Lately, Rogers had been coming home later and later.
It was ten o’clock at night before he wheeled his old bicycle all the way from the west side of town back to Waste Rock Lane.
Richard knew perfectly well why.
After household expenses, there was a limited amount his father could save from his monthly salary.
He had to scrape together the first year’s tuition before his son started school in the fall.
Rogers was a bit surprised to see his son standing in the kitchen when he came in.
"You’re still up?"
"Waiting for you." Richard placed the bowl of porridge on the table. "Mom said you haven’t been eating properly these last couple of days."
Rogers rubbed his frozen hands together and sat down at the table.
He first pulled out the Sheffield tobacco tin from his pocket.
Richard watched him by the light of the furnace fire.
His father’s face was a size thinner than it had been a few months ago.
His eye sockets were sunken, and the bluish stubble on his chin hadn’t been shaved in three days.
Richard sat down across from him.
"Dad."
"There’s something I want to discuss with you."
Rogers’s hand, which was spooning porridge, paused, and he looked up at him.
Richard took the twenty pounds he had folded separately out of his pocket and placed it in the middle of the table.
The bills lay spread out between them.
Rogers stared at the stack of money for a good while before looking back up at his son.
"Where did you get this money?"
"I earned it."
"I saved it up bit by bit from my tutoring fee from the Dawn family, the leftover prize money from the Cicero Cup, and the stipend from the research trips with my teacher."
The kitchen was silent for a moment.
"It’s a good thing that you’re saving money."
After a long pause, Rogers spoke.
"Keep it for yourself. When you go to the Imperial Capital in the fall, you’ll need money for everything."
Richard pushed the stack of money toward his father.
"This twenty pounds is for the family."
Rogers’s brows furrowed.
"I’m not asking you to start supporting the family now."
"I know."
"Then what are you doing?" Rogers pushed the money back.
"You’re a student bringing money home to support the family. If word gets out, what will people think of me?"
Richard didn’t touch the money that had been pushed back.
He looked at his father’s thin, stubborn face and spoke the words he had long prepared, one by one.
"Dad, I’ll be eighteen next year."
Rogers didn’t reply.
"I’m an expense in this family.
You and Mom know exactly how much I eat a day. My appetite has grown in the past six months; I eat even more than you."
"If I’m an expense, I should also be a contributor."
"I’m not here to support the family for you. I am part of this family."
Rogers looked down at the stack of bills on the table and said nothing.
His son had saved this up bit by bit, from the three shillings an hour for tutoring, the one pound per essay, and the stipends earned from running around on trips.
He had personally witnessed the growth behind every single one of those bills.
Rogers reached out his right hand and gathered the money.
"...It’ll be used for you in the future anyway," he mumbled.
Greenwood sent out the final confirmation letter for post-secondary intentions.
Evelyn was in her last year of secondary school, so this letter was for her.
The preparatory track or the vocational college track—this time, it had to be set down in black and white.
At the dinner table, Evelyn had the letter pressed under the edge of her bowl. After a couple of bites of rice, she finally brought up the topic.
"Dad, I’ve thought about it. I’m not choosing the preparatory track."
Rogers’s soup spoon stopped mid-air.
"I want to apply to the baking program at the Imperial City Royal Culinary Academy."
No one at the table spoke for a moment.
Their mother, Margaret, slowed her hand as she served her son porridge.
Richard also stared into his porridge bowl, not saying a word.
Rogers placed his spoon back in his bowl, not losing his temper just yet.
He was the kind of man who could argue with a load-bearing beam on a blueprint for an entire day.
But when it came to his daughter, he always took the roundabout way.
"Baking... I’m not saying you can’t do it."
That was the truth. He’d picked out the heart-shaped mold for her himself at Christmas.
When choosing it, he had specifically asked for a thicker copper one that would conduct heat evenly.
His daughter loved to bake, and he’d never forbidden it.
"But is this a skill you can’t learn in Brighton?" he continued.
"Half the town buys the jam tarts Old Lambert makes on North Street.
If you want to learn, I can go talk to him, have you be his apprentice. He’ll teach you personally. That’s no worse than attending some academy."
