Freddy Polkinghorne hated being first up.

The housemaster said it built character, whatever that was worth at six o’clock on a bitter morning. The frost had crusted on the panes; the water in the jug had a skin on it; Freddy’s breath smoked in front of his face as he dragged on his boots and fumbled for his scarf.

“Coal,” Mr Styles had said, poking his head round the dormitory door the previous night. “First thing, Polkinghorne. The boiler won’t feed itself. And don’t dawdle—there’s practice before breakfast.”

So now here he was, eyes gritty, fingers numb, scuttling across the close with a sack over his shoulder. The Cathedral tower loomed above him, nothing but a darker shape against the pale, colourless sky. The mist from the previous eve...

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