Chapter 324: In the Newspaper

When Debate Week ended, a tea reception was held in the side hall of Iliad Hall.

The food and drink were about the same as last time.

The people were entirely different.

At the Cicero Cup reception, middle school teachers and parents had mingled in the crowd.

This time, the faces moving among the tables were university lecturers and senior faculty, alongside elegantly dressed social figures.

Richard stood in a corner with a cup of black tea, trying his best to blend into the wallpaper.

He genuinely disliked this kind of social occasion.

He had been standing there less than three minutes when Isabella walked straight toward him from across the room.

"Come with me."

She called out as she passed him.

"A tea reception is a social arena. You can't just hide in a corner, finish your tea, and run."

His aunt's pace wasn't fast, set just right for Richard to keep up.

"You and Montagu are the only preparatory students who made it to the Debate Week finals.

There are at least three people here today who want to speak with you. If you avoid them, it's the same as slapping them in the face."

"Which three?"

Isabella tipped her chin almost imperceptibly toward the front left.

"The man by the fireplace in the gray suit—a trustee of the Imperial Capital University Alumni Fund.

He had two nephews apply for the preparatory course this year, and neither got in. Talk to him about anything you like, but don't mention preparatory admissions."

She shifted her gaze slightly to the right.

"The one with the dark green tie is the vice dean of the Royal Academy.

He has old ties with the Montagu Family. Just be polite—don't say too much, but don't say too little either."

"How much is appropriate?"

"Four exchanges."

Richard silently grumbled to himself. Four exchanges—like doing conjugation drills.

"The third person will come find you himself."

Isabella brought the rim of her cup to her lips.

"Don't panic when he does."

"Who is it?"

His aunt didn't answer. She had already been intercepted by a middle-aged female scholar walking over with a cup in hand.

His aunt had left, but his senior sister was there.

Clara had appeared at Richard's right side at some point without him noticing.

"The Mentor told me to take you around."

"How do we do that?" Richard tried his best to learn.

"Just follow me." Clara held her teacup, her steps so slow they were practically a stroll.

"You can't walk fast at a tea reception. If you do, it looks like you're rushing through a market."

She led Richard past the dessert table by the south wall, skirting the edge of the crowd for the better part of a lap.

With every person they passed, Clara leaned close to Richard's ear and whispered an introduction.

"College of Liberal Arts."

"From the Hermann family."

"...Oh, he's not important."

When they reached the fireplace, the trustee in the gray suit proactively offered Richard his hand.

"Mr. Williams? You performed brilliantly during Debate Week."

"Thank you, sir." Richard shook his hand with measured firmness.

"You're with the Department of Classics? I have two nephews who are also very interested in classical studies."

His aunt's warning echoed in Richard's mind, and he smoothly picked up the thread.

"Classics offers a very broad path. Most middle schools across the country offer Latin courses, and with a solid foundation, there are many options for the future."

He steered the topic toward middle school education, and sure enough, the man followed up with a few comments on the current state of schooling.

Four exchanges.

As the fourth statement landed, Richard noticed someone else approaching the trustee from across the room. He naturally bowed his head and took his leave.

Clara hadn't said a word the entire time. Only when they were far enough away did she speak.

"Not bad."

Hearing "not bad" from Clara was probably equivalent to anyone else saying "very good."

The vice dean with the dark green tie was harder to deal with than the trustee.

He asked two questions about the Debate Week topics—tricky questions, carrying the clear intent to test him.

Richard answered them flawlessly. The vice dean smiled, gave him a nod, and turned to head elsewhere.

"You might run into this person again in the future," Clara added from the side.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Clara took him around for another small lap, stopping in front of a row of chairs against the east wall.

"Sit here. The third person will be here soon."

Before Richard could even ask who it was, a voice rang out from behind him.

"Williams."

Richard turned around.

Sir Muller stood three steps away.

The chief judge of Debate Week, a Major Adept, and one of the finest minds in the Empire's academic circles.

"Sir." Richard gave a slight bow.

Sir Muller sat down in the chair opposite him.

"During the 'Wartime Lies' debate, your case for the opposition was well argued."

"Thank you, Sir."

Holding his cup, the old man said, "Among the preparatory students, as far as I can recall, you are the first to manifest the Form of Backlash."

Richard didn't reply, waiting for the other man to continue.

Sir Muller placed his teacup on the small round table beside him.

"The match you lost to Thorpe—do you know why you lost?"

"Not enough Ether."