"Lambert sells breakfast pastries."
Evelyn’s neck stiffened at once.
"The Royal Culinary Academy is the best baking school in all of Albion. When you graduate, you get a diploma. You can work in the kitchens of the Royal Hotel, or open your own workshop..."
"The Royal Hotel is in the Imperial Capital," Rogers interrupted her. "And that academy you’re talking about is also in the Imperial Capital."
He enunciated the words "Imperial Capital" with particular force.
"It’s hundreds of miles away. A girl living in a dorm... we wouldn’t see a trace of you all year."
He spooned up some more soup, but lowered it from his lips. "You’re only sixteen."
Evelyn’s temper flared.
"Brother is only seventeen!" Her voice shot up an octave.
"Brother is going to the Imperial Capital to study, and you’re working overtime every day to save for his tuition, not even coming home to sleep.
But when it’s my turn to say I want to go to the Imperial Capital, it suddenly becomes ’a girl we’ll never see’?"
That sentence left Rogers speechless.
Under the table, Richard secretly kicked his sister.
’This girl... when she gets worked up, she’ll even drag me into it.’
Evelyn felt the kick and shot her brother a glare, but in the end, she didn’t dare to argue further.
Rogers’s face was grim. He didn’t respond.
He picked up his bowl of soup and drank it, one mouthful at a time.
Richard understood completely.
The issue his father was stuck on had never been "baking" to begin with.
The heart-shaped mold from Christmas had already settled that matter.
What was truly stuck in his throat was the fact that Evelyn also wanted to go to the Imperial Capital.
After dinner, Evelyn lingered in Richard’s room, refusing to leave.
She sat on her brother’s bed, hugging her knees, a wronged look on her face.
"Brother, you have to be fair."
She showed Richard the notebook. "I’ve been working on this for two years."
Richard took the notebook and flipped through it.
The colored-pencil drawing of a cake on the cover was faded and worn.
Inside, page after page was crammed with recipes, oven temperature conversion charts, and notes on baking failures.
The most recent pages were iteration notes on the "Sir Rabbit" series.
From when Mr. Rabbit collapsed to reducing the sugar by half a spoonful and the amount of cinnamon, every detail was recorded with perfect clarity.
On the very last page, Evelyn had drawn a rabbit wearing a graduation cap.
Beside it, a line of text read: "This is Professor Rabbit, major in Baking, minor in Snacking."
The line made Richard laugh.
"Brother, don’t laugh." Evelyn snatched the notebook back. "I’m serious."
"I know you’re serious." Richard suppressed his smile. "Let me ask you something."
"What?"
"Do you want to go to the Imperial Capital to study baking because you truly love baking, or..."
Richard looked at his sister. "...because you want to follow me?"
Evelyn’s face flushed red in an instant.
She buried her face in her knees and stayed that way for a long moment before looking up.
"Both," she said, her voice growing softer. "I really do love baking, you know that."
"But... but you’re leaving. Mom said you’ll be studying and taking exams in the Imperial Capital from now on.
You might even become a teacher there like our aunt and only come back a few times a year."
"If I stay and work in Brighton... you’ll be in the Imperial Capital, and I’ll be in Brighton. We’d only be able to see each other for a few days at Christmas."
Evelyn clutched the notebook to her chest.
"If I go to the Imperial Capital to study baking, first, I can do something I truly love, and second..."
’Her brother would be at Imperial University, and she would be at the culinary academy in the Imperial Capital. They’d be in the same city, and they could still see each other on days off. When her brother got tired from writing his papers, his little sister could go take care of him whenever.’
That was Evelyn’s real plan.
Richard’s heart softened.
His sister was usually stubborn and loved to bicker, but her reasoning was so simple it was poignant enough to make his eyes sting.
"Alright, I’ll help you with this."
"Really?" Evelyn’s eyes lit up.
"Really," Richard answered.
"But you have to face Dad first. I’ll be on the sidelines helping you out."
"Dad..." Evelyn deflated. "He’ll definitely say no."
’He just can’t bear for you to leave, too,’ Richard sighed, but didn’t say it out loud.
