Chapter 192: Counting

Mrs. MacNeil retrieved a strip of gray wax and ignited it with aether.

As the wax lit, Richard scanned the area using Concealed Spirit Vision.

The patch of mist at the base of the wall shifted fractionally toward the wax before shrinking back.

"It's drawn to the wax," Mrs. MacNeil said with a glance. "But it doesn't dare come out."

"Why not?"

"He's been counting in pitch darkness for so many years. It's his only proof that he's still alive. If he comes out..."

She didn't finish the thought.

"Looks like we'll have to ask Milke."

Richard's gaze fell to the small wooden box beside her knee.

Crouching outside the salt line, she pulled the box from her leather bag, keeping the lid facing up.

"One of the seven in the Whitcom Seal. Milke is the Moonstone Pendant, used for negotiations."

Richard remembered, of course.

"You use him for house calls too?"

"He's especially effective with children." Mrs. MacNeil untied the cloth strap and opened the lid.

"Children won't listen when adults try to reason with them, but they'll listen if the person talking doesn't seem like an adult."

She cupped the pendant in her palm and murmured something under her breath.

Richard scanned it with Concealed Spirit Vision.

In that moment, a very faint shadow surfaced from within the pendant.

This was the material realm; spirits could not fully manifest here.

"Milke, do me one more favor."

The candle flame tipped slightly to the side.

The spirit slowly seeped from the pendant and drifted toward the base of the wall.

When it reached the wall, the spirit crouched.

Milke spoke toward the corner. "Do you want to stop for a second?"

The faint mist hesitated.

Mrs. MacNeil asked very softly, "What number are you on?"

An almost inaudible voice drifted from the mist.

"...Forty-seven."

It was a boy's voice, about seven or eight years old.

"Then count to a hundred. Take your time. We'll wait for you to finish."

The patch of mist fell quiet for a moment, then began to count.

"...Forty-eight."

The machines in the workshop were still turning, nearly drowning the voice out.

"...Ninety-nine."

The candle flame steadied.

"...One hundred."

The entire workshop fell quiet.

"You've finished counting," Mrs. MacNeil coaxed softly.

The mist at the wall remained still.

"You've been asleep for a long, long time. No one is going to wake you up to pack cotton anymore."

The mist shifted.

"You can go now."

Milke moved closer to the mist and reached out a hand.

A faint outline slowly emerged from the fog.

The boy kept his head down, deeply afraid of strangers.

Milke's invisible hand gently touched the top of his head, and the boy looked up.

Richard didn't look at the face; he felt it wasn't something he should see.

Milke led the boy toward the candle.

The candle burned for a moment longer before snuffing itself out.

Mrs. MacNeil placed the pendant back into the small wooden box.

"Milke is a bit tired today. I'll need to let him rest for a few days when we get back."

"This case is handled."

Richard stood outside the salt line, unmoving.

"...What was the child's name?"

Mrs. MacNeil looked up at him for a moment.

"Milke heard him say it just now. His name was Tommy."

"...Tommy."

"Yes."

Richard said no more.

...

Holbrook had been waiting at the workshop entrance for over half an hour.

Seeing Mrs. MacNeil come out, he immediately took two steps forward to meet her.

"...How did it go?"

"It's taken care of," Mrs. MacNeil said.

"It's... over just like that?"

"Yes."

"...Do you need to set up a seal?"

The man rubbed his hands together, looking somewhat reluctant to part with his money.

"A seal isn't necessary for this one."

"Seals are for entities that repeatedly manifest. The one here today is gone and won't be coming back."

"Also, shut down this cotton carding machine for a day."

"Shut it down for a day? But the orders..."

"Shut it down for a day. You can resume the day shift tomorrow afternoon, and the night shift the day after."

"And don't let any children near this section of the wall for the next three days."

"...Children?" Holbrook froze for a moment. "I don't have any child laborers in my factory right now."

"I didn't ask if you had child laborers." Mrs. MacNeil's face was expressionless. "I said, don't let any children near here."

"The call-out fee is five pounds. Based on today's workload, the handling fee is three pounds.

"Seeing as you cooperated well this afternoon, I'll give you a discount and make the handling fee two pounds."

Holbrook clearly breathed a sigh of relief.

He counted out the money from his coat pocket and handed it over.

Mrs. MacNeil took the banknotes, glanced at them, and tucked them away in her coat.

"We'll take our leave."

Holbrook walked them to the factory gate.

The drive passed in silence until the car stopped at the east end of Slag Alley.

Richard got out and neatly folded his two pounds, slipping the money into his inner pocket.

