh, come now,” Tillie said, grinning. “Admit it. Watching them both out there with their sleeves rolled up, practically glowing in the sun—”

“They’re sweating,” Anne cut in, but her attempt to sound stern only made everyone laugh harder.

“They’re glowing ,” Tillie insisted.

They collapsed into another fit of giggles, ducking quickly as Gilbert suddenly glanced up toward the window. Ruby squeaked and yanked the curtain shut.

“Do you think he saw us?” she whispered.

“Oh, he absolutely saw us,” Diana said, flopping back onto the bed. “And he’s probably enjoying every second of it.”

“Both of them are,” Jane added.

For a moment, they all went quiet, the sounds of the boys working drifting faintly up through the open window - the rhythmic clack of hammers, the low murmur of conversation.

Then Tillie sat up and reached for a biscuit. “Well, if this isn’t the best teatime entertainment we’ve had all month.”

The sun climbed higher, baking the path in golden heat. Sweat beaded along Thomas’s brow as he secured the last beam into place. Gilbert, sleeves rolled and collar loosened, knelt nearby with a hammer in one hand and a nail clenched between his teeth.

“This one’s not lining up,” Gilbert muttered, frowning down at a crooked board.

Thomas stepped in, bracing the edge with his boot and pressing down firmly. “Try now.”

The hammer rang out once, twice. The board settled.

“Much better,” Gilbert said, straightening up and wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “Although at this rate we’ll melt before we finish.”

“You’ll melt. I’ll combust,”” Thomas replied, squinting toward the shade of the trees. 

They were too focused to notice the approaching footsteps—until a voice broke the stillness.

“Marilla said if you two faint from heatstroke, she’s not paying to have you carted off.”

Anne stood at the edge of the path, a large jug of cold water in her arms. The sun lit her hair like a copper flame.

Gilbert grinned. “Tell her we’re nearly done. And that I’ll faint as gracefully as I can.”

Thomas reached for the jug. “Speak for yourself. I plan to land face-first in the creek.”

“Well, then I hope you’re not expecting me to fish you out,” Anne replied.

“Oh, I thought you might jump in heroically, like in one of your romantic novels,” Gilbert teased.

Thomas stifled a chuckle and nearly choked on his first sip of water.

“Only if I get to watch you sink first,” Anne answered, straight-faced.

Gilbert barked a laugh, taking the jug from Thomas and gulping it down. Over his shoulder, Thomas glanced up and caught movement in the second-story window - curtains twitching, giggles muffled. The girls were watching again.

He opened his mouth to comment, but Gilbert beat him to it.

“Tell your friends thanks for the audience,” he said, without turning around. “We work best under pressure.”

Anne scoffed. “Oh, don’t flatter yourselves. Ruby was only checking if Thomas still had both eyebrows after that last board slipped.”

Thomas let out a short laugh. Gilbert, for once, was left blinking like a trout. 

“Good to know I was the favorite. Though you were staring pretty hard for someone so critical.” Thomas crossed his arms, trying to contain a grin.

Anne’s mouth opened in protest, then shut again. Her eyes darted between the two boys, a rising flush coloring her cheeks.

“I—I was not staring!” she spluttered.

“Could’ve fooled us,” Gilbert added smoothly.

“I was only there to keep Tillie from falling out the window!” Anne insisted, arms crossing.

“Of course,” Thomas said, deadpan.

“You’re both insufferable! Next time I’ll bring vinegar.” With an exaggerated scoff, Anne spun on her heel. 

She stalked up the path, braids swinging behind her like a banner of indignation. But Thomas didn’t miss the flicker of a smile tugging at her lips as she disappeared around the side of the house.

For a moment, the boys stood in silence, the soft wind rustling the leaves around them.

With their thirst quenched and the sun beginning to dip from its highest point, Thomas and Gilbert returned to their work with renewed focus. The repairs, once daunting in the morning heat, now passed swiftly under their combined effort. Their hands moved in rhythm - measuring, sawing, hammering - communicating with short nods and the occasional muttered word.

By the time the light began to soften into the mellow hues of late afternoon, the new bridge stood firm across the creek. It wasn’t the most elegant thing in the world - some of the beams didn’t line up perfectly, and the wood had clearly been salvaged from different sources - but it was solid and reliable.

“Not bad,” Thomas said, standing back with his hands on his hips.

“It won’t win any awards,” Gilbert replied, brushing sawdust from his sleeves. “But it’ll hold.”

They gathered the tools, stacking everything neatly under the shade of a tree before heading back toward the house. Mr. Cuthbert met them just outside the barn, having just returned from a task of his own.

“Well now,” he said, taking off his hat and wiping his brow. He stepped over to inspect their handiwork. “That’s a mighty fine job you boys did. Sturdy, well placed. You’ve saved me a day and a half of trouble.”