On Saturday, Rogers had a rare full day off.
In the afternoon, he sat on the living room sofa, reading an old issue of *Engineer’s Weekly*.
Richard placed his sister’s cake notebook on his father’s lap.
Rogers put down the paper and looked down at the faded notebook.
"What’s this?"
"It’s Evelyn’s." Richard sat down across from him. "Dad, take a look."
Rogers opened the notebook.
He turned the pages slowly.
He went through it page by page, from the crookedly written recipes at the beginning to the increasingly neat temperature charts toward the end.
When he reached the last page, the one with Professor Rabbit in the graduation cap, Rogers paused.
"Major in Baking, minor in Snacking."
He made a sound in his throat, and it was impossible to tell if it was a laugh or a sigh.
"Dad," Richard began his persuasion.
"I had someone ask about that school, the Royal Culinary Academy."
That was the truth. He had indeed asked his senior, Sofia, to help him inquire.
"It’s a proper school. You get a diploma when you graduate, and being a pastry chef is a respectable profession in the Imperial Capital."
"If Evelyn really learns this trade in the Imperial Capital, she could open her own workshop in the future and earn much more money than a clerk."
The living room was quiet for a moment.
Rogers set the notebook aside.
He didn’t look at his son again. His gaze fell upon the living room window that faced the lane.
Outside, a few of the neighbors’ children were playing wildly.
"You’re leaving in the fall."
Rogers said suddenly.
"Yes."
"Going to Imperial University, entering your maternal grandfather’s circle."
Rogers’s voice was very low. "That... world your mother doesn’t let me ask about."
Richard’s heart leaped into his throat.
His father had finally poked a corner through the paper-thin wall of silence.
Rogers, an ordinary engineer, had abided by the principle of "we rely on ourselves" for over a decade.
He didn’t ask about his wife’s past, didn’t touch that unseen world.
He just drew his blueprints in his own little corner of the world, supported his family, and lived a steadfast, grounded life.
But he wasn’t a fool.
He had seen the changes in his son over the past half-year.
The late-night excursions, the incomprehensible "research stipends" from unclear sources, and the Ashford Family’s sudden fawning attitude...
He hadn’t asked about any of it, but he had seen it all.
Rogers stared at the playing children for a long time.
A light rain began to fall outside, and the children scattered.
He pulled his gaze back, letting it fall on the cake notebook on his lap.
"You’re leaving, and I can’t stop you."
"Now your sister wants to leave, too."
"One to university, one to a culinary academy. One after the other, both heading to the Imperial Capital."
"This house... next year, it’ll just be me and your mother left."
At the dinner table, the post-secondary confirmation letter was filled out.
Rogers filled it out himself.
In the intention field, he wrote: "Vocational Specialty, Imperial City Royal Culinary Academy, Baking Program."
When he finished, he put the pen down and pushed the confirmation letter to his daughter.
"You’ll take the exam next year. If you don’t pass, you come back to Brighton. That’s the bottom line."
"I’ll pass!" Evelyn snatched the letter.
"I’ll get first place, just you watch!"
"Ambition alone is useless." Rogers scooped up a spoonful of soup. "You’re still using too much cinnamon."
"I’ll use half a spoonful less next time!"
"You said you’d use half a spoonful less last time, too."
"This time I really will!"
Their mother, Margaret, was at the side, cleaning vegetables for the next day, not getting involved in the father-daughter bickering.
Her hands, as she cleaned the vegetables, were a little slower than usual.
Richard held his porridge bowl, watching the people at the table.
His father was criticizing his daughter’s cinnamon, but the hand holding the soup spoon moved exceptionally slowly.
His mother cleaned vegetables, occasionally glancing at her daughter’s tear-streaked, smiling face.
His sister held the confirmation letter to her chest, protecting it as if it were her cake notebook.
By this time next year, this table would have two empty seats.
But for now, it was still full.
"Brother."
His sister suddenly pushed a freshly baked gingerbread rabbit in front of Richard.
Richard picked up the rabbit.
"And who is this?"
"Professor Rabbit, of course," Evelyn said triumphantly. "He’s going to the Imperial Capital with both of us."

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