Chapter 262: The Curator and the Old Classmate

The crowds in the main hall hadn't thinned since the museum opened.

Richard lectured without pause until noon, his throat parched, as the circle of listeners around him swapped out batch after batch.

It was past one o'clock by the time Pendleton came in to check on them, dismissing the twenty fellows for a half-hour lunch break.

The resting parlor lay just behind the main hall, its narrow door shutting out the clamor.

The museum's provided lunch was laid out across a long oak table: thick slices of bread, cold ham stacked on white porcelain plates; several massive wedges of cheddar cheese still clinging to the chill of the cellar, and a bucket of fresh milk straight from the dairy resting on the corner.

The fellows filed in, grabbing their food and gathering in small knots.

After a morning of talking, Richard was ravenous.

He snagged two slices of bread, packed them with a thick layer of ham and cheese, wedged in a few pickle slices, and demolished the sandwich in three bites.

He turned right around and built another.

Then a third. A fourth.

After polishing off his fifth homemade sandwich, Richard hefted the milk pail. He downed cup after cup, drinking through more than half of it before finally setting it down.

The chatter in the parlor died down.

Sitting across the table, Wade Bourne held half a piece of cheese, forgetting to take a bite.

"Williams." Bourne swallowed hard. "Have you... not eaten a thing all morning?"

"I ate." Richard wiped his mouth. "I had three fried eggs and two strips of bacon this morning."

Catherine, standing by the window with her arms crossed, spoke up.

"I've seen the fullbacks on the rugby team over in Cheltenham."

"Teenage boys who can polish off half a rack of ribs in one sitting."

"You can eat more than them."

Richard smiled and assembled his sixth sandwich.

From some corner of the room, someone muttered, "He's got the face of a Scholar and the appetite of a Hunter."

The entire room erupted into laughter.

Richard swallowed his mouthful, completely unbothered.

"Telling stories takes more out of you than you'd think."

"Trekking from the Black Soil River Basin over to the Spice Islands, marching across half the Old Continent—my stomach was running on empty long before the morning was out."

Just then, the parlor's narrow door was pushed open from the outside.

Pendleton squeezed in sideways, holding the door open and pressing his hands down to call for quiet.

Following right behind him was an old man.

He wore an old-fashioned, dark gray robe that fell to his feet.

A snow-white beard hung beneath his chin, a good half a foot long, which he stroked absentmindedly.

As he walked, the hem of his robe swept over the floor tiles without a sound.

Richard's breathing slowed.

Sitting so close, he couldn't miss the sheer weight of the flawlessly contained Ether radiating from the man.

It was shallower than the crushing ocean looming over Professor Mortimer's head, but it was leagues beyond any ordinary Minor Adept.

A Minor Adept, just a single step away from Major Adept.

The Silver Ring at his chest rested quietly; it didn't turn cold.

This old man bore absolutely no malice.

The fellows hastily stood up.

"Sit down, everyone, sit down."

The old man waved a hand, his white beard swaying.

"Eating takes priority. I'm just an old fossil dropping by for a look."

Pendleton made the introductions.

"This is Curator Cornelius Wetherby."

Curator Wetherby's gaze swept the length of the table before landing on the mostly empty milk pail sitting in front of Richard.

"Which one of you drank through half my milk pail?"

Richard stood up. "Curator, that was me."

Curator Wetherby looked him up and down and burst into hearty laughter.

"Good, good," the white-bearded man said approvingly.

"An appetite is a blessing. When I was young, I could devour a whole roast goose in one sitting and suck the bones clean."

"I'm old now. Don't have the stomach for it anymore."

He paced a couple of steps and gathered his white beard over his chest.

"I heard all the commotion down in the main hall this morning from all the way upstairs."

Curator Wetherby looked at Richard.

"Guests were flocking to you batch after batch. The docents nearby were practically out of a job. I thought there was a riot, so I came downstairs to take a look..."

"The funerals of the Black Soil River, the Greek Symposium, the fire worship of Persia. You even explained the origins of the word 'magic' so clearly that grocers and railway clerks could understand."

After listing all that, the old man delivered his final verdict.

