Chapter 103: Lineage

She weighed her words.

"Using the Slingshot as a bridge to redirect his attention from what he's good at to what he's bad at was very clever."

"But I have to ask, how long can this method last?

The Slingshot metaphor covers the first declension fine, but what about the third? What about verb conjugations? What about the subjunctive mood?"

Good question. As expected of a university graduate from the Imperial Capital.

The Slingshot metaphor did indeed have a ceiling.

The deeper one delved into Latin grammar, the more abstract it became. It was impossible to use the Slingshot as an analogy for everything.

"You're right. The Slingshot is just a beginner's hook." Richard stood at the bottom of the steps, almost eye level with her.

"But that beginner's hook is the most important part. A boy his age has zero interest in Latin because no one has ever made him feel like it has anything to do with him."

"The Slingshot connected him to the declension tables. Once he starts finding the tables themselves interesting, the Slingshot can be tossed aside."

Charlotte looked thoughtful.

"I hope you're right." She held out her right hand.

Richard shook it.

"We look forward to welcoming you next Saturday at ten in the morning."

"All right."

By the time he left the Dawn Family residence, it was nearly noon.

He picked up his pace, passing under the railway bridge and cutting through the factory district, jogging the rest of the way back to the main street.

Near the north end, the butcher was slamming the spine of his cleaver into something with loud thuds, sending bone fragments flying.

Richard stopped in front of the butcher shop and stared at the various cuts of meat displayed inside: pork shoulder, beef brisket, leg of lamb, and a few racks of ribs.

The ribs were stacked neatly on the bottom tray. The meat was bright and fresh, with a thin layer of fat clinging to the bones.

"What'll it be, young man?" The butcher looked up, bits of minced meat still stuck to the spine of his cleaver.

"How much for the ribs?"

"Depends on which kind. Short ribs are a bit cheaper; spare ribs cost more."

Richard looked over the selection and settled on a rack of short ribs.

It looked to be a little over two pounds—enough for a family of four to have a solid meal.

"That one. Cut me a whole strip."

The butcher lifted the ribs onto the scale. "Two pounds, two ounces. Let's call it eight pence."

Richard took a shilling from his envelope and handed it over for change.

The butcher took the coin and bit it—a habit of the older generation, even though modern shillings had long since ceased to be pure silver.

The ribs were wrapped in two layers of greaseproof paper, tied with twine, and handed to him.

As Richard carried the ribs home, he walked a little faster than usual.

When he pushed the front door open, his mother was in the kitchen washing dishes.

"You're back. How did it go?"

"I got it."

Richard set the paper-wrapped package on the dining table.

Margaret wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to untie the twine.

As the greaseproof paper fell open, the layer of fat on the ribs looked especially appetizing.

"Ribs?" she asked in surprise.

"The Dawn Family paid the trial lesson fee today. Three shillings."

Richard took the remaining two shillings and the loose change from the envelope and stacked them neatly on the table.

"From now on, it'll be one hour every Saturday and Sunday, at three shillings a lesson.

That comes out to about two and a half pounds a month, with a bonus if the student's grades improve."

Margaret's fingers hovered over the edge of the ribs for a moment before she turned to look at him.

"Three shillings a lesson. We really should celebrate, then."

Elsewhere in the house, Evelyn was quickly drawn downstairs by the smell of the ribs.

She had been in her room reading a fashion magazine when her nose suddenly twitched.

Margaret brushed a mixture of honey and salt over the ribs and sprinkled on some minced thyme.

That jar of honey had been sitting on the highest shelf in the kitchen for a long time.

Margaret usually guarded it as if warding off thieves, but today she brushed two coats of it onto the ribs.

Evelyn bounded down the stairs two at a time.

She rushed into the kitchen and laid eyes on the rack of golden-brown ribs.

"What's the occasion?!"

"Your brother found a part-time job." Their mother used a long-handled iron fork to flip the ribs over.

"The one we talked about before, working as a private tutor."

"How much?"

"Two and a half pounds a month."

"Two and a half pounds?!"

Evelyn whipped her head around to stare at Richard, her eyes wide as an owl's.

"Where does the family that hired you live?"

"The Dawn Family on Highfield Road. They have a twelve-year-old younger brother who needs to test into a public school."

"Highfield Road..." Evelyn silently repeated the name. It was the wealthy neighborhood she and her classmates passed through when they went window-shopping.

"So, you're a tutor for a rich family now?"

"Just a tutor. It's not as grand as you make it sound."

"Uh-huh," Evelyn murmured, but she was already glued to the front of the hearth, her gaze lingering on the ribs.

"Can we eat yet?"

"Not yet." Their mother poked at the coals. "They need another fifteen minutes. The inside will only be tender if the outside is crispy."

Evelyn's hand had already reached out involuntarily, only to receive a light tap from her mother's iron fork.

"Wait."

"But they're dripping fat..."

"Dripping fat means they aren't done yet."

"They smell like they're ready."

"Even if they are, you have to wait. We'll eat when your father gets back."

...

On Sunday afternoon, Richard returned to the shooting range.

Before leaving the house this time, he didn't tell his sister where he was going, only saying he had some errands to run.

