Chapter 496: July's Scorch

On July 24, a slip of coarse paper was delivered from the Apollo Theatre to the porter's lodge at the Ashford Residence.

It was another playbill. The back was covered in that familiar, flamboyant pencil scrawl.

"Your summer break must be ending soon. Let's meet up again this Saturday at four in the afternoon.

"The porter changed. Just tell him you're looking for Actor F.

"If he tries to stop you, raise your voice. He's hard of hearing.

"I left a ticket for you in the third row. No need to bring liquor this time; I have something better."

St. Martin's Lane was even more stifling than it had been in June.

The walls flanking the alley trapped the day's baked-in heat, making it almost too oppressive to breathe.

The young man on the recruitment poster still stood with his chest puffed out, but a new poster had been slapped up beside it. This one depicted a girl in a headscarf standing in front of an artillery shell, with the headline: "They Too Serve Their Country."

Further down was the billing for today's play: The Miser.

A one-act comedy.

Playwright: Anonymous.

Starring: Actor F.

Phillips was acting in a comedy today, and his co-star played two different roles simply by swapping hats.

Richard recognized the man as Barnaby, a veteran of the theater who was said to be worth half a troupe all by himself.

The first character was a tax collector wearing a top hat and clutching an absurdly thick ledger.

He asked, "Any extra income this year?"

The miser shook his head, perched firmly on top of a jar.

The tax collector slammed his hand on the table. The jar beneath the miser clinked. The miser immediately broke into a loud fit of coughing.

The tax collector slammed the table again, eliciting another clink, and the miser switched to sneezing.

The tax collector slammed the table three times in rapid succession, and the jar chimed three times.

The miser simply stood up and belted out a hymn that everyone knew at the top of his lungs.

Left with no other option, the tax collector could only remove his hat and stand at attention.

The two men remained frozen on stage—one singing, the other standing at attention—right up until the final note.

The entire audience stomped their feet with laughter.

The second character was a doctor in a soft, brimless cap.

He pulled out a pocket watch and pinched the miser's wrist to check his pulse.

The miser's eyes instantly glued themselves to the watch chain. It was solid gold.

When the watch moved left, his eyeballs darted left; when the watch moved right, his eyeballs darted right.

The doctor said, "A hundred and twenty beats per minute. What are you so nervous about?"

A shake of the head.

The doctor pulled out a stethoscope and pressed it against the miser's chest. He listened for two seconds, shifted it, listened for another two seconds, shifted it again, and listened some more.

The doctor asked, "Why does your heartbeat rattle?"

Another shake of the head. The miser pressed his other hand tighter beneath his backside.

The doctor curled his knuckles and tapped the miser's chest three times: thud, thud, thud. It sounded as hollow as a well.

The audience was already roaring with laughter.

The doctor raised a small hammer and tapped the man's knee. His calf jerked up and kicked squarely into the jar.

The jar rolled half a foot away. The miser threw his entire body after it, pressing his face to the floor as he desperately pulled the jar into his arms.

The doctor said, "Excellent reflexes. Open your mouth. Let me see your tongue."

He opened his mouth. The doctor reached in with a tongue depressor and pulled out a gold coin.

The theater erupted in laughter.

The doctor held the gold coin up to the light, bit it to test its authenticity, shoved it into his own pocket, quickly scribbled a prescription, and left.

The miser chased after him to get it back, remembered halfway that he had left his jar behind, and sprinted back to grab it.

He picked up the jar and resumed the chase, but after two steps, he realized he couldn't run fast enough while carrying it, so he rushed back to set it down... He ran back and forth three times before finally dropping to his knees beside the jar and bawling his eyes out.

When the curtain fell, applause and laughter erupted simultaneously.

Richard sat motionless in his seat.

He had laughed, too—laughed from beginning to end until his cheeks ached.

But once the applause faded, an intense emptiness settled in his chest.

The play was clean. From start to finish, there wasn't a single line that seemed to be questioning anyone.

That June performance of Down the Stairs, starting from that one-way ticket at the box office... The man on stage had turned that single sentence into a play, performing it for a theater full of strangers, when in reality, it was meant for Richard alone.

Tonight's performance, however, was pure comedy.

It made people laugh, and once the laughter ended, there was nothing left.

Every moment was meticulously calculated—which second to laugh, which second to hold one's breath, which second someone should let out the first chuckle to carry the rest of the audience along.

