"Please allow me to apologize for my earlier slip of the tongue, but this is simply too..." Walking beside Professor Samuel through the Academy, Fernand no longer wore the smile of an old friend reunited. His expression was heavy, and he seemed entirely sincere. "I don't know what to say."
"A fire broke out during an experiment, with Morrison there? Or is this a metaphor, a figure of speech meaning he didn't want to keep working here, rather than a literal fire?"
"And Calman? Why had he returned to Dunling?" Linden found it hard to believe, too. He had only just mentioned an old acquaintance, and moments later he'd received news of his death. Nothing spoke to life's unpredictability more than that.
They stopped in front of a portrait in the gallery, its colors brighter and newer than those of the paintings around it. It showed an elderly man with white hair and beard, neatly groomed, wearing a black robe with a red collar. He was about the same age as Fernand, seated against a backdrop of bookshelves.
The painter had been highly skilled. He had captured the moment the subject set down his pen and turned, as if he'd heard someone call his name while he was writing. He paused to look up, his bright, alert eyes meeting those of the viewer.
A line of small lettering was signed in the lower-right corner of the canvas:
[Morrison, formerly a professor at the Medical School of Dunling University]
Only when faced with this portrait did Fernand finally accept that everything Professor Samuel had told him was true, and not some elaborate joke or metaphor. "I never thought something like this could happen to Morrison. I'd rather believe he passed away peacefully in his sleep, or died fighting some incurable illness."