Gilbert smiled. “Happy to help.”

Matthew pulled a small handful of coins from his pocket, handing half to each of them. “Fair pay, as promised.”

Gilbert took his with a grin. Thomas hesitated - money always felt strange to take for work like this - but Matthew’s calm, expectant gaze left little room for refusal. Thomas gave a quiet nod and slipped the coins into his pocket.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You earned it,” Matthew said simply.

With their task complete and the tools put away, Gilbert turned toward Thomas, a thought forming.

“You got anywhere to be?” he asked, adjusting the strap on his satchel.

Thomas glanced at the sun. “Told my father I’d be back before dark. Still have time.”

Gilbert grinned. “Come fishing with me, then. I’ve got a little boat near the river, just past my place.”

Thomas hesitated - not because he didn’t want to, but because the idea of spending a whole afternoon doing something so... casual still felt foreign to him. And yet, the notion was tempting. His father wouldn’t miss him for a few more hours, and the idea of quiet water and no expectations was more appealing than he’d admit aloud.

“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll come.”

The walk to the river took them past Gilbert’s homestead and then down a narrow path flanked by tall grass and buzzing insects. The land sloped gently, and ahead, nestled beside the reeds, stood a weathered storage shack. Just beyond, bobbing gently against the bank, was a small wooden boat, moored with a frayed rope.

Gilbert moved easily, retrieving two rods from inside the shack and a small tin filled with bait. “She’s nothing special,” he said, gesturing to the boat, “but she floats. Usually.”

“Encouraging,” Thomas muttered, stepping carefully onto the creaking boards as he followed Gilbert aboard.

They pushed off with a quiet splash, drifting slowly into the open stretch of river. The current was gentle, the water catching the orange glow of the lowering sun. Trees leaned over the banks, casting long shadows across the rippling surface.

They drifted lazily downriver, the creak of the oars and the lap of water against the wooden hull the only sounds for a while. Gilbert rowed in easy rhythm, whistling a tune Thomas didn’t recognize.

Thomas sat with his hands in his lap, the rod resting across his knees, eyes half-lidded in thought. It struck him how unusual this was - being out on the water, no real task to perform, no one watching. No one expecting anything. Just... time.

He rarely did this. Spent time with the other boys, that is. Outside of school, he almost always turned down invitations. Moody and Charlie had stopped asking after a while, except for that one time months ago when they had talked him into some idiotic prank involving a bucket of milk, a ladder, and a very upset neighbor. He’d played along, more as a distraction than anything. But even then, he hadn’t stayed long.

Gilbert, though - he’d always been different. Kind in a quiet, unobtrusive way. Never pushed too hard. Never asked too many questions. Always offered a seat without asking why Thomas was always standing.

Thomas glanced across the boat at him, watching as Gilbert leaned slightly to adjust the oars, still humming. He wondered if this was what friendship looked like.

"This is the spot," Gilbert said suddenly, straightening as they rounded a slow bend in the river.

Thomas looked up. The trees parted just enough to let the golden light spill across a wider patch of water. Dragonflies hovered above the surface. The air was still and warm.

They anchored with a rope wrapped around an old stump by the shore. Gilbert handed Thomas a rod, then pulled out the little tin of bait from beneath the bench. They worked quietly for a moment, threading hooks and setting lines. The mundane nature of it all, the familiar tug and twist of line and knot, brought a memory back - one Thomas hadn’t expected.

Years ago, before all the running and the hiding and the training, his father had taken him fishing. It had only been a few times, but he remembered them vividly: the stillness, the patience, the way his father had shown him how to flick the rod just right. Back then, everything had seemed simpler. They had laughed. Once.

"You're awful quiet," Gilbert said, breaking the silence as he cast his line out with a practiced flick of the wrist.

Thomas flinched, pulled out of his thoughts. "Oh. Sorry. Got lost in thought."

Gilbert raised a brow, grinning. "You’re not still fretting about that crooked beam, are you?"

Thomas huffed out a short laugh and shook his head. “No. Just remembering something.”

He baited his hook and cast his own line, letting the river take it.

They fished in silence for a while, the occasional splash of water or creak of wood the only sounds. The sun hung lazily above, warming the river and making the leaves overhead shimmer.

“So,” Gilbert said, flicking a bug off his sleeve, “Mr. Cuthbert mentioned Jerry’s been sick?”

Thomas nodded. “Yeah. Been out of it for a few days now apparently.”

Gilbert made a face. “There’s something going around, I think. The minister at church last Sunday started coughing halfway through his sermon - could barely get through the last passage. Some of the little ones in the pews thought it was hilarious.”

Thomas gave a faint smile, casting his line again.