It was an incredibly mature piece of theater.

For an entire half hour on stage, Phillips ran, jumped, dove for his hidden jar, got buried under wood only to crawl back out, and spun around the stage, yet his landings were practically soundless.

During the June performance, he had started sweating by the second act. The sweat had washed away his white makeup, forcing him to reapply it mid-show.

Tonight, he didn't shed a single drop of sweat.

Sitting in the third row and staring at the empty stage, Richard suddenly had the urge to ask: Aren't you tired?

Once the crowd dispersed, he made his way into the backstage hallway. The second door on the right was slightly ajar.

Richard pushed the door open. Phillips was facing the mirror, wiping off his makeup. He was even thinner than he had been two months ago.

"Take a seat," he said, glancing through the mirror. "How was it today?"

"The whole house laughed," Richard replied.

Phillips looked satisfied. "Then it worked. That's exactly what I was going for."

"That last performance..."

"I asked everything I needed to ask last time."

Phillips tossed his towel into the basin.

"I asked, and nobody answered, so I stopped asking."

He turned around. Smudges of greasepaint still lingered on his face, making his smile look a bit lopsided.

"From now on, this is the kind of stuff I'll be acting in."

Phillips pulled an old pot from a prop box and set it on the counter.

"We're drinking this today."

He tilted the spout, pouring out a pale amber liquid that steamed in the air.

Richard gave it a passing glance before picking up his cup and taking a sip.

It hit his throat with a rush of sweetness, followed by a faint, lingering coolness.

He set the cup down and frowned. "This isn't tea."

"No, it's not," Phillips said, before explaining the teapot's recent changes.

"It started producing this stuff last month. I took it to our alchemy mentor.

"The old man took one sniff and said he'd never seen anything like it."

Richard smiled. The drink tasted like mint water, but its refreshing, mind-clearing effects were far superior.

It even subtly smoothed out the flow of ether in his body, though that was the extent of its effects.

The flow of ether across the pot itself had changed as well... That deep, mysterious aura felt strikingly similar to the eyeball he kept in his pocket.

The same went for the pot's owner. Phillips had undergone subtle changes that Richard couldn't quite read.

"Don't look at me like that," Phillips said suddenly.

Richard retracted his Still Water.

"Sorry," he apologized.

"It's fine." Phillips downed his own cup in a single gulp.

"If I had your eyes, I wouldn't be able to help myself either."

Just as the atmosphere was veering into awkward territory, the click of high heels echoed from the hallway.

Constance arrived at the door, a wicker basket in hand.

"Mr. Williams."

"Miss Constance." Richard stood up.

"Please, have a seat." She set the basket on the vanity and folded back a corner of the cloth. "I brought Phillips some lunch."

Inside were sandwiches, the crusts neatly trimmed off.

Constance divided them into three portions. She shoved one at Phillips, pushed one toward Richard, and picked up the last one herself, taking a brisk bite.

Only then did Richard notice she wasn't wearing her usual elegant dress today. Her sleeves were rolled up to her forearms, revealing a scar on her right arm.

"Have you been on field duty recently?"

"Yes, fieldwork for the Branch Office." Constance swallowed her bite of sandwich.

"Once a week, mostly routine cleanup missions.

"There have been more incidents up in the northern district this year than usual. They're short-staffed, so they're even dragging retired personnel like me back in."

"By the way," Phillips said, turning his head, "we're officially getting married in December."

Richard held his teacup, unsure of how to respond for a moment.

The news just seemed a bit too sudden...

"I know it's sudden. We originally planned for next spring," Phillips said.

He wore an indifferent expression. "But my mother called the Earl last month and moved the date up."

"Why?"

"Because nobody knows what next spring will look like."

Phillips set down his cup and raised an eyebrow.

"Richard, do you want to be my groomsman?"

Constance chimed in from the side. "He's been talking about this all month."

"Constance!"

"I'm just telling the truth."

Richard opened his mouth. "I'd love to... but I'm not sure if I'll be able to make it then..."

December. One of the three Ember Nights fell in mid-December, and the twelve nights of Yule began on the twenty-fourth. He didn't know if he would be participating in the Wild Hunt by then.

There were also the gatherings of the Theogony Salon. He wasn't certain if another team battle would break out.

It was even hard to say whether his name would be added to the field duty roster once the school term started in September.

