Sophia

After class, Gordon went to Professor Winslow's office.

Winslow wasn't there. Only Peter and another man Gordon didn't recognize were inside.

The professor's large, high-backed chair stood empty, radiating an air of disappointment.

Peter was pouring coffee for their guest at the small round table in the reception area.

"You're alive," Peter said.

"That's the second time I've heard that today," Gordon said. "But you don't sound as enthusiastic as the first person."

"Who was the first?"

"A young noblewoman."

"I refuse to compete with little girls." Peter kept his eye roll restrained, clearly mindful of their guest.

"And this is?" Gordon turned toward the stranger.

The man was about thirty-five or thirty-six, dressed in a dark brown wool coat over a gray waistcoat, with gloves made of soft deerskin.

He also had a black case with brass corners and a lock. It looked difficult to open.

"Just call me Sinclair." The man inclined his head. "Spiritual artisan."

An artisan!

Gordon's interest stirred.

These people were rare masters in Lundenim, versed in secret techniques for processing source substance. Vera's sword had been made by someone like him.

"I'm Gordon Vick, the professor's assistant," Gordon said.

"Mr. Sinclair brought a piece of source substance for the professor to identify," Peter said. "The professor went out first thing this morning. Didn't say what for."

"Professor Winslow is a leading authority in this field. I don't mind waiting," Sinclair said. "Getting the properties of source substance wrong can lead to a whole series of after-sales problems."

"After-sales problems?" Gordon asked.

"The customer dies. My workshop gets smashed up. Investigators come knocking," Sinclair said. "Those three can happen in any order."

"May I have a look?" Gordon asked curiously.

"Well..." Sinclair had his doubts.

Source substance was extremely important. Letting two students examine it would undoubtedly be a waste.

He had been to university himself. He knew university students weren't much better than monkeys granted intelligence.

Young people always possessed an astonishing curiosity, even when all they had to do was wait patiently for the professor to return.

"Let Gordon take a look," Peter said indifferently.

He had already spent an hour keeping Sinclair company, drinking enough coffee to make his skull throb. He was desperate for someone to settle the matter.

Sinclair hesitated, then opened the case.

Inside, nestled in deep purple velvet, was a hexagonal containment box with a transparent top. An exquisitely beautiful piece of source substance hung suspended within.

An irresistible radiance immediately lit up before Gordon's eyes, enough to leave anyone entranced.

It resembled a translucent purplish-red gemstone, a blend of roses and night, with fine, thornlike patterns growing inside.

A faint salty taste spread across Gordon's tongue, as though a tear had slipped into the corner of his mouth.

[Shining small source substance-"Sorrow and Thorns." Evokes painful, sorrowful memories. The more it hurts, the harder it is to let go.]

Gordon was intrigued.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sinclair said. "This is a rare piece of source substance imported from the Southern Continent."

"Very beautiful," Gordon said. "What do you intend to do with it?" This sort of source substance was clearly unsuitable for incorporation into the body.

"Make it into a brooch and send it to a jeweler on Norwich Street," Sinclair said. "They want a Rescue Festival-themed accessory. Charitable, elegant, suitable for widows."

Gordon could already picture it.

A widow put on the brooch, then cried without stopping.

She remembered all her late husband's faults and cried even harder.

"Source substance isn't just a colored stone. Looking pretty doesn't mean it must be good for humans," Gordon said.

"You sound a little like Professor Winslow now, only forty years younger and four hundred thousand times poorer," Peter said.

"...You disapprove of this design, Mr. Vick?" Sinclair frowned.

Gordon didn't answer immediately.

He bent over the source substance, pretending to examine it closely, presenting himself as a professional searching for evidence.

"How long has this source substance been in its containment box?" Gordon asked.

"It arrived from overseas like this. About four months, probably," Sinclair said.

"There is a way to test its properties."

"I'm all ears."

"Source substance emits faint spiritual radiation. Given enough time, deposits will accumulate in the surrounding material. That might be a piece of cloth, or it might be the air," Gordon said. "Peter, come smell this."

Peter's coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth.

"Why me?" Peter asked.

"Because you're an experienced researcher at this university," Gordon said.

"There's a gulf wider than the Blackwater River between research and sniffing source substance," Peter said.

"Fine. Then let's sit here another six hours and wait for the professor."

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

"I'm in no hurry."

"...What happens after I smell it?" Peter glanced at the brass clock on the wall. Clearly, he had other things to do.

"In theory, it should only cause a mild emotional response," Gordon said.

Sinclair opened the hexagonal containment box.

Cold air escaped from the box. Peter wafted some toward his nose.

One second.

Two seconds.

Sorrow appeared on Peter's face.

The impatience in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by a distant, deep, and complicated sadness.

"I remembered Sophia," Peter said.

"Who? Some great beauty? Your first love?" Gordon asked curiously.

"A goose I kept when I was little," Peter said. "She was fierce. Only liked me. She used to chase the village postman and peck him. One day, my grandmother told me she'd gone missing."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"That evening, we had goose soup. I drank two bowls, then went into the kitchen and saw Sophia's head in a bucket."

The office fell silent for a moment.

Gordon looked stricken.

Sinclair looked stricken too.

"Sophia tasted pretty good. The potatoes were delicious, and so was the cabbage. And there was salt..." Peter's mind drifted away.

"Thank you very much for your sacrifice, Peter," Gordon said.

"I hate you," Peter said.

"Hating me proves your emotional faculties are intact. Excellent, excellent," Gordon said.

Sinclair, however, had already sat bolt upright.

"Indeed... this source substance induces sorrow. I suspected it had that property," Sinclair said.