He thought, briefly, about what that might be like - sitting in church on a Sunday morning, dressed in your best, surrounded by your neighbors, everyone singing the same hymn. Familiar faces, the quiet creak of pews, the sun through stained glass. Community. Belonging.

His father no longer had time for such things. Sundays were no different than any other day - training, lessons, chores.

The thought of his father instinctively made his hand reach into his jacket, pulling out his pocket watch, afraid of being home late. He ran his thumb over the smooth silver surface before flipping it open. The second hand ticked in quiet precision.

“What’s that?” Gilbert asked, noticing the glint of metal.

“Oh… it’s nothing,” Thomas muttered. Then, before he could stop himself, he added, “It was my mother’s.”

Gilbert went quiet. He cast his gaze out across the water, lips pressed in thought. The trees rustled gently along the banks.

“I never knew mine,” Gilbert said at last. “She died giving birth to me.”

Thomas lowered his eyes to the rippling water, unsure how to respond at first. His fingers idly traced the edge of the watch’s face.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said simply.

Gilbert nodded, still staring off at the horizon.

“You told me once,” he said, after a moment, “that your mother passed some years ago?”

“Yeah,” Thomas replied quietly. “She did.”

The boat shifted slightly with the current. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, nor uncomfortable. It was… tentative. Careful.

“Do you miss her?” Gilbert asked, turning to glance at him.

Thomas’s jaw tightened faintly. He nodded. “I do. Though I try my best not to think about her.”

Gilbert leaned back slightly, resting an elbow on the boat’s side. “I miss mine too,” he said, voice low, uncertain. “Even though I never knew her. Is that… strange?”

Thomas shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

Gilbert opened his mouth to say something more - but his rod suddenly jerked in his hands.

Thomas blinked. “You’ve got a bite.”

Gilbert snapped to attention. “Oh! Right—got it!”

The boat rocked slightly as Gilbert gripped the rod and began reeling it in. Thomas reached instinctively to steady the boat, the earlier conversation giving way to a sudden burst of energy as the fish fought hard against the line.

With a final tug, Gilbert hauled the fish from the water - a fair-sized trout, its silvery scales catching the light as it flopped at the end of the line.

“Look at that!” Gilbert beamed, holding it up triumphantly. “Not bad, eh?”

Thomas smirked, raising an eyebrow. “We’ll see if you’re still proud when we tally the count.”

They stayed out a while longer, the quiet rhythm of casting and waiting soothing in its own way. Gilbert managed to catch two more modest fish in quick succession, crowing about his growing collection, while Thomas - despite his keen focus - only snagged one. It was larger than the others though, much to Gilbert’s theatrical dismay.

Gilbert eyed it with exaggerated jealousy. “Well, at least you win for size.”

Thomas smirked. “You can keep your numbers. I’ll take quality.”

The sun had begun its descent, casting long golden rays across the rippling water. A hush fell over the riverbank, filled only by the quiet rustle of wind and the calls of evening birds.

“Think we should head back?” Gilbert asked, stretching his arms.

Thomas nodded, reeling in his line. “Probably.”

They rowed in companionable silence, the gentle slosh of oars in water marking the passage of time. Back at the riverside shack, Thomas hopped out and secured the boat while Gilbert stashed their rods and tackle.

“Thanks for coming along,” Gilbert said, hefting the basket of fish. “It’d be a lot more boring alone.”

Thomas nodded. “I suppose it would.”

They walked the short distance to Gilbert’s home, the shadows of trees stretching long across the grass. 

As they stepped onto the porch, Gilbert let out a dramatic sigh, “I’m starving.”

Thomas was halfway through a polite farewell when Sebastian appeared at the door, eyebrows raised.

“Starving, huh?” he said. Then he looked at Thomas. “You too, I bet. Stayin’ for supper?”

Thomas hesitated, glancing toward the west where the sun was beginning to sink below the treetops. “I should really get back before—”

His stomach let out a loud, undignified growl.

There was a beat of silence before Sebastian chuckled. “That settles it.”

Before Thomas could protest again, Mary appeared in the doorway, arms crossed but her expression soft. “You’re not leaving on an empty stomach after catching half the meal. Come sit.”

“I—alright,” Thomas said finally, not quite able to argue with both of them. He followed Gilbert into the house.

Mary made quick work of the fish, her knife gliding over the meat with practiced ease. She seasoned and pan-fried them in a way Thomas didn’t quite recognize, the scent filling the small home and making his stomach rumble again in anticipation.

They sat down around the modest table, the meal simple but hearty—fried fish, boiled potatoes, and warm bread. Thomas found himself eating slowly, savoring every bite. The seasoning was rich, the fish flaked perfectly, and everything was leagues above the meager meals he typically ate alone at home.