Kindred Spirits

On Monday during lunch break, Richard stuffed On the Organizational Forms of Early Agricultural Communities on the Western Continent into the bottom of his schoolbag. Once he finished lunch, he planned to return it on the third floor.

He had already copied and backed up everything in Appendix C. There was no point in keeping the original book; it was a liability instead.

Warren had ordered the same lunch again today: Tomato oxtail soup, two thick slices of bread, and a cup of hot milk.

The soup was rich and thick, and the meat clinging to the bones had been stewed until tender enough to fall apart at the touch of a spoon.

Richard cleaned his plate, even using the bread to mop up the bottom of the soup bowl.

Across from him, Warren gnawed on a roasted chicken leg and mumbled about news from the Imperial Capital through a mouthful of food.

"Did you hear? An earl over in Exeter held a ball at his estate and claimed he ran into a ghost."

Mason chuckled nearby. "How did the newspapers report it?"

"As a joke, obviously. Something like 'Terror in the Ancient Castle at Night,' with an illustration that looked like it belonged in a farce."

Warren set the chicken bone at the edge of his plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"But when the lady from my family came by a few days ago, she specifically told us not to go near Southwest County for the time being."

Richard drank his tea without replying.

If a professional medium had specifically told them to stay away, then the matter was probably not as simple as the newspapers made it sound.

Hugh was chewing on bread beside him when he suddenly leaned closer. "Richard, you've been living in the library every day lately. You don't head out with us anymore."

"I'm preparing for the Cicero Cup."

"Oh, right, that Latin competition." Hugh took another bite of bread, chewed twice, then remembered something. "Are you really preparing for it seriously? I thought you'd only casually agreed to Holland's request..."

"When have you ever seen me casually agree to anything?"

Hugh thought about it, then nodded. "Come to think of it, never."

He scratched at the fringe that never seemed to lie flat. "Then good luck. Not that I can help much."

"I'm still counting on you for stage presence practice."

"That I can do. I can sit there and listen, at least."

Once lunch break ended, Richard picked up his schoolbag and headed for the library.

A few lower-year students were flipping through journals on the first floor. The second floor was quiet, with only the librarian sorting returned books.

At the turn of the stairs leading to the third floor, he nearly collided with someone.

Lillian held two books in her arms. Her path cut off, she took half a step back.

The two looked at each other on the narrow staircase.

The stairwell bulb was dim, illuminating only half her profile while the other half remained hidden in shadow.

"You're going to the third floor too?" Richard shifted aside.

"...I come here often." Lillian's voice was so soft, as though every extra word would cost her money.

Still holding her books, she moved aside as well, indicating that Richard should go first.

Taking advantage of the opening, Richard quickly glanced at the books in her arms.

One was a standard, newly revised geography textbook, with a corner of its title page peeking out.

The other had a severely worn cover. Its cloth binding was pilled, and the gilt lettering had faded into little more than shallow impressions.

The dimensions, binding style, and even the publisher's logo at the bottom of the spine were identical: Royal Anthropological Society Press.

His heartbeat skipped, but he did not slow down or let anything show on his face.

"The third floor is quiet. It's good for reading." With that, he continued upstairs.

Behind him came Lillian's light, fragmented footsteps descending the stairs. They vanished once she reached the turn.

After reaching the third floor, Richard first went to the bookshelf between the geography and agriculture sections.

Fourth row, seventh slot. He took the book from his schoolbag and returned it to its original place.

Then his gaze shifted two slots over.

Fourth row, ninth slot. Several thin volumes were crammed into that space, roughly the same size as the book he had just returned.

He crouched down and looked directly at it.

Someone had recently taken a book from this spot, and had not put it back afterward.

The badly worn old book in Lillian's arms matched the publisher, the dimensions, and even the sense of age.

Who had introduced her?

Mr. Hutton as well? Or some other channel?

Naturally, he could not chase after her and ask. Still, the name Lillian had undoubtedly become far more important in his mind.

Perhaps she was a kindred spirit too?

The next time he saw Mr. Hutton, he could find a suitable way to probe about Lillian, and ask whether there were any other books worth reading.

Hmm... preferably books related to the Breathing Technique.

After leaving the third floor, he found a window at the end of the corridor cracked open. Cold wind poured in, drying a layer of sweat from his back.

He lowered his head and looked at the panel.

[Breathing] Lv.1 Experience: 191/200

Soon. At this rate, Breathing would reach level two tomorrow or the day after.

He hitched the strap of his schoolbag higher onto his shoulder and walked back to the teaching building along the covered corridor.

At two-thirty on Tuesday afternoon, Richard arrived at Holland's office on time.

The room was tidier than it had been last week, perhaps because Holland had moved away some old journals and cleared half a desk's worth of space.

"Sit."

The balding middle-aged man set down his cup of black tea and opened his notebook.

"Have you memorized the three passages I assigned last time?"

"I have."

"Recite a few lines for me. Which passage shall we start with?"

"The fourth paragraph of the second oration. Quod si te..."

"Good. Begin."

At the end of last week's tutoring session, Holland had marked the three most difficult passages in Cicero's Catilinarian Orations and required Richard to memorize them word for word.

He also had to explain the rhetorical structure of every sentence in Albion Language without looking at the original text.

For the old Richard, simply reading these sentences smoothly would have taken an entire week.

Cicero's Latin was known for its long sentences. A single main clause could drag along three or four layers of subordinate clauses.

Each subordinate clause contained participial constructions and ablative absolutes, making the suffocating sensation of reading an entire passage comparable to holding one's breath underwater.

But with Scholarship as his foundation, the memorization process had been broken down into clear modules.

Word roots provided the skeleton, grammatical rules the joints, and rhetorical logic the muscles. With all three layered together, the sentences came alive.

He began with "Quod si te interfici iussero... (If I order you put to death...)" and continued all the way through.

To "credo, erit verendum mihi ne non potius hoc omnes boni serius a me quam quisquam crudelius factum esse dicat. (I believe I must fear not that anyone will call me too cruel, but rather that all good men will say I acted too late.)"

He recited the entire passage without pausing.

Holland's red pen never touched the paper, which meant there were no errors to mark.

He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

"Your pronunciation is fine. Last time, you were still a little off on the long vowel in potius, but this time you got it."

"I practiced for an hour every morning this week," Richard said truthfully. He really had been practicing.

"Reciting alone isn't enough." Holland turned to a fresh page in his notebook.

"The Cicero Cup isn't a memorization contest. The judges focus on three areas: pronunciation accuracy accounts for only thirty percent, rhetorical understanding accounts for another thirty percent, and the remaining forty percent is stage presence and live delivery."

"Your first two areas basically meet the standard now. I haven't seen the third yet."

He stood and took the coat hanging behind the door.

"Come with me."

"Where?"

"To test your stage presence."

Richard followed Holland out of the office and down the corridor toward the East Wing Lecture Hall.

Holland walked ahead at an unhurried pace. "At the small teaching research meeting a few days ago, I mentioned that a lower-year student might participate in the Cicero Cup this year."

"As a result, Mr. West said he wanted to take a look."

Richard recognized the name. West was a Latin teacher for the upper years and also the head of the classics department.

It was said that West had entered the Cicero Cup when he was young and won second place.

"Is Mr. West free today?"

"It isn't just him." Holland pushed open the door to the lecture hall.