Chapter 471: Those Who Died for the Country

Richard stepped through the school gates and looked up at the bulletin board in the foyer.

"Alumni of this school, fallen for the country."

He recognized the name at the very top. It belonged to the upperclassman who had sat in the back row to listen to his practice run of the Catiline Orations in the East Wing lecture hall, right after he signed up for the Cicero Cup.

When the speech ended, that senior had clapped the loudest.

The second name was Bill Coleman, with a note appended below: April 30, 1915, in Flanders.

Richard stood there. He had known about this for over a month—a full week before the Empire's telegrams.

Now, the name was painted in gold in the main hall of their alma mater, where anyone walking in would see it the moment they looked up.

"Sir, are you an alumnus?"

An old clerk poked his head out from the academic affairs office.

"Which name are you looking at?"

"Bill Coleman." Only then did Richard realize his voice was a bit dry.

The old man pushed up his glasses, recalling something. "Ah... this one. His mother actually came by."

"What for?"

"Just to look." The old clerk's mood visibly sank.

"His mother stood there all morning. No matter who tried to persuade her, she refused to sit. When she finally left, she handed over five pounds to buy books for the school."

Richard nodded and walked away without a word.

He remembered last winter, looking at the calling cards from doctors, lawyers, and parish deacons sitting in the tray at the entryway of the Coleman Household.

His grandfather had promised to write Coleman a letter of recommendation once the war was over.

It seemed that letter wouldn't be needed after all.

The paperwork procedure went surprisingly smoothly.

The old clerk flipped to Evelyn's name and suddenly looked up.

"Evelyn Williams?"

"Yes," Evelyn replied.

The old man wiped his reading glasses, suddenly realizing exactly who Richard was.

He stepped away, and a moment later, the dean of students personally came out to welcome them.

Reaching through the window to shake Richard's hand, the dean called him "sir," promising the documents would be ready by that afternoon and that the office would handle all the required stamps.

Standing to the side, Evelyn parted her lips slightly, then slowly closed them.

By the time they left the academic affairs office, people in the corridor were already gathering to see what the commotion was about.

News spread incredibly fast in this school. In the twenty paces between the office and the staircase, Richard heard his name murmured over and over.

At the second-floor stairwell, he bumped into Mr. Holland.

The balding, middle-aged man nearly dropped his entire stack of lecture notes down the stairs.

The two went to the faculty lounge. A glass frame sat on the table by the window.

Clipped inside was a newspaper cutout—the supplement page of the Imperial Capital Evening News.

Naturally, it featured an excerpt of the essay competition's first-prize winner, "The Island."

Alongside it was a clipping from the day Richard had placed in Debate Week.

"Sir, this is a bit much..."

"I've taught Latin for over twenty years." Mr. Holland raised a hand, stopping him from saying more.

"In all those years, you are the only one of my students who made it into the Department of Classics at Imperial Capital University."

Not far away, Ms. Grant let out a laugh from behind a pile of exam papers. "He tells everyone he meets that you're his student."

Down the corridor, Mr. Hutton's office looked exactly the same as always.

"Come in."

The old gentleman was sitting in his worn chair by the window. Seeing who had pushed the door open, he slowly folded the newspaper in his hands.

"I didn't think you'd be back until the summer holidays."

Richard closed the door.

"Just a temporary trip. My sister needs to process her completion certificate."

"Sit."

Mr. Hutton looked at him for a moment.

Richard was very familiar with that gaze.

Ever since the day he became a Newcomer, his guide would look him over like this every time they met.

"You've changed your breathing method."

"Half a year ago. The Condensed Mirror Method."

"Mirror." The old man picked up his pipe and tapped it against the edge of his desk.

"The path is narrow, practitioners are few, and the materials are scarce."

"My aunt said the same."

Mr. Hutton pressed some tobacco into his pipe.

"She was right, but she probably didn't tell you the other thing."

"Those who walk this path eventually reflect everything else clearly, but when it comes to reflecting themselves, they easily grow blurred."

Richard sat up a little straighter in his chair.

"Have you started showing that symptom yet?"

"Not yet," Richard answered.

The old man struck a match and lit his pipe.

For the next while, Richard recounted everything from the past half-year that he could share.

The things he couldn't, he skirted around, and Mr. Hutton didn't press.

"I know Professor McPhee as well,"

Mr. Hutton said.

"Back in the day, he sat in my Mentor's house for an entire night and drank all his liquor."

Richard laughed.

When the laughter faded, the room fell quiet.

"How is the seal at the Unresponsive Pit?" Richard asked.

"It was reinforced before winter set in last year. I'll still be the one going this year."

"The Branch Office isn't sending anyone?"

The old gentleman shook his head.

"After Wentworth passed, a young man transferred from Manchester filled his spot. He's not a bad kid, just too young."

The pipe turned a half-circle between his fingers.

"The registry of unidentified corpses in the North District has also been handed over to a new coroner."

"...That's good, then."

"It's not good." Mr. Hutton sighed.

"All the familiar faces are gone."

Richard made no reply.

Outside the window, the wind rustled a layer of leaves on the old trees.

Just as he was about to leave, Mr. Hutton suddenly called out to him.

"Richard."

"Sir?"

"I'm still keeping that storage room on the third floor for you. The lock hasn't been changed."

