This afternoon, Richard was hauled out of the study by his Mother.
He had been sitting at his desk, analyzing the individual strokes of a line from the third set of inscriptions on the Boundary Stone—the one marking the turning point of Romanization.
"Downstairs."
"I was in the middle of..."
"Downstairs."
His Mother’s tone was no different from usual, but the hand on his shoulder showed no sign of letting up.
Richard tilted his head and glanced out the window.
Sunlight slanted into the courtyard, making the drying bedsheets look like a fluttering flag.
He closed his notebook and rested the pen on the inkwell.
"What time is it?"
"Two o’clock. Time for afternoon tea."
"I thought that was in half an hour."
"We’re starting early today." Mother released her hand but didn’t leave. "Your sister is waiting for you downstairs."
As Richard went downstairs, he heard rustling sounds coming from the kitchen.
He walked into the kitchen.
His sister’s blue ribbon wasn’t tied tightly. It hung askew above her right ear, looking like it might fall off at any moment.
"Richard, today I’m going to teach you how to make Pajin Cake."
"...Me?"
"You."
Richard glanced at his Mother.
Mother had already pulled out a clean, checkered apron and tied it on him with a few deft movements.
"You’ve been overworking your brain lately," she finally explained. "Do something else to give it a rest."
"I haven’t been overworking my brain."
"Evelyn said you were frowning so hard last night you could have crushed a fly between your eyebrows."
"..."
"No touching any books this afternoon." Mother smoothed the bottom of his apron. "Whatever your sister says, goes."
Richard walked to the counter, resigned to his fate.
After a flurry of instructions, he found himself demoted to assistant.
Once the baking sheet was in the oven, Evelyn pulled a chair over and sat down in front of it.
"Are you planning to stare at it for thirty-five minutes?"
"Uh-huh."
"Does watching it help it cook?"
"It puts my mind at ease to watch it."
Richard dragged a second chair over and sat down next to his sister.
Mother came in from the doorway and moved a low stool in front of the oven as well.
The kitchen became a small theater for the three of them, all seated around the oven.
Inside the oven, the color of the molasses gradually deepened, shifting from brown to a caramel red.
"Richard, what was the farthest you traveled on this trip?"
"The North. The Gael Highlands."
"The Highlands..." Evelyn murmured the word. "Do people there speak a weird language?"
"Gaelic Language."
"Could you understand it?"
"Not a single word."
"Then how did you talk to them?"
"Most of them can also speak the official Albion language, but they have very thick accents."
Richard thought for a moment, selecting parts of his experience he could share.
"There was an old man in the village who herded his sheep uphill every morning."
"He had a brightly polished Shepherd’s Staff, the top of which was carved into a curled ram’s horn."
"How old was he?"
"Hard to say. The faces of the old men in the Gael Highlands are all weathered and wrinkled by the wind. They look ten years older than they really are."
"So, did you talk to him?"
"He said something to me in the Gaelic Language, but I didn’t understand it."
"Then he drew a diagonal line across his own chest, and then another across mine."
"Was he cursing you?"
"...No."
"Was he praising you?"
"Not that either." Richard found a suitable explanation.
"It’s an old custom for greetings in that region, one the Gaels inherited from an old Celtic tribal rite."
"When the line has been drawn across both people’s chests, it means, ’We stand on the same land.’"
"That sounds like something the Priest at our Cathedral would say."
"Their rites do have a certain religious flavor."
"Do the Gaels have their own religion?"
"Long gone," Mother chimed in.
"One batch was wiped out by the Roman Legions over a thousand years ago, and another was wiped out by the National Church that came later. All that’s left now are a few scattered old customs."
"...That sounds like such a shame," Evelyn said, cupping her chin in her hand.
"Not really," Richard said, searching his mind for the relevant information.
"Their old customs are still practiced, just under different names."
"For example, the evergreen trees at Christmas are a remnant of the Celtic winter solstice rituals."
"Really?"
"Really."
"So if we put up a Fir tree every year, does that make us Druids, too?"
"...You couldn’t quite say that, but the cultural roots trace back that far."
By the second round of tea, Evelyn had already divided the corner slice of Pajin Cake.
One bite for Mother, one for herself, and one for Richard. No one got taken advantage of.
She re-covered the rest of the pan with a paper towel, placed it on the highest shelf of the counter, and set a small note on top of it:
"Maturing. Do not open. —E."
"Who are you worried will open it?"
"Dad."
Richard glanced toward the living room.
"Dad’s not home yet."
"His nose is sharpest right when he gets off work," Evelyn concluded from experience. "That’s how a whole chunk of Christmas pudding went missing last year."
"...A whole chunk?"
"Dad said he only cut a small piece, but I measured the ’wound.’ The missing chunk was at least four fingers wide."
Mother, who was halfway through clearing the table, couldn’t help but laugh when she heard Evelyn dredge up this old grievance.
"Honestly, the way you keep a grudge, dear."
"I’m going to open my own shop one day. I can’t be careless with my accounting."
Just as she said that, the phone began to ring.
On the second ring, Evelyn, who was closest, had already rushed to grab the receiver.
"Hello! This is the Williams family."
There was a moment of silence on the other end, and then a vaguely familiar female voice spoke.
"Is that you, Evelyn?"
"...And you are?"
"It’s your aunt."
Evelyn’s face flushed red all the way to her ears.
She clutched the receiver to her chest and turned toward the kitchen. "Mom! It’s Auntie!"
Mother tossed the rag she was holding onto the edge of the sink and hurried over.
"Isabella."
"Sis."

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