He honestly had no idea where he would be in December.

"You're a busy man, I can tell." Phillips picked up the old pot and refilled Richard's cup.

"If you had agreed right away, I actually would've been worried."

"Why?"

"Because the faster you answer, the less seriously you take it." He set the pot down.

Richard gripped his cup.

"Then I probably won't be able to give you an answer until late November."

"Take your time. I'll wait," Phillips said with a smile.

"But let me get the ugly part out of the way first. If you agree and then don't show up that morning, I'm having Constance drag you over here."

"I absolutely will!" Constance agreed without a second's hesitation.

"...You'll be in a wedding dress that day," Richard pointed out.

"A wedding dress won't get in my way."

Phillips leaned back and laughed so hard he choked halfway through, coughing for quite a while.

Constance reached out and patted him on the back.

By the time Richard stepped out of the alley, it was as muggy as ever. There wasn't even a breath of wind.

The side door of the theater clicked shut behind him. Phillips was still inside, running lines with someone.

He was reciting King Lear's speech on the heath: "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!"

...

It still hadn't rained in the Imperial Capital. The heat was at its most vicious between three and five in the afternoon.

During those two hours, all the carriages on the road stuck to the shaded side of the street. The drivers draped wet burlap over their horses' backs, stopping every two blocks to douse them with water again.

The ice vendor on the corner jacked his prices up from a penny to a penny and a half, yet his lines only grew longer.

Despite the blistering heat, Richard found himself doing farm work.

Even though he had chosen to start at six in the morning, plunging the shovel into the earth and turning it over just twice was enough to leave him drenched in sweat.

"Young Master," the butler called out, jogging over from the porch and wiping his hands on his apron. "Please, leave this sort of thing to us."

"There's no need," Richard replied.

"You'll hurt your back holding a shovel like that."

"I know how to hold it." Richard turned over a clod of soil and broke it apart.

"My father taught me."

The butler hovered uncomfortably for a moment before turning back to fetch a bucket of water, which he set down nearby.

Gerard came out at seven and stood watching for a long time.

He had no idea what kind of stunt his grandson was pulling now. What kind of Scholar tilled the fields?

"What are you planting?"

"Vanilla."

"Does it have anything to do with the mystical side?"

"You could say it's related." Richard untied his Cloth Bag and tipped a single seed into his palm.

The seed was irregularly shaped and felt warm between his fingers.

"A friend gave it to me. They said it'll grow into whatever you want it to be."

The old man didn't ask any more questions. He had learned to stop prying after the Wild Hunt that day, but his silence didn't stop him from keeping Richard company.

Richard dug a small hole in the dirt, dropped the seed inside, and packed the soil firmly over it.

A wisp of ether trailed down the inside of his right arm and seeped into the soil. He began to wish for his desired crop:

He wanted high-quality vanilla pods—the expensive kind that would make his sister happy.

Once the ether had completely seeped in, he pulled his hand from the dirt and wiped it clean on his trousers.

"Done?" Gerard asked.

"Done."

"How long until it sprouts?"

"I don't know. The letter didn't say."

The old man chuckled and planted his small trowel into the ground.

"Then you're coming out here to water it every day yourself. I'm not taking care of it."

That night, Richard sent his shadow to the shallows behind the veil.

The Sphinx Lamp's first metamorphosis had granted him wide-area sensory abilities, allowing him to perceive the environmental background noise much more clearly.

Around this time last year, the Imperial Capital had still been relatively stable. The ancient seals were layered like a mille-feuille, holding dutifully fast as they had for centuries.

Even when minor disturbances occurred, someone would be dispatched to push them back down the very next day.

Now, however, the situation was slowly changing.

The old churches and cemeteries inside the city limits remained undisturbed. The real shifts were happening outside the city.

The areas past the eastern docks and the northern railyards were feeling increasingly off. As for the west... Richard cast his shadow far to the west, but there was still absolutely nothing in that massive expanse of empty land.

The factories were only half-built, but construction didn't stop at night. The staccato fire of rivet guns echoed as densely as falling rain.

The ground beneath that empty lot was hollow, but it was an unnatural kind of hollow.

Other empty lots were desolate, but they still possessed substance.

They had earth that hadn't been turned in decades, rotting grass roots, and the remains of a fox that had frozen to death the winter before last.

The emptiness in this lot felt deliberate, as if it were a blank slate just waiting for someone to put pen to paper.

