Chapter 157 - 146: Legal Principle

Room Four was at the far end of the east wing on the second floor.

Richard walked down the hallway, suitcase in hand. As he passed the other rooms, he could hear the rustling of people rummaging through their belongings.

He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

The room wasn’t large, a bit narrower than his own bedroom at home.

A brass bed stood against the north wall, the posts of its headboard worn to a smooth shine.

On the nightstand, a folded note was pinned beneath a pot of hot water. Beside it lay two hard biscuits wrapped in oil paper.

Richard set his suitcase in a corner.

He walked to the window and pulled the curtains apart.

The window faced east, offering a view of a stone wall at the eastern edge of Whitcomb Village. Beyond the wall was a vast expanse of low shrubs and rolling highlands.

The sun was already dipping in the west, bathing the wilderness in a rusty-red glow.

A river valley was faintly visible in the distance. According to the map, that was the direction of Whitcombe Mill.

He left the gun case and the Enchanted Bullet Box in his backpack, which he set down next to the nightstand, within easy reach.

He placed his notebook and Inscription materials in the center of the writing desk.

Once he had arranged his things, he hung his coat on a hook inside the wardrobe door.

When he went downstairs, several more people were already at the long table.

The first to see him was a young man in a black priest’s robe.

The young man stood up from his chair.

He was slightly taller than Richard, with neatly cut, golden-brown hair.

His light brown eyes were direct, yet not aggressive.

"You’re Richard Williams, aren’t you?"

"You know me?"

"Mr. Hutton mentioned you’d be arriving today." The young man extended his hand. "Edmond Wickliffe. Saint Peter’s Monastery Divinity School, Scholar direction."

Richard shook his hand. He could sense that the man’s internal circulation had been stable for over a year.

Following the other man’s lead, he replied, "Greenwood Middle School, Scholar direction."

"I know Greenwood," the preparatory priest said with a nod. "I grew up in Brighton, too."

"You’re from Brighton?" Richard was a little surprised.

"Go south from Waste Rock Lane, cross Central Avenue, and three streets further is Cornwall Road. My house is right behind the little chapel on Cornwall Road."

Richard was familiar with that area.

The little chapel on Cornwall Road wasn’t large, but the building was very old.

"Is your father a Deacon at the church?"

"The Parish Priest. He’s been there for twenty years now."

"Before I went to the Divinity School, Mr. Hutton also mentored me for a while," he continued. "I was about fourteen or fifteen at the time."

"Mr. Hutton has never mentioned his former students."

"He wouldn’t bring it up himself." Edmund smiled. "Mr. Hutton never treats his past as a topic for idle chatter."

Richard silently agreed.

Mr. Hutton almost never spoke of his own past.

"The year the Divinity School was accepting new students, my father told me to apply," Edmund said.

"For admissions to the Saint Peter’s Monastery Divinity School, they look at more than just academic performance.

"My family having several generations of priests, plus a letter of recommendation from Mr. Hutton, made getting in quite a bit easier."

"They teach this kind of thing at the Divinity School, too?"

"They do, but only a certain type." Edmund’s reply was cautious.

"As for which type, we can talk about that later when we’re all seated."

Another person stood up from behind Edmund.

He was shorter, about half a head shorter than Richard.

His brown hair was as stiff as a brush, and he wore a suit vest that was clearly a size too small.

"Theodore Hargrave." The boy spoke with a hint of a mining district accent. "West Yorkshire, Secret Direction."

"I don’t really have a school to speak of. Mr. Penbrook himself picked me out from a horse farm."

"Mr. Penbrook?"

"He’s a shareholder in my family’s horse farm," Theodore explained. "Two members of his family have achieved Minor Mastery, and he himself is a Senior Practitioner in the Secret Direction."

"How did he pick you out from the horse farm?"

The boy from the horse farm grinned, revealing two slightly yellowed front teeth.

"When I was twelve, I was crouching in the stables, helping an old mare give birth.

"Mr. Penbrook was passing by and asked me if the mare would make it.

"I said she would. He asked how, and I told him the foal’s legs were backward in the womb, and that I had to turn it around before pulling it out."

"You actually turned it around?" Richard asked, fascinated.

"Turned it around," Theodore said. "The foal lived, and the mother did too."

"And then?"

"Mr. Penbrook asked me how I knew its legs were backward. I told him I couldn’t see, but I could feel it."

"And that’s why he chose you?"

"He found other excuses to come by a few more times, always making me do something while he watched."

The boy from the horse farm recalled, "One time, he took a Copper Whistle out of his pocket and told me to say what was different about it."

Richard now understood completely. This whole process was similar to the inspiration test Old Big had given him back then.

At that moment, Mr. Hutton, who was sitting a bit farther away with a teacup, spoke up.

"Penbrook and I were apprentices together in the Imperial Capital back in the day. We’ve stayed in touch ever since."

"It’s a shame his health has always been poor. He couldn’t come to this godforsaken, freezing place."

’Why would a Practitioner of the Secret Direction have been an apprentice with Mr. Hutton?’

Richard was puzzled, but he didn’t ask out loud.

The third person to speak was a girl with red hair in two thick braids. She had a scattering of faint freckles and a plain face.

She was wearing a long, thick woolen dress and was huddled next to the fireplace, seemingly very afraid of the cold.

"Maggie Macfee. I’m a local here in the Gael Highlands. Scholar direction."