"I want it to have that bite," Richard said with a frown.
"I know you want it to have that bite," Mother said without disagreeing. "You want your readers to feel the pain."
"But you can’t let them think you’re accusing a specific person or a particular department."
"That’s not how you write. The moment you accuse a specific person or department, they’ll turn their sights on you."
"On me?"
"Don’t underestimate the impact of a single article."
Mother lifted her glass of water and took a small sip.
"You’re a very good writer. And precisely because you’re so good, if this piece gets published, people will definitely read it."
"Among those who read it, some will love it, and others will hate it."
"The ones who love it will cut it out and tuck it into their diaries."
"The ones who hate it will go to the magazine that published it and ask the editorial department just where this upstart writer came from."
"..."
"Your name will be remembered, and that’s not always a good thing."
Richard’s gaze dropped to his knees.
Mother’s advice had truly hit the nail on the head.
"Expose the social problems, make people think... and then stop right there."
"Don’t make an appeal, and don’t propose a solution."
"The moment you do, they’ll have an excuse to accuse you of ’misleading the public,’ ’promoting discontent,’ and ’inciting class conflict.’"
As Margaret recited the string of accusations, she seemed to know them all by heart.
It was Article 34 of the Albion Publishing Technique, the specific definition of a "seditious publication."
She hadn’t dealt with these matters in over a decade, yet she remembered it all with perfect clarity.
This was what it meant to be a daughter of the Ashford Family.
"Just write the story, and let the story speak for itself.
Whatever thoughts it provokes in the readers—that’s their own business."
"Mm."
Richard nodded. He had, in fact, considered adding an appeal at the end.
Something like: "This country needs a better system of poor relief," "We need to decouple ’unemployment’ from ’job-seeking,’" and "We must stop poverty from being a permanent brand on a person’s identity."
Looking back, he realized he had been far too naive.
...
By the first day of the new school term, the snow had mostly melted, leaving behind dirty little mounds piled up along the roadside.
Richard woke up at six o’clock. His eyes snapped open, his mind instantly alert.
He went for his usual run, doing a few laps around Waste Rock Lane. The section of the path along the river was covered in a thin layer of ice. He tested it, and the soles of his shoes bit into the surface, holding firm.
When he returned home, Evelyn was coming downstairs, holding her little booklet.
"Richard."
"Hm?"
"It’s the first day of school. You have to bring your teachers some cookies."
"I’ve never heard of that rule."
"Well, now you have." Evelyn said, stuffing three small, wax-paper-wrapped parcels into his hand.
"They’re the vanilla cookies I baked. One each for Mr. Holland, Mr. Hutton, and the headmaster."
Richard reached into his pocket and touched the small parcels. They were still warm; they must have been fresh from the oven this morning.
"What time did you get up to bake these?"
"Five-thirty."
"..."
"I used that set of silver tools our aunt sent over."
The young girl lifted her chin. "They came out much better than last time. You’ll know once you try one."
At the breakfast table, Richard took one out.
The edge of the cookie was baked to a golden brown, leaving a creamy white center.
He took a bite. A buttery aroma hit him first, followed by the sweetness of vanilla bean.
"Delicious."
"Of course."
At 7:58, the school bus swayed to a stop in the open area before the gates of Greenwood. After finishing his morning prayers as usual, Richard walked into his classroom.
Hugh was already in his seat.
A notebook lay open in front of the boy, who was focused on adding shading to the last page with a charcoal pen.
"Morning," Richard said as he walked over.
"Richard, perfect timing. I’ve got something to show you."
He flipped the notebook back to the first page and handed the entire thing over.
"My ’Collection of Drumstick Studies.’"
Richard took it and flipped it open.
The notebook was over forty pages long, and every single page featured a drawing of a roasted chicken drumstick, each one different.
"This is all you drew over the winter break?"
"Not just this," Hugh said, flipping the notebook to the last page. "I also conducted experiments."
Taped to the last page was a slip of paper with a dozen or so lines of fine print:
"Bake at 180 degrees for 30 minutes, then increase to 230 for 10 minutes to crisp the skin. Optimal..."
Richard’s finger paused on the last line.
"You tried every single way of roasting a drumstick just so you could draw it?"
"An artist can’t just paint what his eyes see. He must also paint what his tongue has tasted."
Hugh watched his expression, looking quite proud of himself.
"So? Bet my winter break was busier than yours, right?"
"...It was."
Grey arrived a little later.
She set down her schoolbag, then took out a new tin box and placed it on her desk.
The tin box was a size larger than the one from last term. Embossed on the lid was a line of small, handwritten text: "Greenwood Christmas Limited Edition · M.G."
Grey walked over to Richard’s desk, took a gingerbread man from the tin, and handed it to him.
"I made them myself."
Richard reached out and took the gingerbread cookie.
The cookie was about half the size of his palm. The little gingerbread man was holding a tiny quill pen.
"...Is this supposed to be me?"
"Mhm." Grey closed the lid on the tin. "It took me all night to get that quill pen just right."
"Did you make one for everyone in class?"
"Everyone’s is different."
Grey lifted a corner of the lid to let him see inside.
"Warren’s is kicking a ball, Hugh’s is holding a platter, and Lillian’s... is holding a book of botanical illustrations."
Richard’s gaze swept over the contents of the tin.
Each gingerbread man held a different item, and the expression piped in frosting on each face was unique.
Warren’s had a goofy grin stretching from ear to ear. Hugh’s was staring intently at the baking sheet in his hands. Lillian’s had a very serene expression.
"So this is what you did over the winter break?"
"Not just this," Grey said, closing the tin again. "My mother is making me learn how to manage the household, so I spent most of the break with her forcing me to go over the account books."
"Are you getting the hang of the ledgers?"
"The ledgers themselves aren’t the problem. The hard part is going over them with my mother.
She sighs with every turn of the page, and after each sigh, she asks me, ’Do you see the problem with this entry?’"
"And did you?"
"I thought I found it once, but I was wrong. I thought I found it a second time, and I was wrong again. After the third time, I stopped trying and just waited for her to finish sighing and explain it herself."
Richard couldn’t help but laugh.
"Why don’t you teach her?"
"Teach who?"
"Your mother."
Grey stared at him for a few seconds. "Richard, I’m sixteen. She’s forty-two."
"I mean, when you take over someday..."
"Honestly... Don’t ruin my good mood on the very first day back."
Grey pushed the tin an inch closer to him and tapped it with her finger. "Eat."
Richard carefully wrapped the little gingerbread "him" in a piece of wax paper and tucked it into his pocket.
"Saving it? Too precious to eat? I can always make you another one."
"This one is enough."
During the first history class of the new term, Mr. Hutton walked into the classroom carrying his briefcase and shot Richard a meaningful look.
Richard understood instantly. It meant he was to come to the office after school, just like always.

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