"Sir..."

"Go on." Mr. Hutton put the pipe back in his mouth.

"Your sister is still waiting for you downstairs."

Downstairs, Evelyn was indeed growing a bit impatient.

"You're looking pretty smug today," she said suddenly.

"When was I looking smug?"

"Just now during the paperwork. That dean only asked for my name and immediately started praising you."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"Why should I have to listen to him praise you when we were there for my paperwork?"

Richard chuckled and let the comment slide.

After walking another dozen paces, Evelyn spoke up again.

"Though, he was right to praise you."

"Hmm?"

"Nothing!"

She turned her face away and hurried two steps ahead down the road.

But in the span of those two steps, Richard caught a clear look.

Pinned to the collar of her coat was a small tin brooch.

Two hands holding a heart, with a crown atop the heart, its tip facing outward.

"Hey," Richard called from behind.

"What?"

"Isn't that the one-penny trinket?"

Evelyn glanced down at her collar, then quickly lifted her head, jutting her chin up.

"So what if it was one penny?"

...

At noon, Richard met up with his old classmates at a pie shop not far from the school gates.

Warren, the local wealthy young master, was naturally the first to arrive.

The moment the guy walked in, he slapped his hat onto the table and started greeting Richard from halfway across the room.

He had bulked up a bit and wore a meticulous three-piece suit made of fabric that clearly wasn't cheap.

Hugh followed behind him. The kid had grown even skinnier, his hair was longer, and there was unwashed coal dust wedged beneath his fingernails.

He was still clutching a sketchbook under his arm, but it had to be a new one—it looked much thicker than the last.

Mason came in last. He had lost weight too, and a chunk of his left pinky finger was missing.

"You guys have all changed so much," Richard sighed.

"You're the only one who hasn't." Warren plopped into a seat.

"On my way here today, I was telling some old classmates that we're brothers, and they all said I was just bragging."

"Aren't you bragging?" Mason chimed in from the side.

Warren slapped the table. "How is it bragging? I'm the one paying for his lunch."

"The condition for that was me tutoring you in Latin," Richard replied.

"I still paid."

By the time the pies were served, Warren had already spent a while talking about his ledger.

He was learning double-entry bookkeeping from two old gentlemen at his family's company, arriving at seven in the morning and not leaving until seven at night.

"You really do have a bit of a young chairman's swagger now," Richard teased.

"Like hell I do." Warren tossed his fork onto his plate, deflating.

"My dad is making me go on two business trips a month in his place now."

"To do what?"

"Attend funerals."

The table fell quiet.

"The mines are short over three hundred men this year. When they left, they were sent off in batches with the whole town turning out to watch. But now, only letters are coming back, one by one."

He took a sip of his soup. "I go to these funerals just to let people see that someone from the Crowley family showed up."

Beside him, Hugh passed his sketchbook to Richard. "Take a look."

Richard looked down and smiled.

Sketched on the page was a crowd of people squeezed onto some stone steps, their faces drawn merely as blank circles.

An arrow pointed at the person on the edge of the third row, labeled with his name.

"How did you know I stood here?"

"Your sister handed out a lot of newspapers. She said the one standing with the straightest shoulders was you."

Richard turned to look at his sister.

Evelyn was busy biting into her pie; mealtime was the only time she didn't interrupt.

"I didn't say anything," she mumbled.

Richard flipped a few pages deeper into the sketchbook, his pace slowing as he went.

The first half of the book was filled with his usual drawings: chicken drumsticks, coal stoves, classmates asleep in the classroom, or burnt pigeons.

But after he flipped past the blank page in the middle, the second half changed completely.

It was filled with hands and silhouettes of backs.

Backs in military uniforms, backs carrying luggage, and backs standing on platforms waiting to board trains. Page after page, there were roughly thirty or forty pages of them.

"Why did you start drawing these?"

Hugh dusted off the ash on his trousers. "I go to Central Station to draw every Sunday now. That's where the most people are."

"You draw these for people at the station?"

"Yeah, only six pence a sheet. They mail them back home."

"Wouldn't a photograph be more convenient?"

"A photograph costs two shillings, and they have to wait three days for it to be developed." Hugh shook his head.

"But they only have a single afternoon. I used to not be able to draw an accurate face to save my life, and now I finally can. Even so, I still can't quite get their faces right."

Right before they were about to part ways, Mason suddenly patted Richard's shoulder in a secretive manner.

"Hey, let me ask you something. Grey went to a girls' school in the Imperial Capital, right?"

"Yes."

Mason's eyes darted around slyly. "So, what about you two?"

Hearing this topic, Evelyn's interest was instantly piqued.

"My brother gets a pastry box every month now! He told me on the phone, and he even said sometimes the boxes are heart-shaped."

Mason slapped his thigh. "I knew it!"

Hugh's eyes lit up as well, his hand already reaching for his sketchbook.

"Enough!" It was Warren who spoke.

He stuffed the last piece of pie crust into his mouth and slowly finished it.

"That's his private business. There's no point in us prying."

Mason choked on his words, sheepishly leaning back. "I was just asking."

Hugh muttered softly beside him, "I want to know too."

"Shut up."

The three of them burst into laughter, and after the laughter died down, they didn't ask anymore.