"It really is you."
Philips walked over and filled the teacup Richard had set on the table.
"Try it."
Richard received no warning from his inspiration. He glanced over at his aunt, who wasn’t far off, then took the cup and had a sip.
The tea was mellow, with a long, sweet aftertaste. It was on a completely different level from what the waiters were carrying around the hall.
"This really is good tea. Where’d you get it?"
"The back room." Philips jutted his chin toward the rear of the hall.
"What they put out for the guests is second-rate. The good batch is locked in a cabinet in the back room, reserved for those old guys.
I had to work on that waiter for fifteen minutes, even told him a joke, before he’d finally spare me a pot."
Richard smiled.
Back during the Cicero Cup, Philips had shown this same talent.
No matter where he went, he could always find good tea.
"Heard you’re here for the summer seminar, too?"
"Yeah."
"What a coincidence. Me too."
Philips placed the book from under his arm onto the windowsill, freeing his hands to drink his tea.
"Last time, at the Cicero Cup, we didn’t get a chance to really talk."
Richard glanced at the book’s cover.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t a collection of past exam questions or a book on Greek grammar.
"Metamorphosis?"
"Yep." Philips looked rather pleased with himself. "Good stuff."
"You’re using this to study for the exam?" Richard asked.
"Of course not," Philips answered with righteous confidence. "It’s not like a question about Ovid is going to pop up on the assessment."
"Then why are you reading it?"
"Because it’s a good read."
Philips said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Look at everyone in this room. Every single one of them is wound as tight as a bowstring.
They read Tacitus because they’re thinking about the translation question on the assessment.
They memorize declensions because they’re afraid of messing up in front of the examiner.
To them, a book is just a brick to knock on a door. Once the door is open, they toss the brick aside."
"I’m not like them." He patted his copy of Metamorphosis.
"If you don’t read for the sake of an exam, isn’t that just reading for nothing?" Richard teased him deliberately.
"For nothing?" Philips looked as if he’d just heard the most ridiculous joke.
"You eat a good meal, and two days later it’s all digested. Did you eat it for nothing?
You watch a good play, and two weeks later you’ve forgotten it all. Did you watch it for nothing?"
"Of course not."
"It’s the same with reading." Philips took a sip of tea.
"The pleasure you get in the moment you’re reading it—that’s the whole point.
Expecting it to get you something later on? That’s not reading. That’s saving money."
Listening to the man’s radical tirade, Richard felt a mix of surprise and admiration.
As the two were chatting over their tea, they suddenly felt a shift in the atmosphere.
A small commotion rippled through the crowd.
The guests’ gazes turned in unison toward the entrance.
Richard looked toward the entrance as well.
A young, blond man walked in through the doorway. It was Alexander Montague.
He also saw Richard on the other side of the room, and the two exchanged a polite nod.
The moment Montague looked away, people immediately started crowding around him.
"Young Lord Montague."
"Alexander."
Montague dealt with them one by one, his manner poised and his etiquette impeccable.
Richard stood in the distance, watching Montague being swarmed by the crowd.
Before, he only had a vague concept of what "a family the Expert was constantly watching" meant.
But now, Richard suddenly understood.
The aura Montague carried was different from that of the other scions of great families in the room.
No matter how composed the others appeared, there was an underlying caution in their bones, a fear of making a single misstep.
Montague was different.
His composure came from his very bones.
’It’s a composure that says, ’What stands behind me is powerful enough that I don’t need to be careful.’’
"Almost forgot the important stuff." Philips tipped his chin toward the other end of the hall. "There’s someone you should meet."
Following his gaze, Richard saw a man in a slightly worn formal suit standing by a pillar, holding a small plate.
He looked to be in his thirties, and on his plate sat two untouched pastries.
He didn’t chat with anyone; he just watched.
Philips beckoned the man over.
"Pendleton," he said, making the introduction.
"This is a veteran of the Classical Society. Everyone in this hall knows him.
He’s also the head of logistics for this year’s seminar. You’ll definitely be needing his help later on."
"Head of logistics..." Pendleton switched the plate to his left hand and shook Richard’s.
"...is just a fancy way of saying I’m the one who arranges beds for the young masters and misses, handles registration, and helps them find their lost things."
"Richard Williams," Richard introduced himself. "I’m from Brighton, here for the seminar."
"I know who you are." Pendleton picked up a pastry. "You got a recommendation letter from Old Mo."
"Since we’ve run into each other, let me show you the ropes. In the Imperial Capital, who you know is more important than what you know."
He raised his hand and gestured subtly toward the center of the hall.
"That group in the middle, mostly women, are the daughters of Earl Blake Ben, with their various cousins.
They’re nominally here for the lecture, but they’re actually here to see which young lord would be a good match for their girls."
Richard looked over.
A group of lavishly dressed young people were chatting and laughing merrily.
"The one standing alone by the east wall is the representative from the Ministry of Internal Affairs."
Pendleton guided his gaze to the east.
"Officially, he’s here to observe the ceremony. Unofficially, he’s here to take names.
The winds of war are blowing stronger every day, so the Ministry of Internal Affairs is being extra thorough with its records this year."
Richard made a mental note.
’The Ministry of Internal Affairs is taking names. The government is taking stock of how many useful people it has left.’
"Further in." Pendleton’s chin tilted toward the back of the hall.
"Those few in the black robes, buttoned all the way up to the chin—they’re from the Divinity School."
Three or four young men in dark robes were clustered in a corner, a stark contrast to the splendid attire filling the rest of the hall.

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