Fellow Travelers

During Monday's lunch break, Richard stuffed <On the Organizational Forms of Early Agricultural Communities on the Western Continent> into the bottom of his schoolbag. After lunch, he planned to return it on the third floor.

He had already copied and backed up everything in Appendix C. Keeping the original book served no purpose and was instead a potential liability.

Warren had ordered 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 near the bones had been stewed until tender enough to fall apart at the lightest touch of a spoon.

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

Across from him, Warren gnawed on a roasted chicken leg and mumbled through the latest news from the Imperial Capital.

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

Mason chuckled beside him. "How did the newspaper 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 anywhere near Southwest County for the time being."

Richard drank his tea without responding.

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

Hugh was chewing on bread nearby when he suddenly leaned over. "Richard, you've been buried in the library every day lately. You don't even leave 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 actually taking it seriously? I thought you just agreed to Holland on the spur of the moment..."

"When have you ever seen me agree to anything on the spur of the moment?"

Hugh thought about it, then nodded. "Now that you mention it, never."

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

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

"That much I can do. At least I can sit there and listen."

When 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 stairway.

The bulb in the stairwell was low-wattage, illuminating only half her face while the other half remained in shadow.

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

"...I come here often." Lillian's voice was so quiet, as though every extra word came at an additional cost.

Still holding her books, she moved aside as well, signaling for Richard to go first.

Using that opening, Richard quickly glanced at the books in her arms.

One was a standard geography textbook, a new edition, with a corner of the title page peeking out.

The other had a severely worn cover. Its cloth binding was fuzzy with wear, and the gilt lettering had faded until only shallow indentations remained.

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

His heart skipped a beat, but he did not stop walking, and his expression remained unchanged.

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

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

After reaching the third floor, Richard first walked to the shelf between geography and agriculture.

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

His gaze shifted two spaces to the side.

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

He crouched down and looked straight at it.

Someone had recently taken a book from that spot, and had not returned it afterward.

The battered old book in Lillian's arms matched in publisher, dimensions, and age.

Who had introduced her to this place?

Was it Mr. Hutton as well? Or through some other channel?

Of course, he could not chase after her and ask. But Lillian's name had undoubtedly risen in importance in his mind.

Perhaps she was a fellow traveler too?

The next time he met Mr. Hutton, he could find a suitable way to probe into Lillian's situation 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 and dried 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 pace, Breathing would reach Level 2 tomorrow or the day after.

He hitched the schoolbag strap 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 a little tidier than last week, perhaps because Holland had moved away some old journals and cleared half a desk.

"Sit."

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

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

"I have."

"Recite a few sentences for me. Which passage do you want to 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 out the three most difficult passages from 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, merely reading these sentences smoothly would have taken an entire week.

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

Each layer 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.

Roots provided the framework, grammatical rules provided the joints, and rhetorical logic provided the muscles. Once all three layers came together, the sentences came alive.

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

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

He recited the entire passage without pausing once.

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

He put down the 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 right."

"I read aloud for an hour every morning this week." Richard was telling the truth. He really had been practicing.

"Reading aloud alone is not enough." Holland turned to a fresh page in his notebook. "The Cicero Cup is not a memorization contest. The judges focus on three areas: pronunciation accuracy only accounts for thirty percent, rhetorical understanding accounts for another thirty percent, and the remaining forty percent is stage presence and live delivery."

"Your first two areas are basically up to standard now. I haven't seen the third."

He stood up 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 headed toward the East Wing Lecture Hall.

Holland walked ahead at an unhurried pace. "At a small teaching research meeting a few days ago, I casually mentioned that a lower-year student might be entering 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.

Rumor had it that he had entered the Cicero Cup himself when he was young and won second place.

"Mr. West is free today?"

"It's not just him." Holland pushed open the door to the lecture hall.