"Well spoken."

Richard offered a slight bow. "You praise me too highly, Curator."

"Too highly?" Curator Wetherby tossed his white beard.

"I don't hand out three compliments a year."

"Were you recommended by old Mo?"

"Yes," Richard replied. "Professor Mortimer did me the honor."

"Old Mo does have a sharp eye. His camp hasn't produced a decent student in decades. Seeing your work today, it seems he finally has a successor."

Curator Wetherby tucked away his smile.

"I've noted everything you did today."

"Your fellowship marks will be decided by the Department of Classics. But since you spent the whole day entertaining guests for the museum, I'll take it upon myself to add a commendation to your student file."

"Thank you, Curator."

"And another thing," the old man added. "Tonight after closing, everyone is heading down to the Storeroom to see the real artifacts."

"I'll grant you a certain level of priority."

Richard's eyes lit up.

"Thank you, Curator."

That Storeroom full of real artifacts waiting tonight—what he had in mind went far beyond merely getting his hands on them.

This was exactly why he had poured so much effort into the morning.

Curator Wetherby offered a few more instructions to Pendleton and walked out with his hands clasped behind his back.

At the door, he looked back and jutted his chin toward the empty milk pail.

"Keep up the good work this afternoon, young man. I'll have the kitchen prep another pail for you later."

Another wave of laughter filled the parlor.

The afternoon crowds were even larger than the morning's.

The line of people outside hadn't shortened past noon; it had actually curled around the corner to the next street.

From start to finish, Richard was boxed in by a dense throng of bodies.

The moment he finished speaking, new guests surged forward to fill the gaps, firing off questions one after another without a moment's pause.

The other sections of the main hall were much quieter.

Wade Bourne had originally drawn a few guests of his own.

But he couldn't go two sentences without getting distracted and looking elsewhere. The guests quickly lost interest and drifted off in twos and threes.

By the end, his corner was practically dead, with barely a soul remaining.

Edith's station was a different story.

She specifically sought out the families who were visiting for the first time and looked completely out of their depth.

Crouching to eye level with the children, she spoke slowly and carefully, explaining things sentence by sentence.

She was surrounded mostly by working-class families with their kids.

Just before closing, Richard saw off another batch of guests and was about to catch his breath.

He glanced toward the other end of the main hall.

Standing right beside Edith was a very familiar figure.

The two girls had their heads close together, deep in a comfortable chat.

Edith wore a rare smile on her normally somber face.

Richard's gaze locked onto the other girl.

It was Lillian.

Over two months ago, she had bidden him farewell in the abandoned building behind Greenwood's main hall.

Back then, her face had been pale as she clutched a stuffed titmouse to her chest.

The Lillian standing before him now looked like an entirely different person.

The girl had clearly dressed up today to meet someone.

She wore a light-colored dress and a touch of powder on her small face.

She had always been pretty, but now the lingering shadows of her old timidity had completely vanished, leaving her absolutely radiant.

Richard sent out a wisp of his Inspiration to probe her.

He felt absolutely nothing.

Total silence. He couldn't read the slightest ripple of Ether.

Richard's heart sank.

There were only two possible reasons for drawing a blank.

Either Lillian's current strength was leagues above his own, so profound that his Inspiration couldn't breach it, or she had acquired her own methods for shielding against detection.

It seemed she had walked down that path after all.

As for what the scenery along that path actually looked like, Richard had no way of knowing.

As if sensing something, Lillian lifted her head and looked in Richard's direction.

Their eyes met.

She murmured something to Edith, who nodded in return.

Lillian turned around and gave Richard a small wave in greeting.

Richard was just lifting his hand to wave back when she vanished into the dispersing crowd.

Richard stood rooted to the spot, motionless for a long moment.

A heavy hand clapped his shoulder.

"Williams! What are you spacing out for?"

It was Wade Bourne. The guy had been languishing all afternoon, but now his high spirits had suddenly returned.

"The museum's celebratory feast is starting!"

Richard allowed himself to be half-pushed, half-dragged out of the main hall.

...

Lillian moved with the crowd, descending the wide stone steps in front of the museum.

