"Mm-hmm."
"Then why are you telling me this story?"
Richard looked at Tom for a moment.
"The Latin language."
"Nearly everyone who spoke it and wrote it back then is dead."
"But the things they left behind still influence how we speak, write, and think today."
"This word you were memorizing today."
He tapped the word "corpus" with his pencil.
"Its originator has been dead for two thousand years."
"The meaning he wanted to express—’a force that gathers scattered things together’."
"Two thousand years later, it’s still on your lips."
"Don’t you find that a little interesting?"
Tom clutched the pencil in his hand and said nothing.
After a moment, he drew a small picture in the margin of his notebook.
A Roman soldier holding a standard, with a group of small figures below being gathered by it.
When he was done, he looked up.
"Sir, was Coriolanus also being gathered by a force?"
"Hm?"
"On one side was Rome, on the other his mother. He was caught in the middle."
"If he didn’t withdraw his army, his mother would die."
"If he did withdraw his army, he himself would die."
"No matter what he chose, he was being pulled by that force."
Richard didn’t respond.
’This kid had always been a mischievous troublemaker in my mind.’
’But judging from what he said today, the three tutors before me hadn’t taught the smarts out of him.’
"You’re right." He took a moment before answering. "In the end, Coriolanus was torn apart by two forces at once."
"If he were a little smarter, could he have avoided death on both sides?"
"No one can choose neither side."
Richard turned the textbook to the next page.
"All you can do is choose a side yourself, before you’re torn apart."
Tom didn’t press the matter and buried his head back in his textbook.
Richard watched him write, his mind drifting.
’He’d only told the boy the story of Coriolanus to connect it to the meaning of a word.’
’But halfway through, he was the one who ended up feeling a little lost.’
’Being torn apart by two forces at once.’
’That pretty much described his own situation right now.’
’The academic system, the Divine Pantheon Salon, his family, the Branch Office, the civilian Guilds...’
’Every one of them had expectations of him, and he couldn’t easily let any of them go.’
’Then there were the paths behind the Curtain: the Scholar’s Direction, the Secret Direction... even the Hunter’s Direction. He wanted to try them all.’
’And the Sun, the Abyss, the Weaving Net, Change... so many traditions. He had a golden finger—it would be a waste not to try a few more paths.’
’But then again, his golden finger couldn’t let him be in two places at once. With so much to handle, he was completely stretched thin...’
Richard took a deep breath and suppressed that flicker of confusion.
After the lesson, he took some time to go over the essay draft with Charlotte.
After Charlotte finished reading, she refilled both their teacups.
"Richard, this draft of yours is a huge surprise."
"Thank you for giving me this opportunity."
"Don’t give me the credit. A draft of this quality—any magazine would snap it up."
Charlotte handed him his teacup.
"However, I do have a few suggestions regarding grammar."
Every point she raised was a minor detail.
Things like punctuation, sentence rhythm, and character pronouns. She didn’t ask for any changes to the overall direction.
"Once you fix these small issues, it should be fine to submit to the editor-in-chief."
"The deadline is February fifteenth. Just get it to me by the last weekend of the month."
Charlotte closed the manuscript, her hand brushing over the title.
"Is something wrong?"
"It’s nothing."
She shifted her gaze back to the manuscript.
"This piece of yours... after reading it, I felt a chill in my heart."
"Was there a specific part that made you uncomfortable?"
"Not uncomfortable, exactly."
Charlotte’s brow furrowed.
"No single part of the whole piece is ’cold.’ You wrote with great restraint, without excessive sentimentality or embellishment.
But when I closed the manuscript, I just felt... a chill."
"I can’t quite put my finger on it."
She smiled, brushing the topic aside. "I’m probably just being overly sensitive. Don’t mind me."
Richard took the manuscript back.
’The young woman before him wasn’t part of the Mysterious Side, yet she could feel an unnameable chill after reading it.’
’When he wrote this draft, he had indeed filled its skeleton with something more.’
’The density of death’s toll in the industrial city, the last breaths of the Burnses on their wooden planks, the cold indifference of the entire poor-relief system in motion.’
’He had deliberately avoided writing about the layer of the Mysterious Side, but it was there, inside the very skeleton of the piece.’
Richard put the manuscript into his satchel.
"Thank you, Miss Charlotte."
"Don’t mention it."
He settled the matter of the manuscript on Saturday morning and had an appointment with Coleman in the afternoon.
Richard carried his satchel, which contained the Webley Revolver and the Enchanted Bullets.
’After all, he wasn’t very familiar with Coleman. Bringing a gun would put his mind at ease.’
Coleman’s house was a small, two-story building on the street corner.
Its exterior walls were cleaner than the neighbors’, and the brass door handle was polished to a shine.
Richard rang the doorbell, and the door was opened quickly.
A woman opened the door. Upon seeing Richard, her face immediately broke into a wide smile.
"You must be Richard, right?"
"And you are Mrs. Coleman?"
"Come in, come in."
Mrs. Coleman gestured him inside. The gesture was a bit over the top; her entire upper body leaned with it.
Richard stepped into the entryway.
An old-fashioned coat rack stood in the entryway, next to a small table.
On the table was a small silver platter holding several calling cards.
Richard glanced at the cards out of the corner of his eye. Three were from doctors, two from lawyers, and one from some parish.
Mrs. Coleman took his coat and hung it up.
"Was it cold on your way here?"
"It was fine."
"Would you like some hot tea? I just brewed a pot."
"Please don’t trouble yourself. I told Coleman I’d arrive in the afternoon."
"It’s no trouble at all. Have some tea and rest for a bit."
She was already ushering Richard into the living room.
In the living room, a middle-aged man was sitting by the fireplace reading a newspaper. Seeing Richard enter, he quickly put the paper down and stood up.
The man wasn’t tall, but his shoulders were a good bit broader than those of a typical man with a clerical background.
"I’m Coleman’s father. Just call me Old Coleman."
"Hello, sir."
"Sit, sit." Old Coleman pointed to the sofa opposite the fireplace. "Make yourself at home."
Richard sat down.
Mrs. Coleman quickly came out with a tea tray, upon which were teacups, a sugar bowl, a milk pitcher, and a plate of biscuits.
"Try one." She handed him a teacup. "I baked them myself."
Richard accepted the teacup and picked up a biscuit.
The biscuit was actually quite good. It had a strong milky flavor, and the sugar granules crunched satisfyingly between his teeth.
"Thank you, Mrs. Coleman."
"We heard from Coleman that you’re number one at Greenwood?"
"It’s not that dramatic." Richard answered truthfully. "I did well in some classes last semester, but the top student in the year is someone else."
"That’s still very impressive." Mrs. Coleman pushed the milk pitcher toward him. "Coleman came home and told me you took second place in the Latin speech competition in the Imperial Capital."
"Yes."
"The first place was from Eton...?"
"Montague."
"Right, right, Montague."
Mrs. Coleman paused on the surname "Montague."
She obviously knew what that name represented.
"And in that speech competition, you pushed the boy from the Montague family to win by only half a point?"

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