Mrs. MacNeil took out the Gray Wax Stick and lit it with Ether.
Once the Wax Stick was lit, Richard scanned it with his Hidden Spiritual Vision.
The wisp of fog by the wall shifted ever so slightly toward the Wax Stick, then retreated.
"It’s drawn by the wax," Mrs. MacNeil said after a glance. "But it’s too scared to come out."
"Why is it scared?"
"He’s been counting in the pitch-black darkness for so many years. It’s the only proof he’s alive. If he comes out..."
She didn’t finish her sentence.
"It seems we’ll have to ask Milk."
Richard’s gaze fell on the small wooden box by her knee.
She squatted outside the line of salt, took the small wooden box out of her leather bag, and placed it lid-up.
"One of the seven from the Whitcomb Seal. Milk is the Moonstone Pendant, for negotiations."
Richard remembered, of course.
"You use him for house calls too?"
"He’s particularly effective with children." Mrs. MacNeil undid the cloth tie and opened the box’s lid.
"Children won’t listen to adults trying to reason with them, but if the one speaking doesn’t seem like an adult, they’ll listen."
She took out the pendant, cradled it in her palm, and whispered something to it.
Richard scanned it with his Hidden Spiritual Vision.
At that moment, a very faint Shadow emerged from within the pendant.
This was the Material Realm; a Spirit could not fully manifest.
"Milk, I need your help again."
The Candle flame flickered slightly.
The Spirit slowly seeped out of the pendant and drifted toward the base of the wall.
When it reached the wall, the mass of Spirit squatted down.
Milk spoke to the base of the wall. "Do you want to stop for a bit?"
The pale fog by the wall hesitated.
Mrs. MacNeil asked very softly, "What number are you on?"
From the fog by the wall, an almost inaudible voice emerged.
"...Forty-seven."
It was the voice of a boy, seven or eight years old.
"Then count to one hundred. Count slowly. We’ll wait for you to finish."
The fog by the wall went quiet for a moment, then began to count.
"...Forty-eight."
The machinery in the workshop was still running, and the small voice was almost drowned out.
"...Ninety-nine."
The Candle’s flame stabilized.
"...One hundred."
The entire workshop fell silent.
"You’ve finished counting," Mrs. MacNeil coaxed gently.
The fog by the wall didn’t move.
"You’ve been asleep for a very, very long time. No one will come to wake you up to stack cotton anymore."
The fog stirred.
"You can go now."
Milk approached the fog and extended a hand.
A faint outline slowly emerged from within the fog.
The boy kept his head down, looking very shy.
Milk’s invisible hand slowly came to rest on top of his head, and the boy looked up.
Richard didn’t look at the face. He felt that he shouldn’t.
Milk led the boy toward the Candle.
The Candle burned for a while before extinguishing itself.
Mrs. MacNeil placed the pendant back into the small wooden box.
"Milk got a little tired today. I’ll have to let him rest for a few days when we get back."
"This case is closed."
Richard stood on the outside, not moving.
"...What was that child’s name?"
Mrs. MacNeil looked up at him for a moment.
"Milk heard him say it just now. His name is Tommy."
"...Tommy."
"Mm."
Richard said no more.
Holbrook had been waiting at the workshop entrance for over half an hour.
When he saw Mrs. MacNeil emerge from inside, he immediately hurried forward.
"...How did it go?"
"It’s been dealt with," Mrs. MacNeil said.
"It’s... over? Just like that?"
"Yes."
"...Does it need a Seal?"
The man rubbed his hands together, clearly reluctant to spend the money.
"A Seal won’t be necessary for this case."
"Seals are for entities that reappear repeatedly. The one today has already left. It won’t be back."
"Also, shut this carding machine down for one day."
"For a whole day? But the orders..."
"One day. You can resume the day shift tomorrow afternoon and the night shift the day after."
"Don’t let any children near this section of the wall for the next three days."
"...Children?" Holbrook was taken aback. "I don’t have any child laborers in my factory right now."
"I didn’t ask if you have child laborers." Mrs. MacNeil’s expression was blank. "I said do not let *any* children near it."
"The house call fee is five pounds, and the processing fee, based on today’s workload, is three pounds.
Seeing as you were quite cooperative this afternoon, I’ll give you a discount. We’ll make the processing fee two pounds."
Holbrook let out a visible sigh of relief.
He counted out the money from his coat pocket and handed it over.
Mrs. MacNeil took the bills, glanced at them, and tucked them into her own coat pocket.
"Goodbye."
Holbrook escorted the two of them to the factory gate.
The ride was silent. The car stopped at the east end of Waste Rock Lane.
Richard got out of the car, folded the two pounds, and put them in his inner pocket.
