While Richard was speaking with Pendleton and Philips, a figure broke away from the cluster of lavishly dressed people in the center of the hall and walked toward them.
The young man wore a suit of fine material, impeccably tailored.
His face bore a slight resemblance to Montague’s.
But the innate composure on Montague’s face was, on this man, thinned to a mere veneer.
He had just come from Montague’s side, his posture borrowing some of the latter’s imposing air.
Pendleton whispered a reminder in Richard’s ear.
"Oliver Montague. From a branch family."
Oliver stopped in front of Richard and looked him up and down.
"A moment ago, my cousin gave you a nod."
"I’m curious, who might you be?"
"Richard Williams."
"Williams." Oliver rolled the name around in his mouth. "Can’t say I’ve heard of it. Which family?"
"My mother is Margaret Ashford," Richard replied.
Oliver’s eyebrows twitched.
"Ashford." He nodded, the corners of his mouth starting to turn down.
"Oh, I remember now. The Miss Ashford who married an engineer and moved to some industrial city up north?"
Richard didn’t respond.
Oliver let out a derisive snort.
"My mother mentioned your branch of the family.
She said a lady of the Ashford Family once turned down a fine match in the Imperial Capital, insisting on marrying beneath her station to some road-and-bridge builder. Now the whole family lives huddled under a smokestack."
"Building roads and bridges." Oliver shook his head. "A trade, I suppose."
"Mr. Williams, let me be frank with you."
Oliver put on an air of sharing a heartfelt confidence.
"The foundation of the extraordinary is written in our very bones and blood. For four hundred years, the Montague family has had someone standing at the forefront of the Curtain, generation after generation."
"And you? Half-Ashford blood sounds respectable, but it’s been watered down. What makes you think you can compare to anyone?"
Before the words had even settled, the teacup in Philips’s hand landed back on the windowsill with a sharp CLINK.
Richard caught a flash of red hair moving in the crowd out of the corner of his eye.
Catherine had been standing by the window with her tea. Hearing this exchange, she was just lifting her foot to come over.
Philips was a step faster.
"Oliver." Philips raised an eyebrow.
"Watered-down blood, pure blood... I’m a bit curious. Did you have your blood drawn and tested, or is this just something your mother told you?"
Oliver’s expression stiffened.
"You stay out of this..."
"I haven’t said anything much." Philips picked up his cup and took another sip.
"I just think that when a person hasn’t even figured out what’s in their own head, yet is so eager to rank and grade the blood in other people’s veins, it seems they’ve got their priorities backward."
A few people nearby in the hall had already quietly turned their heads toward them.
Catherine’s foot paused mid-step.
She looked at Philips, then at Richard, who hadn’t even bothered to lift his teacup this whole time, and silently drew her raised foot back.
’Some fights don’t need my help.’
Oliver was momentarily choked up by Philips’s words, but the contempt in his eyes didn’t fade.
In his eyes, a tea-loving mediocrity like Philips was far from important enough to matter.
He turned his head, redirecting his attack toward Richard.
"Williams," he sneered.
"Your friend has a sharp tongue, but I’m talking to you, the person in question. Why is he butting in?"
"And what about you? Hiding behind your friend, not daring to say a single word in response?"
Only then did Richard’s gaze fall upon Oliver’s face.
’Restraint and rage can coexist.’
"Mr. Montague." His voice wasn’t loud, but the small area of the hall around them suddenly grew quieter.
"You were mistaken about one thing."
"Oh?"
"My father’s name is Rogers. He is an engineer."
Richard spoke very slowly, word by word.
"He was involved in the surveying and drafting for the three bridges that span the canal in Brighton’s North District.
Hundreds of boats pass under those bridges every day, carrying coal, cotton, and grain.
More than half of what hundreds of thousands of people in the north eat, burn, and wear passes under the bridges my father helped build."
The confidential, heart-to-heart expression on Oliver’s face could no longer be maintained.
"A bridge builder..."
"That elder in your household." Richard didn’t let him finish, his gaze pinning him.
"If I may be so bold, has he ever contributed his own efforts to the public or to public works?"
Oliver didn’t answer.
"Probably not," Richard answered for him.
"The naturally noble don’t cross bridges over canals, but hundreds of thousands in Brighton do so every day."
Oliver’s face darkened.
He was about to open his mouth, but Richard took a step forward.
"You said a moment ago that one’s foundation is written in their bones and blood."
Richard looked at him. "What you take pride in is the four-hundred-year history of the Montague family."
"Mr. Montague, I’d like to ask, in those four hundred years, who exactly was it that stood at the forefront of the Curtain?"
Oliver was at a loss for words.
"It couldn’t have been you, could it?" Richard smiled.
"How old are you? Have you carved your signatory brand yet?"
Oliver’s face flushed red.
Richard’s words had struck a nerve.
"That four-hundred-year glory you take so much pride in."
Richard’s words piled up, one layer after another, until the other man could barely breathe.
"Not a single inch of it was earned by you."
"You stand here borrowing the lingering prestige of the Experts and Grand Masters among your ancestors.
You drape yourself in the glory of others and treat it as your own.
But if you take off that suit, erase the name ’Montague’... Mr. Montague, what would be left of you?"
Many people in the hall had already stopped their conversations and were gathering around to watch.

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