From inside the car, Mrs. MacNeil said, "The spring seal maintenance for Briston is coming up. The 'old foundations' out in the Western Suburbs need to be redone this year."

Her expression was solemn.

"For your Scholar's probatio text, the 'old foundations' in the Western Suburbs will provide you with a wealth of material."

"You should ask Mr. Hutton about it later. It would be best if you could come observe with him when the time comes."

"...Understood."

The car drove on, heading back toward the Branch Office.

Richard stood at the east end of Slag Alley, watching the vehicle turn the corner.

Chimneys belched smoke in the distance, and the lights of the night shift were faintly flickering to life across the industrial district.

...

In Briston at the end of January, the snow melted only to fall again, and fell only to melt again.

Over at the school, Mr. Hutton's office door would be left open for half an hour after class every day.

No lessons were officially scheduled for this half hour. Richard went when he had the time, and skipped it when he didn't.

The two of them had never exchanged a single word about this arrangement, yet they maintained the unspoken understanding perfectly.

They had finished their collaborative research on the parchment scroll and the Bronze Fragment.

The deeper section regarding true names had already been sealed inside a silver-salt wooden box. According to the rules, neither of them would touch it again.

They had deconstructed every part of the entire ritual record that did not involve true names.

Mr. Hutton's exact words were, "Getting this far is enough."

Richard had still tried to press him on the remaining parts.

The old gentleman had simply shaken his head.

Although Mr. Hutton couldn't guide Richard on his probatio text, everything outside of that—such as Gaelic, church liturgical Latin, the fundamentals of Inscriptiology, and how Scholars encrypted their own texts—were all fundamental skills for a Scholar.

Without a solid foundation, everything built afterward would be unsteady.

The old gentleman held nothing back in these areas.

After school that day, Richard made his way to the office with familiar ease.

Mr. Hutton sat behind his desk with three books spread open in front of him.

One was "Elementary Gaelic Grammar".

One was "Glossary of State Church Liturgical Terms".

And the last was a hardcover manuscript with no visible title.

Richard would only learn later that it was a handwritten lecture on Inscriptiology that Mr. Hutton had copied down himself in his youth.

"What are we going over today?" Richard asked from the doorway.

"We aren't going over anything today," Mr. Hutton said without looking up. "Turn these three books to their index pages and pick the section you least want to read."

"...The one I least want to read?"

"Why?"

"The section you least want to read is the one you are lacking in the most."

Richard pulled the three books over and spread them out in front of him.

The Inscriptiology manuscript was the thinnest, but also the densest read.

Even with the boost from [Speculation], every stroke had to be turned over in his mind several times before he could grasp why a line curved a certain way or stopped where it did.

Richard deliberated for a moment before pushing the Inscriptiology manuscript to the center.

Mr. Hutton glanced up at him.

"...Why not Gaelic?"

"Gaelic is difficult, but the rules are clear. I can chew through it given enough time."

Richard answered earnestly. "But every stroke in the Inscriptiology manuscript has centuries of tradition behind it. I can't see the underlying logic on my own."

The old gentleman gave a grunt of acknowledgment and picked up his teacup to take a sip.

"That answer... is slightly better than your previous one."

"...Did I answer poorly before?"

"You said, 'All three are hard, so let's start with the easiest one, Gaelic.'"

Richard looked a bit embarrassed.

"With today's answer, you at least know what you're missing."

The tutoring session flew by.

Because Richard's mind had been much sharper lately, things he previously had to memorize by brute force now clicked into place seamlessly as he listened.

So much so that by the time the lecture ended, he was still left wanting more.

"We'll switch to a different set tomorrow." The old man's white eyebrows twitched as he looked at the youth before him.

"...Which set?"

"A harder one."

"...Understood."

Richard stood up to pack away his books.

Just as he reached the door, he heard the old man add one last thing.

"Also, there's another volume at the back of that Inscriptiology manuscript."

"The set of transitions I assigned to you today—you'll need to study the similar sets in the next volume as well."

"Understood."

Richard left the office.

After the door clicked shut, Mr. Hutton leaned back in his chair, confirming something in his mind.

'This kid seems to have gotten a bit smarter lately.'

True talent on the Scholar's path was never about simply 'remembering a lot'.

It was the ability to piece together fragments from different eras, traditions, and perspectives to see the invisible load-bearing beam beneath it all.

Finding that load-bearing beam was something only a true Scholar could do.

In his youth, Mr. Hutton had briefly touched the edges of that beam.

But his foundations had been scattered across three disparate fields, draining him of the strength to go any further.

Now, for this sixteen-year-old boy, that very same beam was materializing in his mind, inch by inch.