"Hm." The old man stood up, leaving him with one final remark before departing.

"Read chapter seven of 'On the Weight of Judgments' again. That chapter covers exactly what you lack."

He left.

Clara popped out from behind a nearby stone pillar, the corners of her lips turning up.

"While the Sir was talking to you just now, the Mentor was watching you the whole time."

Richard glanced back toward the other side of the crowd.

Isabella's gaze cut past the shoulders of the bystanders. She looked at her nephew, smile lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes.

Then she turned her head away, instantly restoring her polite social smile.

..................

St. Bridge Girls' Academy.

Grey sat by the windowsill in the public lounge, clutching a letter in her hand.

The letter was from her mother. Most of it talked about how the price of spices in the Imperial Capital had gone up again.

Attached at the very end was a single line: "As for Richard, just make sure you know what you're doing."

She folded the letter and tucked it into her skirt pocket just as three people crowded around her from behind.

Leading them was Cunningham, the most sociable girl in their class.

Blonde, with a habit of resting a pair of tortoiseshell glasses she didn't actually need on the bridge of her nose.

"Grey." Cunningham dragged a chair over and sat down beside her.

"You went to Debate Week, didn't you?"

"I went. The class organized it." Grey turned a page in the cookbook she was holding.

"Mhm." Cunningham rested both arms on the back of the chair. "And then?"

"And then what?"

"And then you left together with that Mr. Williams from Imperial Capital University."

The cookbook flipped to the "Honey Shortbread" page, and Grey froze.

"You saw?"

"The whole class saw," Martha said, leaning in from behind.

"When you were standing there waiting for him, your braids were practically trembling."

"You saw wrong." Grey turned the page.

"Did we also see wrong when the two of you walked off together?"

The third girl was named Heidi.

She poked half her face out from behind Cunningham's shoulder.

"You stood under the streetlight for quite a while. What did he say?"

Grey looked up, the impatience in her blue eyes practically overflowing.

"We talked about the contestants in Debate Week."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

The three girls exchanged glances.

Cunningham was the first to recover. She pushed her decorative glasses up her nose.

"Oh, Grey, Grey..." she drawled.

"Second place in the Cicero Cup, top of the Imperial Capital University preparatory course, and one of only two preparatory students to make the Debate Week finals."

She ticked them off on her fingers for a long moment.

"Rumor has it, his family even has Ashford relatives."

She curled her five fingers into a fist.

"What exactly is your relationship with him?"

Grey snapped the cookbook shut, closing it so hard the spine let out a muffled thud.

"Old classmates."

"Ha." Heidi let out a teasing laugh.

"An old classmate makes you start looking up the best restaurants near Imperial Capital University a week in advance?"

Grey's face flushed bright red.

When she had been flipping through brochures in her dorm room last week, Heidi had happened to walk past her door.

"I looked up restaurants because I wanted to eat Imperial Capital cuisine."

"On which page of your cookbook..." Cunningham pointed at the book in her hand, "does it mention Imperial Capital cuisine?"

Grey shoved the cookbook into her skirt pocket and stood up.

"I'm going to class."

"Don't go." Martha grabbed her sleeve. "We're just curious, that's all."

"Curious about what?"

"Curious about how you managed to stake your claim on such a prime catch so early."

Heidi's words were sour with jealousy.

The students of St. Bridge all knew in their hearts that the flower arranging, piano playing, and tea party etiquette taught at this school were, fundamentally, teaching them how to marry well.

Marrying well was a technical skill.

Marrying a potbellied, middle-aged wealthy merchant, or the young master of a high official who already kept several mistresses at his estate, was likely the realistic destiny for most of them.

Yet Grey appeared to have already established a relationship with an almost flawless young man at a remarkably early stage.

They couldn't help but feel a twinge of sour envy.

Standing there surrounded by the three of them, Grey felt her irritation and pride twist together into a knot.

She was irritated that this group was staring at her private affairs like bears eyeing a jar of honey, itching to stick a finger in for a taste.

As for the pride, she didn't want to admit to it.

That day they had walked past the fountain together. She had asked Richard to read the Latin inscribed on it, and he had read it.

When the boy's voice drifted through the autumn air, she felt like her heart was going to pound right out of her chest.

How could she tell Cunningham and the others about something like that?

Grey yanked her sleeve free from Martha's grip.

"He always had good grades back in middle school. It's completely normal that he's doing so well now."

"Then you..."

"There is no 'then you.'" Grey's tone hardened.

