To This Point

The answer was no.

He searched through the books, but they only explained what seals were, why they were designed that way, and the pros and cons of various structures.

As for how to undo them, there wasn't a word.

Richard leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a long while.

The reasoning was simple: teaching people to identify seals was disaster prevention; teaching them to undo seals was handing them a weapon.

Including instructions for breaking seals in introductory materials would be like explaining how to start the most destructive fires in a fire safety manual.

The fact that he'd found an introductory Breathing Technique for the Golden Path among the identifiable knowledge on these shelves was already an act of extraordinary generosity.

As for finding instructions on how to undo seals here, he could forget it.

It wasn't that he hadn't considered asking Mr. Hutton, but the thought had barely circled his mind twice before he snuffed it out.

There were two reasons.

The first was that he couldn't explain his motives.

Why would a poor student save up two pounds to buy an antique bronze lamp from the Black Soil River Basin?

For collecting? Decoration? Mr. Hutton had seen all kinds of people; he wouldn't be fooled by excuses like those.

If the old gentleman so much as asked, "What do you want the lamp for?"

He'd have to choose between "telling him part of the truth and revealing some secrets" and "lying, getting caught, and losing his trust."

Both options led to a dead end, so it was better not to ask in the first place.

The second reason was more fundamental.

Even if he asked how to break the seal, the other man might not actually tell him.

Mr. Hutton's attitude had always been the same: I've shown you the way; how far you go is up to you.

He'd given Richard the exact shelf and section, but there was only one copy of the cross-reference table, and Richard had to look after it himself.

He could observe a seal in person if he wanted; he could see for himself how much he could learn.

At every step, it was, "I'll give you the chance to find out, but I won't do it for you."

He screened people through inaction: the door was open, but whether you pushed it was your choice.

Those who could push it open had proved themselves worthy of entering;

Those who couldn't and turned back had lost nothing.

After organizing that day's notes, Richard filed them in his notebook in chronological order.

The notebook was already more than half full. Dense pencil writing stretched from the first page to the third-to-last, and he locked it all away in his drawer.

He turned off the desk lamp, and the room went dark.

The curtains weren't fully drawn. Moonlight slipped through the gap and fell just along the edge of the desk.

Richard sat in the darkness for a while.

Up to this point, he'd been getting everything for free.

Everything Mr. Hutton had provided—the Occultism bookshelf, the cross-reference table, the seal practicum, Silver Coin, Grey-Stamen Grass... He hadn't charged Richard a penny.

That was as far as the free lunch went.

He'd reached the limit of what twenty-six books could teach him.

He had a theoretical framework, a system of terminology, three career paths, and seven ranks.

From here on, he'd have to use his own abilities to earn resources.

In the Surface World, the Cicero Cup was the first ticket he could get his hands on.

The prize money would solve his immediate financial problems, the recommendation list would provide a steady source of income, and both would serve as stepping stones to a higher-level academy.

In the world behind the Veil, he needed a ticket of his own, too.

But he still couldn't see what that ticket might look like.

The only thing he knew for certain was that whichever path he chose, he first had to become someone of value.

Valuable enough that others would be willing to share more with him.

He stood up, went to the window, and drew the curtains shut.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, and began that day's Breathing Technique practice.

He inhaled for four beats, held his breath for four, exhaled for four, then held his breath for another four.

Warmth spread from the Seat of the Sun, steady through the exhale, without fading.

That morning, Evelyn fried an egg in the kitchen.

Strictly speaking, she fried two: one for Richard and one for herself.

The oil crackled in the pan. A ring of crisp, lacy frills formed around the egg white, while the plump yolk bulged in the center. She'd kept it soft.

"Last time I fried you one, I overcooked it. The yolk was hard and everything."

She carried the plate to the table. "This one turned out much better."

"When did you start caring about how long you fry an egg?"

"I've always cared." Evelyn took off her apron and hung it on the hook behind the door. "You just couldn't tell the difference before."

Richard dipped the corner of his bread into the runny yolk and popped it into his mouth.

"Mm. It really is better than last time."

"Of course."

Evelyn sat across from him and scooped a spoonful of marmalade onto her bread.

Her mouth was busy, but her eyes weren't. She kept watching her brother across the table.

Lately, she'd gotten used to watching him like this.

Richard looked healthier by the day.

Not the sort of improvement that came from putting on makeup or getting twelve hours of sleep. It was a change all over.

His cheeks had color now, his eye sockets weren't so sunken, and his lips had gone from dry, ashen pink to a healthy pale red.

Even his eating habits had changed.

He used to have so little appetite that half a slice of bread took him ten minutes to gnaw through. Now he finished two slices and an egg in less than five.

"Bro."

"Hmm?"

"How have you been getting healthier lately? I don't see you exercising or anything."

"Going to bed early, getting up early, eating more."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Evelyn cut off a crispy bit of egg white with her fork and chewed it.

She felt like her brother was brushing her off again, but she couldn't find a way to argue.

He really was going to bed early, getting up early, and eating more. The facts were right there.

"Fine." She pushed her plate aside and wiped the corner of her mouth. "Anyway, it's a good thing you're healthy."

The conversation shifted from small talk to the thing she was really worried about. "Mom said we'll start getting ready to go to the Imperial Capital in the next few days."

"Mm."

"Are you nervous?"

"Not really."

"I'm a little nervous."

Richard glanced at her.

Evelyn twirled her braid around her finger twice.

"At the last gathering, the way those relatives looked at us..."

When a distant branch of the family attended a gathering at the main household, the feeling of being scrutinized from head to toe and then given nothing but a polite smile was the sort of thing you remembered for life after just one experience.

"This time is different." Richard finished the tea in his cup. "This time, Grandfather asked to see me by name."

"That's why I'm nervous."

"Don't be. Just stick with me when we get there."

The girl stared at him for a moment, then unwound her finger from her braid.

"You make it sound like you're experienced."

"I haven't been there many times either, but I've been reading a lot lately."

"Can reading fix your bearing and manners?"

"...It actually can. Haven't you heard the saying, 'Books are the tools that shape the soul'?"

Evelyn felt like she was losing more and more arguments with him. She pursed her lips and got up to clear the dishes.

At the kitchen doorway, she turned back to remind him, as usual:

"Come home early tonight. Don't stay out too late."

"I know."

"Don't ride in anyone else's car."

"I know."

"Don't join a gang."

"...Mm."

Evelyn turned and went into the kitchen, satisfied.

The clatter of dishes filled the air, and along with the sunlight outside, it brought a little warmth to the gray morning.