From the car, Mrs. MacNeil said:
"Brighton’s spring Seal Maintenance is coming up soon. That ’old foundation’ in the West Suburb needs to be redone this year."
Her expression was serious.
"For your Scholar’s empirical text, that ’old foundation’ in the West Suburb will provide you with a wealth of material."
"You can ask Mr. Hutton about it later. It would be best if you could come and observe with him."
"...Yes."
The car continued toward the Branch Office.
Richard stood at the east end of Waste Rock Lane, watching the car turn the corner.
In the distance, smokestacks billowed smoke, and the lights for the night shift faintly illuminated the industrial district.
In late January Brighton, the snow melted only to fall again, then melted once more.
At the school, Mr. Hutton would leave his office door open for half an hour every day after classes ended.
This half-hour wasn’t a scheduled lesson. If Richard was free, he would go; if not, he wouldn’t.
The two had never spoken a word about this arrangement, but their tacit understanding was perfectly maintained.
The two of them had finished their collaborative research on the Sheepskin Scroll and the Bronze Plate.
The section on true names, which delved deeper, had already been sealed inside the Silver Salt Wooden Box. As per the rules, no one was to touch it again.
They had analyzed every part of the entire ritual record that did not involve true names.
Mr. Hutton’s exact words were, "This is as far as we need to go."
Richard always tried to ask a few more questions about the remaining parts.
The old gentleman would just shake his head.
Although Mr. Hutton couldn’t guide Richard on his empirical text, he could teach him things beyond that: the fundamentals of being a Scholar, such as the Gaelic Language, Church ceremonial Latin, the basics of Epigraphy, and how Scholars encrypt their own texts.
Without a solid foundation, anything you build on it will be unsteady, no matter how far you go.
The old gentleman held nothing back in this regard.
After school that day, Richard followed the familiar path to the office.
Mr. Hutton was sitting behind his desk, where three books lay open.
One was *Gaelic Grammar for Beginners*.
One was the *National Church Worship Ceremony Language Compilation*.
And one was a hardcover, handwritten copybook with no discernible title.
Richard would later learn it was a copy of lecture notes on Epigraphy that Mr. Hutton had transcribed by hand in his youth.
"What are we covering today?" Richard asked, standing at the door.
"We’re not covering anything today," Mr. Hutton said without looking up. "Turn these three books to their table of contents and pick the section you want to read the least."
"...The one I want to read the least?"
"Why?"
"The section you want to read the least is the one you lack the most."
Richard spread the three books out in front of him.
The Epigraphy lecture notes were the thinnest, but the most difficult to get through.
Even with the boost from [Rationality], every single stroke had to be turned over in his mind several times before he could understand why a line moved a certain way or why it stopped where it did.
Richard pondered for a moment before pushing the Epigraphy lecture notes toward the center.
Mr. Hutton glanced up at him.
"...Why not the Gaelic Language?"
"The Gaelic Language is difficult, but its rules are clear. It’s something I can chew through with enough time."
Richard answered earnestly, "Every stroke in the Epigraphy lecture notes is backed by centuries of tradition. I can’t discern the intricacies on my own."
The old gentleman grunted in acknowledgment and took a sip from his teacup.
"That answer... is slightly better than your previous one."
"...Was my previous answer bad?"
"You said, ’All three are difficult, so I’ll start with the easiest, the Gaelic Language.’"
Richard felt a little embarrassed.
"With today’s answer, at least you’re starting to understand what you lack."
The tutoring session passed quickly.
Richard’s mind had become much more nimble recently, so concepts that he previously could only memorize through brute force now just clicked into place.
So much so that when the lesson ended, he still felt he could have gone on longer.
"Tomorrow, we’ll switch to a different set," the old gentleman said, his white eyebrows twitching as he looked at the young man before him.
"...Which set?"
"A more difficult one."
"...Yes."
Richard stood up and gathered his books.
As he reached the door, he heard the old gentleman add something from behind him.
"Also, there’s another volume after that one of the Epigraphy lecture notes."
"You are to also study the similar sets of turns from the next volume, in addition to the set I assigned you today."
"Understood."
Richard left the office.
After the door closed, Mr. Hutton leaned back in his chair, confirming something in his mind.
’This kid... he seems to have gotten a bit smarter recently.’
True talent for the path of a Scholar was never about "memorizing a lot."
It was about piecing together fragments from different eras, different traditions, and different perspectives to see the load-bearing beam that was originally invisible.
And seeing that load-bearing beam was something only a Scholar could do.
In his youth, Mr. Hutton had briefly touched the edge of that beam.
But his own foundation had been diluted by three different disciplines, and in the end, he lacked the strength to advance any further.
Now, inside the mind of that sixteen-year-old boy, that very same beam was taking shape, inch by inch.

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