Richard reeled his shadow back in, recalling the conversation he'd had with the professor: "The new foundation has already been poured."

The war was far from over, and it brought not only disaster but also opportunity.

MacFie hurried back to the Imperial Capital before August. The moment he returned, he contacted Richard through Isabella, asking him to make a trip to the university.

By the time Richard arrived, two elderly professors were already waiting for him in the room.

MacFie had tanned completely during his trip.

He didn't look like a professor teaching in the Imperial Capital at all. He looked more like a man who had spent the last two months unloading herring on the docks.

"You're here."

"Professors."

"Sit."

Richard took a seat at the corner of the desk.

"I brought back quite a bit of news from the north. I think you'll find it interesting," MacFie said.

He hoisted the battered leather bag from beside his feet.

He pulled out a rubbing first. The moment it was unrolled, whatever lethargy the summer heat had induced in Richard instantly vanished.

On the rubbing was a pair of antler symbols—a mark Richard was all too familiar with.

"Clara took this rubbing from the seabed of Scapa Flow back in January."

MacFie looked at him. "I went down to check this time. The symbol is still there, and the grooves are carved even deeper than before."

MacFie retrieved a nautical chart and spread it out next to the rubbing.

"It's not just in one place. These symbols appear in three different locations across the bay."

Richard looked down at the chart. Connecting the three points completely enclosed the entire bay.

"Professor," Richard looked up, "when does a Hunter leave marks?"

MacFie looked pleased with his quick comprehension. "When the hunting grounds are too vast, of course."

He flipped the chart over and tapped three points onto the blank back with his finger.

"When one man goes into the woods, he leaves trail markers so he doesn't lose his way back.

"When a team goes in, they have to set boundaries. This side is mine, that side is yours.

"But on a larger scale, it changes." He pressed his finger against the paper.

"When you have dozens of dogs and hundreds of men surrounding an entire valley, someone has to ride out on horseback and drive the stakes in first."

"And after the stakes are in?"

"Then they wait." MacFie folded the chart back up.

"They wait for the wind to change and the sky to darken, until all the prey is corralled inside."

"And then, the hunt begins."

The wind outside flipped up a corner of the curtain, forcing hot air inside and scattering whatever little coolness remained in the room.

"There's something else you might be familiar with."

MacFie dug a tiny tin from the bottom of his bag. The lid was sealed with wax.

"I scraped this out of the grooves of the third mark."

He pushed the tin across the desk. "Open it and take a smell."

Richard's fingers paused on the lid before he finally pried the wax off.

Permafrost, horse sweat, and wild grass trampled to a pulp by tens of thousands of hooves.

The exact scent of the mudflats from that night—bridging an entire summer and two hundred miles of ocean—flooded back into his nose.

Richard snapped the lid back on. The two elderly professors exchanged a knowing glance.

Professor Mortimer spoke up from across the desk.

"Old Mac, what did you bring this tin back for?"

"To hand it over." MacFie shoved the tin back into the deepest recesses of his bag. "I'm delivering it to the Admiralty this afternoon."

"Will they even acknowledge it?"

The white-haired giant scowled. "Of course not. When I submitted the Orkney report last time, they returned it with a single line: The defense of this area is under the jurisdiction of the Admiralty. The Academy System has no right to interfere."

Mortimer pushed his reading glasses further up his nose.

"Then what are you planning to write this time?"

"I'm not writing a single word." MacFie buckled his leather bag.

"I'm going to drop the tin on their desk and let them open it and smell it themselves."

"They won't recognize the smell."

MacFie stood up.

"It's better if they don't. The people who can't recognize it won't lose sleep over it later."

He walked to the door and turned back.

"Richard, there might be a field mission in a few days. Be prepared."

"It's not far. Just in a factory on the outskirts of the Imperial Capital."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Mortimer picked his scissors back up, snipped a small strip from the newspaper, and slipped it into his book as a bookmark.

"There happens to be big news in the paper today. A national registry takes place on the fifteenth of this month."

"Everyone between the ages of fifteen and sixty-five must be accounted for—not a single person left out. Name, address, trade, and any technical skills."

"What happens after they register?"

"They compile a roster."

Outside the window, the factory smokestacks were still belching ash into the sky.

"Once it's done, they'll issue cards." The old professor picked up his teacup, though it was already empty.

