It killed me when I knew it, saw it; killed me to know it wasn’t his fault. His father had done it to him, and I suppose his father before that. The way of the world. A man who keeps his eyes open will experience brief flashes of knowledge. He will, at times, see. Young Edward’s eyes I saw in an unguarded moment. The same eyes of his father.
“Where is Edward?”
“Do you know who Edward’s father was?” I rejoined.
He shook his head.
I told him.
My colleague collapsed into the chair opposite my desk, his hand reaching nervously for his chin.
“His father?” he asked. “So it was true?”
“I did what I could to keep the boys from finding out. Somehow rumors get started.”
The master of Latin stirred.
Sitting up, he asked, “But where is he?”
“I was one of the men who uncovered his father. When the others wanted it to be quiet, wanted to preserve the name of our school, I made them go public. I ruined his name, I ruined our name, but I found Edward a new name. I gave him my own.”
“And . . . “
“But I’m afraid I could not replace all that his father had given him.”
“Had he, did Edward, did he, touch . . . ?” he wouldn’t finish the sentence.
“I don’t think so.” No, I decided. “He hadn’t. Not yet.”
“Where is he?”
I leaned back in my chair, my eyes searching for the window. The sun was setting.
“Phil, where is Edward?”
“With his father.”
Tale Told 