On this July evening in the Imperial Capital, before the sky had fully darkened, the streetlamps were already flickering to life one by one.

Though she couldn't gauge the true depths of Richard's power, she could sense the shift in him.

He had let go of his swimming ring and found something else to support him.

He had crossed that threshold and truly earned his place at Imperial Capital University.

He was walking the academy's grand, proper avenue, moving steadily upward, one solid footprint at a time.

And then there was that girl, Edith.

A girl whose family was even poorer than her own.

Someone who had clawed her way up entirely under her own power, walking step by step from a rural Sunday school right through the gates of the highest institution in the land.

Amazing.

When Lillian looked at her, she felt a twinge of envy.

Envy for the grand avenue she walked.

A paved road, smooth and level, with people to fill in the potholes and mentors waiting to guide her.

She could afford to be slow and steady, advancing year by year without a hint of panic.

But as Lillian watched her, she also realized... she didn't actually envy her. Not truly.

Edith's grand avenue was safe.

And because it was safe, it would always circle the shallows.

Where the sunlight touched, the water was clear, and you could see exactly what you were stepping on.

She could soak securely in those shallows for the rest of her life.

But the things Lillian wanted weren't in the shallow water.

No matter how far Edith walked down that flat, steady road, she would never reach them.

In her heart, Lillian sincerely wished them well.

Wished that Richard and Edith could both keep walking down their grand avenue.

The further they went, the better.

...

The museum's celebratory feast was laid out in a spacious dining hall in the annex.

Hot dishes were served upon the long table one after another: glistening roasted beef ribs, stewed leg of lamb smothered in red wine sauce, and golden Yorkshire puddings.

It was a genuinely luxurious upgrade from the sad spread of cold ham and cheese they'd had at noon.

The twenty fellows took their seats around the table.

With the tension of the past few days finally snapping, the chatter grew lively.

Wade Bourne dropped into the seat next to Richard and poured himself a glass of ale.

"Williams, I have to hand it to you today."

Bourne swirled his glass.

"Where exactly did you pick up all that knowledge? I spent years at Eton, and our tutors barely scratched the surface on the Black Soil River."

"I read a lot," Richard replied with his usual excuse, snagging a roasted rib as he spoke. "So I just remember it."

"Read a lot?" Bourne set his glass down.

"The books piled in my family's study could bury a man alive. How come I didn't remember any of it?"

Sitting diagonally across from him, Catherine sliced into her beef.

"Probably because all you did was doze off when you were supposed to be reading."

The whole table burst into laughter.

Bourne took a long pull of ale and didn't fire back.

Riding the wave of good cheer, Richard turned to ask Edith, who was seated nearby.

"Miss Carter, that girl you were talking to in the museum just now—do you two know each other?"

Edith clutched the book that never left her side, pressing the spine tighter against her chest.

"We only met today."

"She came to look at the Black Soil River artifacts and asked about a few pottery vases painted with birds in the Greek Hall. As we got to talking, I found out she likes natural history too, and she even draws her own plant anatomy diagrams."

A small smile touched Edith's lips.

"We talked for ages just about different kinds of birds. She really knows so much."

Richard nodded and didn't press the matter.

He hadn't heard what Lillian had whispered to Edith, and he didn't particularly want to pry.

At the far end of the long table, Montagu sat ramrod straight, eating with fastidious grace.

He hardly joined in the table's banter, only occasionally lifting his eyes to shoot a glance in Richard's direction.

At the dining hall entrance, Curator Wetherby poked his head in.

Before taking his leave, he made sure to shout toward Richard's table.

"When you all head down to the Storeroom tonight, I've had the staff set up a late-night snack for you outside. Help yourselves if you get hungry or thirsty."

The table of fellows broke into another raucous cheer.

They mobbed Richard, everyone talking at once.

Some asked how he'd managed to handle so many guests, others asked which authentic artifact he wanted to get his hands on first tonight, and a few just teased him about his monstrous appetite.

The overlapping voices created a deafening din.

Overwhelmed by the barrage, Richard found he had no mental space left to think about anything else.