"One for every person. To be carried with them at all times."

Richard understood what he was getting at. "Professor, the more times a person's name is written down..."

"That's enough. As long as you understand the implications."

Mortimer waved a hand to stop him from saying more.

Richard nodded and pushed the door open to leave.

The hallway was empty. Richard reached into his inner pocket and touched the token of the lord of the hunt.

To his surprise, the tip of the horn was pointing north.

...

Briston was just as hot this year.

The brick walls of Slag Alley had baked in the sun all day long. It was ten at night by the time Rogers finally made it home.

The factory had scheduled him for a six-day week, plus two evening shifts.

With his wife and children in the Imperial Capital, the house was empty and the stove was stone cold.

He took off his coat, hung it up, then walked straight to the water vat, scooped out a ladleful, and dumped it right over his head.

Rogers let out a long sigh as the water trickled down. It was lukewarm.

After quickly washing up, he sat on a kitchen chair, stripped off his shirt, laid it across his knees, and braced both hands on the edge of the table.

Spread out across the table was a blueprint—the structural reinforcement plan for the northern railway bridge.

The factory wanted it submitted by the end of July. He had already drafted three versions and hated all of them.

The foreman had put it to him like this last week: "There's a steel shortage. The military took all the good stuff. You need to figure out a way to use as little of it as possible."

As for how to keep the bridge standing on less steel—let alone ensure it could support heavy freight trains—that wasn't the foreman's problem to solve.

All that pressure was dumped squarely onto Rogers's shoulders.

He stared and sketched for half an hour without a single breakthrough, though he did manage to tear out a fistful of his own hair in frustration.

There was no helping it. He needed to think about something happy for a moment.

Rogers pulled out the letter his daughter had sent him. She wrote that her acceptance letter had arrived, her grandfather had given her a gold coin, and she had bought seven icing nozzles and sweet-talked her way into a free spatula.

The very last line of the letter read: Dad, please stop working overtime.

Rogers read the letter from start to finish, folded it carefully, and tucked it back into the drawer.

With renewed motivation, he picked up his pencil and started drafting all over again.

His neighbor Mrs. Weir's large orange tabby hopped in through the window, circled his ankles twice, and leaped onto the table, sprawling out right next to the blueprint.

"Can't you see I'm busy? Get down!" Rogers scolded, intentionally raising his voice.

The cat didn't budge.

Rogers picked it up and set it on the floor, but the cat immediately jumped back up and settled in the exact same spot.

He stared at the tabby for a moment before helplessly sliding his blueprints to the side, clearing a patch of the table just for the cat.

Meanwhile, on the afternoon of the last day of July, Richard paid another visit to the sanatorium.

The moment he pushed open the door to Duncan's room, a wave of heat hit him in the face. The ice in the iron basin at the foot of the bed was already half-melted.

"You again."

"Me again."

"Where's the girl?"

"She's downstairs settling the bill."

Duncan snorted. "Settling bills is all she's good for nowadays."

Richard sat by the edge of the bed, held his right palm over Duncan's right ribs, and began his routine maintenance.

Duncan kept his eyes closed.

After about ten minutes, he suddenly spoke.

"Kid."

"What is it?"

"This thing you're doing... it's cool."

Richard's hand paused.

"Cool?"

Duncan tried to find the right words. "It's like... walking for hours in the dead of summer, and suddenly stepping into a stone house. That kind of cool."

"For over a decade, everything's been burning hot for me—inside and out. Summer is hot, winter is hot, all because the circuits inside me are constantly burning."

"They've burned for over ten years. I've gotten used to it."

"But today, a spot suddenly cooled down."

By the time they left the sanatorium, it was past five o'clock.

The sun still hung stubbornly above the western rooftops, showing absolutely no intention of setting.

Richard walked about a hundred yards down a treeless street, the back of his shirt thoroughly drenched in sweat.

He stopped when he reached the intersection.

The clouds had finally rolled in thick and heavy. Everyone on the street looked up.

The ice vendor hurried to push his cart under an awning, while carriage drivers led their horses close to the walls.

A woman leaned out of a second-story window, shouting down to someone to bring in the laundry.

A minute later, the rain finally fell.

The first drop struck Richard's shoulder, leaving a damp stain the size of a copper coin. The second drop smacked dead center on the bridge of his nose.

After the third, there were too many to count.

