Chapter SEVEN: The Trouble with Thorne

Isaure Valcourt had three pages of revised proposals, two unanswered questions, and a growing suspicion that the academy had deliberately designed its student leadership competition to expose every weakness a person possessed.

By breakfast, she had already rewritten the section concerning the society directory twice.

Séverine sat opposite her, reviewing the schedule for the upcoming interschool debate event. She had been trying to secure a suitable practice room for the participating students, but the timetable was crowded, and the staff member responsible for approving room bookings hadn't responded to her request.

"Could you ask Professor Ellis in person?" Isaure suggested.

"I have. He wants me to submit an alternative schedule before he'll reconsider."

"Then submit one."

Séverine lowered the paper. "I'm working on it."

Isaure returned to her notes, recognising that familiar expression of concentration. Séverine had her own responsibilities, and Isaure had no intention of treating them as less important simply because her competition was currently consuming most of her attention.

"The directory needs someone to maintain it," Isaure admitted. "Thorne pointed that out yesterday."

Séverine considered this. "Was he right?"

"Unfortunately."

"Then use the suggestion."

"I intend to. It doesn't mean I've forgiven him for anything."

"I didn't say it did."

Isaure closed her notebook. She knew what Caspian Thorne was like. He could be intelligent when he chose to apply himself, and occasionally useful when he stopped provoking people long enough to contribute something worthwhile. None of that changed what had happened between them.

She still remembered the fountain.

More importantly, she remembered that he had never apologised.

A few sensible observations wouldn't erase six years of resentment.

Rafe had reserved an empty classroom for the afternoon, where he spread the latest version of his student publication proposal across two desks.

Séverine arrived carrying her own folder.

"You wanted me to review the submission process?"

"Yes. I've revised it since we spoke."

He handed her the document.

Rafe proposed allowing younger students to submit short articles for review before they could become regular contributors. The editorial team would assess each piece, provide feedback, and decide whether the writer could contribute more frequently. He had also introduced a weekly limit on submissions to prevent the new system from overwhelming the editors.

Séverine read the document carefully.

"What's the procedure for students whose work isn't selected?"

"They'll receive feedback explaining what needs improvement."

"From whom?"

"The editorial team."

"How many submissions can four editors review while managing the regular publication?"

Rafe leaned back in his chair. "That's what the weekly limit is supposed to address."

"But you've also included training workshops, fact-checking, and the existing publication schedule. If the editors spend all their time reviewing new writers, the regular issue could suffer."

He looked at the figures again.

She was right. His plan had created an opportunity for inexperienced writers, but he hadn't fully accounted for the time required to make that opportunity worthwhile.

"I could separate the initial review from the full editorial process," he said. "A small group could assess the submissions first. Only selected pieces would move to the next stage."

"That would reduce the workload. Just make sure the initial reviewers receive training too."

Rafe added a note to the margin.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He revised the relevant section while Séverine checked the proposed training schedule. Their discussion moved to the budget, then the amount of staff supervision required. Neither treated the project as a finished achievement. It was still a proposal, and the adviser would review the revised version the following week.

When Séverine finally gathered her things, Rafe had several changes to make but a clearer understanding of how to proceed.

He also had someone willing to challenge his assumptions without taking ownership of his work.

That mattered.

Isaure encountered Caspian outside the history classroom shortly before the afternoon lesson.

A younger student stood beside the doorway, searching through his bag. His classmates were already entering the room, and the teacher had begun arranging the materials for their group exercise.

"I left my notes in the dormitory," the boy explained when the teacher asked about his missing preparation.

Caspian, who had been standing nearby, removed a spare copy of the assigned reading from his folder and handed it over.

"Use this. Return it after class."

The boy thanked him and hurried inside.

Caspian followed without waiting for a response from anyone.

Isaure remained in the corridor for a moment.

She had expected him to make some remark about the boy's disorganisation or turn the situation into an opportunity to display his usual confidence. Instead, he had helped and moved on.

Perhaps the reading was unimportant to him. Perhaps he simply disliked watching someone struggle when the solution was easy.

Either explanation was possible.

She entered the classroom and took her seat.

During the lesson, Caspian contributed twice to the discussion, both times with answers that demonstrated he had completed the reading. He didn't dominate the conversation, but when another student misunderstood a point, he explained it clearly enough for the group to continue.

Isaure found herself paying attention.

She stopped herself.

Being capable in class didn't make him admirable. She had known for years that Caspian was intelligent. His problem had never been an inability to understand what people expected of him.

It was what he chose to do with that understanding.

The library was nearly full when Isaure returned to her proposal after classes.

She had collected several society schedules and was comparing them against the academy's published timetable when the papers inside her folder slipped loose.

Before the top sheets reached the floor, a hand caught them.

Caspian gathered the remaining pages from the edge of the table and placed them beside her notebook.

"Your timetable is outdated," he said, indicating one of the documents. "The photography society changed its meeting day last month."

Isaure checked the notice.

He was right.

"Where did you get this?"

"From their noticeboard. They haven't updated the academy's central listing."

She examined the page again. The problem was precisely the kind her directory was supposed to solve.

"I'll verify the schedules before including them."

"Good."

He returned to the book he had been carrying.

Isaure watched him settle at a nearby table. He hadn't asked what she was working on, offered unsolicited advice about the rest of her proposal, or attempted to turn the encounter into another competition.

She disliked how difficult that made him to dismiss.

A considerate gesture was not an apology. A useful observation was not a friendship. And neither changed the fact that he had once humiliated her and then behaved as though she had no reason to remain angry.

She returned to her work.

The photography society's schedule went onto her verification list.

That evening, Isaure spread her revised proposal across her desk.

She had added a process for reviewing society information, assigned responsibility for updates, and included a way for students to report inaccurate listings. The changes made the proposal more practical.

Some of the questions that had prompted those improvements had come from Caspian.

She wasn't going to pretend otherwise.

But the research was hers, the decisions were hers, and the work required to turn the suggestions into a workable plan was hers too.

She placed the revised pages inside her folder.

Two weeks remained before the practical assessment, and the competition was only becoming more demanding.

Caspian Thorne could help a struggling student, identify a flaw in her proposal, and behave like a perfectly reasonable person when he chose to.

Isaure could acknowledge all three facts without changing her mind about him.

She had spent too many years waiting for an apology that never came.

Until that changed, whatever else she discovered about Caspian Thorne would remain exactly what it was: information, not forgiveness.