"Not just sorrow." Gordon's tone was thoroughly professional. "Pay attention to Peter's account. He didn't just remember Sophia's... the goose's death. He added that the soup tasted good. He remembered drinking two bowls, and his grandmother lying. You see, there's attachment in this emotion, shame, pain, and a lingering savor he's unwilling to relinquish... If it were only sorrow, Peter must have experienced things more painful than this."

"..." Peter glared at Gordon.

"Yes! That's important. Is it the goose you can't let go of, or her taste? Or the childhood you can never return to?" Sinclair pressed, beginning to analyze the details himself.

"...Please stop bringing up Sophia..." Peter drained his coffee in one gulp, trying to wash away his childhood goose with bitterness.

Gordon pointed at the beautiful source substance.

"In short, if you make it into a Rescue Festival brooch, the wearer is guaranteed to feel miserable. Whether she looks elegant depends on how much her nose runs when she cries," Gordon concluded.

"So it can't go to the jeweler." Sinclair looked serious. "It's unsuitable for everyday wear. Perhaps it could be useful at funerals."

"No, take my advice. Offer it to the police and the investigation bureau," Gordon said. "Let those criminals reflect on what a mess they've made of their lives."

Of course.

Sinclair's eyes lit up.

This power awakened bitter memories and amplified sorrow. It might prove remarkably effective during interrogations.

Many people could endure suffering and withstand brutal torture, yet recalling a regret in the middle of the night might break them mentally.

Sinclair packed away the box and studied Gordon carefully.

"I think I have enough clues now," he said. "The Sinclair Spiritual Workshop, on Clocktower Street. Mr. Vick, if you're interested, I'd be delighted to show you a few unfinished pieces. I need to get back to work now. A hunter delivered a small piece of source substance today, and I need to process it as soon as possible."

Gray works fast, Gordon thought. We were still discussing the price yesterday, and today he's already delivered it to the workshop.

"Highly distorted properties, suitable for making bullets?"

"An explosive vial might be more suitable... Ah, how did you know?"

"Never mind," Gordon said. "Take care. I'll visit when I have time."

Spiritual artisans meant access to techniques for processing and modifying source substance. He was more than happy to meet people in that field.

Sinclair stood and picked up his case.

Peter walked Sinclair out.

The incident had sent his appetite swinging wildly. One moment, he wanted to mourn his lost childhood; the next, he wanted to ask where in the city he could get stewed goose.

In the corridor, Sinclair kept thinking about Gordon Vick.

Professor Winslow's assistant?

That kind of judgment is exceptional.

Of course, spending so much time around Professor Winslow might have rubbed off on him.

He quietly committed "Gordon Vick" to memory as someone worth knowing. "Peter Gershkovich," the professor's other assistant, too. And "Sophia," a goose who had been loved.

Gordon slept soundly in Winslow's office until eight or nine that evening.

"Oh?" Professor Winslow had returned.

He didn't wake Gordon immediately.

Seeing Gordon fast asleep on the sofa, he suddenly recalled how, many years ago, he too had slept for hours in classrooms and his teachers' offices, his mind full of dreams and grand ambitions.

Winslow sat down in his chair.

"Good morning... evening, Professor." Sensing someone nearby, Gordon opened his eyes on the reception-area sofa.

"Why stay so late waiting for me?" Professor Winslow set a manuscript on the desk.

"Just my usual check-in." Gordon rubbed his face. He had actually wanted to ask about the ancient rubbing and the Fisher King. "But my business can wait. What's that?"

"Proofs. The Journal of the Royal Society of Logris." Winslow's voice was calm, but his hand kept stroking the cover. "Our 'Experiment on the Targeted Induction of Deepclaw Demons Using Precipitate' has been accepted as a short communication. I spent the whole day discussing it with other scholars."

Gordon was wide awake now.

The Journal of the Royal Society of Logris was a sacred institution in academia. It published cutting-edge research and was a crucial dividing line between first-rate scholars and third-rate fools.

Their experiment on the Silverfish Casket's precipitate was actually going to be published.

Targeted induction-he had only been joking with the count back then, yet now it had actually made its way into an academic journal!

Professor Winslow's expression remained composed.

But Gordon could tell the old man was delighted.

In the three minutes since entering, Winslow had stroked the manuscript several times already.

This was an important part of routinely adding achievements to one's academic career.

"Congratulations, Professor," Gordon said.

"Not just to me. To you, too." Winslow smiled. "The sample came from you, as did the initial assessment, and you helped with the experimental records. Gordon, this is your first formal contact with the Empire's academic community."

"When it's published, please describe me as an assistant who wishes to remain anonymous," Gordon said.

"Of course. Of course. No need to incur unnecessary risks." Winslow noticed that the level in his coffee bag had dropped. "...Did someone come by during the day?"

Gordon told him about the spiritual artisan, Sorrow and Thorns, and Sophia.

"Ah, Sinclair." Winslow looked thoughtful. "He graduated from this university. Took my classes. That boy wasn't suited to staying on here. He couldn't stand committees, thesis defenses, or stupid questions. But he has very steady hands, just like you. Besides, he's skilled at turning source substance into things that are very useful to humans... All of that helps us pursue a truly significant question: uncovering the truth about source substance."

"The truth about source substance?" Gordon was curious too.

His eyes could see all kinds of information, even identify certain properties directly and allow him to expound at length. Yet even now, he didn't know whether that was a form of source substance power.

And there was that Aberrant resembling a black goat, one of the strangest anomalies he had encountered since coming to this world. Afterward, Peter had tossed it into some incinerator or other, but the questions it left behind still lingered in the world.