Raindrops battered the tin roofs, the sound echoing across the entire street.

The rain washed over the sun-softened asphalt, kicking up an indescribably complex scent.

A barefoot boy bolted out of an alley to run in the middle of the street, completely ignoring his mother's furious scolding.

Then, the ice vendor yanked off his hat, tipped his head back, and simply stood in the downpour.

Catherine stood by the window and reached her hand out.

The rain fell cool against her palm. She left her hand out there for a very long time.

That evening, the backyard of the Ashford Residence was finally tolerable enough to sit in.

The rain had poured for an hour, soaking the entire courtyard.

Droplets clung to the holly leaves, and the geese by the pond shook their wings on the lawn, sending blades of grass flying everywhere.

The butler carried out two wicker chairs and set them under the porch.

Richard sat in one of them, his legs stretched straight out.

Evelyn sat in the other, her notebook spread open across her knees.

"Brother, why is it so hot this year?"

Richard thought about it.

"Heat is just heat."

"What kind of answer is that?"

"Then you tell me why."

Evelyn snapped her notebook shut and sat up straight.

She cleared her throat.

Richard knew that gesture far too well. The little girl always cleared her throat right before she started showing off.

"Sister Sophia told me all about it," she said.

"Told you what?"

Evelyn slapped both hands down on her knees. "She explained a ton. She said it has to do with atmospheric pressure."

"Oh, you know about atmospheric pressure now?"

Richard gave a faint, teasing smile. His sister still seemed to be harboring a grudge over someone looking down on her education earlier.

"I do." Evelyn flattened her hand and pushed it down through the air. "Air has weight. Did you know that?"

"I do."

"You do not." She flat-out ignored her brother.

"Air has weight, and it presses down on our heads. One square inch is about... fifteen pounds."

"Fourteen point seven."

"...How do you know that?!"

"Our dad is an engineer."

Evelyn glared at him and powered through her explanation.

"Anyway, it's fifteen pounds. And, well... in some places it presses down harder, and in other places it presses lighter.

"Where it presses harder, the air sinks, and sinking air gets hotter."

"Why does it get hot when it sinks?"

"Because..." She choked on her words, pausing for a moment before it finally clicked. "Because it's getting squeezed!"

She brought her hands together and squeezed them tight.

"Think about it. If you squeeze a clump of something tightly, it gets hot.

"When you pump a bicycle tire, isn't the pump cylinder piping hot afterward?"

Richard raised an eyebrow. That was a surprisingly accurate analogy.

"It is."

"Right?!" Evelyn positively beamed with triumph.

"So that's what's happening. A giant mass of air is sitting on top of us this year, constantly pushing down. It just keeps pressing and pressing until it gets hot."

"And when is it going to get up?"

"...Sister Sophia didn't mention that part."

"So all that talking basically amounted to nothing."

"I explained the principles!" Evelyn smacked her notebook against her knee.

"Principles are the most important thing! You Scholars are all about principles, aren't you?!"

Richard stifled a laugh.

"Alright, it was a very good explanation."

"Really?"

"Really."

Evelyn reveled in her triumph for a moment before deflating.

"Honestly, I still don't get it," she muttered, resting her chin on her knees.

"I kept nodding while Sister Sophia was explaining, and then I just started counting how many times she said 'therefore'."

"How many?"

"Eleven."

Richard burst out laughing.

"But," Evelyn suddenly sat up straight again, "now that I understand it, it's actually useful."

"How is it useful?"

"For the oven."

"There's air inside the oven, too. Hot air rises, so the top rack always bakes faster than the bottom rack.

"My baking always used to burn on top while staying raw on the bottom, and I just thought I was setting the fire too high."

She threw her hands up. "Turns out, the air was just rushing up on its own."

As soon as she finished speaking, she froze.

"...So from now on, I have to flip them halfway through baking."

She flipped her notebook back open and rapidly scribbled down a line.

When she looked back up, her eyes were shining fiercely.

"Brother, I actually learned something."

In the courtyard, water continued to drip from the holly leaves.

"It's so nice when it rains," she said.

"Yeah."

"It'd be great if it rained again tomorrow."

"It won't rain tomorrow."

"How do you know that?!"

"Because that giant mass of air is still sitting right on top of our heads."

Evelyn turned to him and glared for a solid two seconds.

Then, she burst into a smile.

"...See? You did understand it."