She walked away without looking back.

Only when she reached the corner of the corridor and confirmed no one had followed her did she lean against the wall and let out a long sigh.

She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket, her fingers brushing against the edge of her mother's letter.

Know what you're doing.

But as for what she was actually doing, even she didn't know.

..................

In the seventh house at the east end of Slag Alley, Rogers sat at the dining table, flipping through today's 'Imperial Capital Morning Post'.

The front page was completely covered with war news.

Artillery fire in Ypres, depicted in a dark, blurry photograph.

Below it was a recruitment poster featuring a youth with his chest puffed out, bearing the slogan: "Serve the Country."

Rogers turned to the second page.

On the second page, half the spread was dedicated to a different report.

"With the Nation in Peril, the Youth of Our Highest Academic Institutions Still Cross Swords Over 'Whether They Should Be Called Heroes or Unjust Souls.'"

Rogers's eyes fell upon a large group photograph at the bottom of the article.

It was a photo of the participants and judges taken after Debate Week had concluded.

Dozens of people were densely packed onto the stone steps of Iliad Hall.

Rogers squinted, searching through them one by one.

"Evelyn," he called out.

"Coming!"

Evelyn came running out of the kitchen, wearing her checkered apron, her hands still dusted with flour.

"What is it, Dad?"

"You have sharp eyes." Rogers pushed the newspaper toward her, pointing at the group photo.

"Help me find your brother."

Evelyn leaned in, her nose practically touching the paper.

She searched very carefully, scanning row by row.

"...Found him!"

She jabbed her finger at a tiny figure in the group photo.

The person was standing off to the side in the third row, of slightly above-average height.

The face was only the size of a grain of rice, too blurry to make out any features.

But Evelyn recognized him at a single glance.

"That's him!"

"How could you tell?"

"By the way he stands!" Evelyn said with absolute certainty.

"When he stands, his shoulders are always perfectly square. He doesn't look like anyone else."

Rogers leaned in for a closer look.

The shoulders of that rice-grain-sized figure were indeed perfectly square.

"He's standing way too far back," he muttered. "Next time, I'll tell him to stand closer to the front."

Margaret came downstairs.

"What are you looking at so early in the morning?"

"Your son." Rogers handed the newspaper to her. "He's in the newspaper."

Margaret took the paper.

The figure was far too small—so tiny it was almost squeezed out of existence by the people next to it.

But that was her son.

"...He actually made it into the 'Imperial Capital Morning Post'."

Evelyn had already snatched the paper back.

"I need to cut this out!" she said rapidly. "We'll stick it on the living room wall!"

"Don't cut it," Margaret stopped her. "Save it for your brother to see when he comes back."

"Then I'll go buy more copies!" Evelyn was already untying her apron.

"I'm going to buy ten copies of today's 'Imperial Capital Morning Post'!"

"What do you need so many for?"

"To give away, of course!" Evelyn looked as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll give one to Mrs. Weir, and to my teachers at school!"

With that said, she was out the door.

Meanwhile, in the teachers' lounge at Greenwood.

Mr. Holland had also spread a copy of the 'Imperial Capital Morning Post' across his desk.

"Ms. Grant," he called out to the side. "Look. Take a look at this."

Ms. Grant walked over and looked at the group photo.

"Which one is Richard?"

"This one." Mr. Holland pointed at the rice-grain-sized figure. "Third row, off to the side."

Ms. Grant leaned in for a closer look.

"He's so small."

"So what if he's small?" Mr. Holland pushed the newspaper right in front of her. "Small or not, he made it into the 'Imperial Capital Morning Post'."

"In all the years Greenwood has been open, which of our students has ever appeared in a major Imperial Capital newspaper?"

Mr. West sat in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest.

"What place did he get?" he asked out of the blue.

"First place in the Preparatory Group," Mr. Holland answered.

"The article even says he was singled out for praise by the chief judge."

Mr. Hutton, meanwhile, sat in his own office, today's newspaper resting at his elbow.

When he read the line, "whether they should be called heroes or unjust souls," the old man's hand paused on his pipe.

He searched through the dense crowd of faces for a long time before he found that rice-grain-sized figure standing off to the side in the third row.

Mr. Hutton looked at that figure, staring for a long time.

"Heroes or unjust souls."

He murmured under his breath.

"This kid... he's come of age in an era that has no business debating such a topic."

He folded the newspaper shut and set it back on the corner of his desk.

In October 1914, the fires of war were still burning across the sea.