Evelyn helped straighten his cuffs and asked, "Latin again?"

He gave a small nod, and his sister sighed and went back inside.

Pushing open the door to the shooting range, he saw someone else sitting behind the duty desk. The man was older than the clerk from last week, with completely white hair.

Richard presented his appointment commission. The white-haired old man didn't even flip through it; he just glanced at the administrative stamp and waved him through.

"Someone's using the range," the old man added.

Richard nodded and headed down the concrete stairs into the basement.

Before he even reached the bottom, he heard gunfire.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The intervals were perfectly even, the rhythm as steady as a metronome.

Walking into the range, he saw Old Biggs standing at the second shooting stall, firing his weapon.

When the gunfire stopped, Old Biggs turned around from the stall and spotted Richard.

"Oh, you're here."

His tone was just as casual as when they had parted ways last weekend, sounding as if Richard had merely stepped out to use the restroom and come right back.

"When you said you'd keep coming this week, I didn't actually take it seriously." Old Biggs swung open his cylinder and ejected the empty casings.

"Young folks usually follow through on less than thirty percent of what they say."

"I'm in that thirty percent."

"I can see that."

Old Biggs set his gun on the partition and clapped his hands to dust off the gunpowder residue.

"Want to practice for a bit first? I'll watch your form again."

Richard retrieved the training Webley he had used last week from the metal cabinet, signed the registry, and collected a box of twenty-four rounds from the ammunition locker.

His reloading was noticeably smoother than last week.

He didn't have a gun to handle at home, but every night before bed, he would dry-run the entire process in his room—loading, raising the gun, aiming, and pulling the trigger—several times over.

The first shot went downrange.

The point of impact landed within the chest area of the target paper. It pulled left, but his accuracy was already a cut above last week's.

"Not bad," Old Biggs observed from the side. "Your wrist is steadier, and you're handling the recoil."

"It still pulled left."

"Pulling is normal. How many rounds have you fired?

Twenty-four last week plus this one today makes twenty-five in total. To hit my level of accuracy, you need at least hundreds, if not thousands, of rounds."

Richard adjusted the rhythm of his Breathing. His index finger steadily drew back the trigger.

Bang!

The second shot hit the chest, drifting to the upper right.

Bang!

The third shot finally landed near the centerline of the chest.

"Good," Old Biggs nodded.

"You have an advantage. You've trained your breathing method well. Firing halfway through your exhale, your whole body is as steady as a post."

After firing all twenty-four rounds, Richard set the gun down and rolled his wrist to stretch it.

Old Biggs looked at the target paper, gave a noncommittal grunt, and turned to dig his copper flask out of his tool bag.

The two of them sat down on the ammunition crates, seated exactly as they had been the previous week.

Old Biggs poured himself a cup of black tea spiked with rum, then fished two sandwiches out of a paper bag. This time, they were ham and mustard.

Old Biggs was the sort of man who couldn't keep his mouth shut; he had been quiet for barely ten seconds before he started fishing for conversation.

"What did you do yesterday?"

"Worked as a tutor."

"A tutor? Teaching what?"

"Latin."

"Teaching who?"

"A family on Highfield Road. They have a twelve-year-old kid testing into a public school."

"Highfield Road, huh..." Old Biggs gave a low whistle. "That's the most expensive street in the North District."

"It is. The hourly rate is quite good."

"Becoming a gentleman tutor for a rich family at your young age."

He clicked his tongue, a little impressed.

Richard thought for a moment before probing, "Old Biggs, how many years have you been in Briston?"

"Almost fifteen years." The older man counted on his fingers.

"I hadn't even put on weight when I transferred over from the Imperial Capital. Back then, my waistline was only two-thirds of what it is now."

"You were assigned here from the Imperial Capital?"

"I wouldn't call it an assignment. I applied for it myself."

Old Biggs took a sip of his tea.

"The Imperial Capital is nice and all, but the competition is too fierce. With my half-baked skills, I couldn't even scrounge up a mouthful of soup over there. The northern Branch Office was short on people, so I volunteered for the transfer."

He smacked his lips. "As for Briston, the air is a bit worse and the winters are a bit colder, but it's quiet here.

In the North District, you won't run into more than a few cases a year that actually require getting your hands dirty. Most of the time, it's just routine autopsies and writing reports."

"Coming down to the range on the weekends to fire off a few rounds counts as my entertainment."

He set his tin cup on the ammunition crate and asked, seemingly without much thought, "You go to school at Greenwood?"

"Yeah."

"Greenwood School, the one in the North District?"

"That's the one."

Old Biggs's expression shifted subtly.

"Greenwood..." He rolled the word around in his mouth.

"A while back, my senior sister mentioned it in passing."

"Mrs. MacNeil. Have you heard of her?"

Richard's heart skipped half a beat, but his face gave nothing away.

Mrs. MacNeil—the medium the Warren Family invited to their home around exorcism day every year.

"I haven't dealt with her directly." He chose his words carefully. "But I've heard classmates mention the name."

Old Biggs shot him a look.

Those small eyes, wedged in the folds of his round face, narrowed into slits. He looked completely different from his usual jovial, laughing self.