Mr. Hutton’s class was on Friday.
The old professor taught his class as usual, fiddling with his pipe at the lectern and, as was his custom, dropping a leading, half-finished sentence at some seemingly ordinary juncture.
The topic of the day was the material allocation systems of the early colonies on the New Continent—a subject purely in the realm of administrative history, with no connection whatsoever to the world behind the Curtain.
When the bell rang, the students packed their bags and began to flood out of the room.
"Richard, stay behind a moment."
At the familiar words, the last few students in the classroom took the hint and quickened their pace to leave.
Mr. Hutton waited until the voices in the hallway had faded completely before closing his folder of lecture notes and setting it on the corner of the lectern.
"Did you make the list?"
"I did."
"Good."
The old professor rose from his chair and walked over to the window to open it.
The latch was rusted shut. It took him two tries to force it open, letting a gust of cold, coal-scented wind pour in.
"Those on the recommendation list will have the chance to participate in a summer research program, jointly hosted by the High-level Academies of the Imperial Capital."
He pushed the window open another crack.
"You’ll understand the value of that program once you’re there."
Richard made a mental note of the information.
’A summer research program, jointly hosted by the High-level Academies.’
’The Classical Society is a peripheral organization in the academic system behind the Curtain. That means a program run by the High-level Academies would almost certainly lead somewhere deeper.’
As was his way, Mr. Hutton didn’t elaborate, instead propping the window half-open.
"Has the prize money for the Cicero Cup come in yet?"
"I still need to pick it up from the bank."
"Mm," the old professor nodded. "As long as you have a plan for it."
Richard smiled.
’Of course he wouldn’t spend the money recklessly once it came in. Every last copper plate was already accounted for.’
As he thought this, he asked a question that had been on his mind for a long time.
"Sir, do you know any Cultivators of the Abyss Path?"
The motion of Mr. Hutton’s twirling pen froze. "Why ask about that all of a sudden?"
"Just curious. And... it pays to be prepared," Richard said.
"Cultivators of the Abyss Path are not easy to identify," Mr. Hutton said, his brow furrowing.
"They don’t emit Ether fluctuations. That’s because their Ether isn’t stored within their bodies; it’s in a state of constant flow within the channel between them and the Curtain.
You can’t sense Ether on them, just as you can’t sense water that has already passed over a riverbed."
"Then how can you identify them?"
"Through indirect evidence," Mr. Hutton said.
"Cultivators of the Abyss Path share certain behavioral patterns. They aren’t universal, but they are very common."
"First, they have an extremely strong need to control their personal space.
Their homes, their offices, their personal belongings—everything will be kept in meticulous order."
"This is because Cultivators of the Abyss Path operate on the edge of the Curtain for extended periods. The Ether Field behind it is chaotic, disorderly, and full of noise.
To maintain their sense of self in such an environment, they need to establish a highly ordered ’anchor’ in the real world. Their living space *is* their Anchor."
"Second, they are unusually sensitive to sound and rhythm.
Cultivators of the Abyss Path ’listen’ to the flow of Ether behind the Curtain. Over time, this training hones their auditory Perception in the real world to a frightening degree."
"Third, and this is the most important point: they are exceptionally lucid."
Mr. Hutton’s words surprised Richard.
"Cultivators of the Abyss Path are not madmen, nor are they pitiable souls whose minds have been consumed by the darkness behind the Curtain.
Quite the opposite. They are more lucid than anyone.
They know exactly what they are facing, what awaits them behind the Curtain, and the risks of sinking into the depths."
"This lucidity makes them seem exceptionally... calm in their daily lives. They rarely show emotional fluctuation in their speech or actions, and seldom act impulsively."
The old professor sighed. "But it is this very lucidity that makes them more dangerous than anyone else."
"When a man who doesn’t know how deep the cliff is stands at its edge, you can count on his fear to make him step back."
"But a man who knows exactly how deep it is, who knows what will happen if he falls... he will not step back."
"The problem is, the cliff is not always in the same place."
"So, a Cultivator of the Abyss Path is not necessarily an enemy," the old professor concluded.
"At least, not all of them are."
After bidding farewell to Mr. Hutton, Richard returned to his desk to pack his bag. In the middle of the desk sat a brown paper package.
The package was tied with a thin Hemp Rope in a sturdy bow, the ends of which were neatly trimmed.
There was no writing on the paper; it was so clean it didn’t have a single speck of ink on it.
He untied the Hemp Rope and unfolded the paper.
Inside was a rectangular tin box. Affixed to the lid was a small, round, handwritten label that read, "Congratulations."
Opening the tin box, he found three rows of pastries neatly arranged inside.
The first row contained six lemon scones, a bit smaller than the ones she had brought to school last time. They were brushed with an egg wash and baked to a uniform golden-brown.
The second row held eight butter cookies cut into various shapes: stars, crescent moons, oak leaves, and the silhouette of what he took a moment to identify as an owl.
The bottom row was four fruit tarts filled with strawberries and blueberries.
The tin was lined with wax paper, and tucked beneath it were a few mint leaves to keep the flavors from mingling.
Holding the tin box, Richard felt almost reluctant to eat what was inside.
’This must have taken several times longer to make than a normal batch of scones.’
’The cookie cutter shapes alone couldn’t have been store-bought. Grey had probably cut them herself from sheets of tin, because you couldn’t just buy an owl-shaped cookie cutter.’
He closed the tin box and slipped it into the side pocket of his bookbag.
Grey had left without a word, which was completely in character for her when giving gifts.
She would leave the pastries on the desk and disappear, not waiting for him to open the gift or even say thank you.
Richard slung his bookbag over his shoulder and headed out, nearly colliding with Hugh at a bend in the hallway.
The boy was squatting by the wall, his bangs flopped over his forehead again.
When he saw Richard emerge, he shot to his feet and slapped his right thigh hard.
"I knew you could do it!"
Then he added in a much quieter voice:
"...Even though I was pretty sure you couldn’t."
He pulled his hand back and scratched the back of his head.
"But still, second place in the entire Imperial competition... It sounds like something out of a dream."
"Thanks."
"What for? I didn’t help with anything."
Hugh sat down on the steps. The bandage on his knee was fresh.
"When you were practicing your speech, I wasn’t even a decent audience. I just sat there dozing off and doodling chicken legs."
"Your dozing off and nodding helped me calibrate my pacing," Richard said, pulling the tin box from the side pocket of his bag. "Want some?"
"Who made these?"
"Grey."
Hugh glanced at him but didn’t reach for them, remarking instead:
"I swear, on top of being a good student, good at sports, and having rich friends treat you to meals, now you’ve even got pretty girls baking you pastries."
"You want the owl?"
"The owl...? Oh, *this* one. So that’s what it is, an owl."
Hugh studied it for a moment. "I thought it was a fat pigeon."
"Nah, forget it. It’s a gift from a girl for you. It wouldn’t be right for me to take it."

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