Three months flew by as if they were a single day. Even Christmas passed almost unnoticed for Richard—he had been that busy.
The exams for the second year of secondary school went smoothly; it could hardly have been otherwise. Still, because of the sheer workload, Richard spent a full month more on them than he had on mastering the material for the first year curriculum.
The boy decided to take a break for a couple of weeks before moving on to the next year's program. Besides, he could easily afford a longer rest—he was already well ahead of his personal schedule. The original plan had been to complete two school years' worth of material in a single year. As it turned out, things were going even better than that.
Early February arrived with heavy snowfall. If one looked out the window of young Grosvenor's study, a view opened onto pristine white expanses, broken only by snow-cleared paths and a straight automobile road stretching off into the distance.
Had Richard been a normal child, he would already have been rushing outside to build a snowman, go sledding, and generally enjoy winter fun in the fresh air. But the very thought of going outdoors made the transmigrator shudder. No thank you—Richard would much rather not stick his nose out into the freezing cold at all, choosing instead to savor the warmth and comfort of the estate, which he was doing with great success.
Richard sat in a comfortable armchair in his study, reviewing documents and photographs that Detective Potter had handed over to him.
All the papers were sorted into small folders—one file for each person. Some folders Richie set aside in a corner of the desk; others he tossed into the lower drawer, deeming them unpromising.
Once everything had been sorted, Richard opened the newspaper to the page with stock market quotations.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door to the study. Without waiting for a response, the door opened, and Gerald walked in.
At first, Richard was surprised. Usually, it was the servants who knocked—and they never entered without permission. Only the valet allowed himself to enter the young master's bedroom without asking, and even then only in the mornings, to wake him. That silent arrangement had allowed the boy, before he began hiding behind tricks, to train his mutant abilities without any trouble.
"Richie, hi. Anything interesting in there?"
The boy lifted his eyes to his father and answered automatically,
"Nestlé shares are at their peak—doesn't look like a good time to buy. Pepsi, on the other hand—the one I invested ten million pounds in—is down after its December peak. But I think that's temporary. In April or May, before the annual investor reports are released, the stock price should jump."
"Hm…" A meaningful hum escaped Gerald's lips. "Lose much money?"
Richie lowered the newspaper and stretched the word in surprise,
"What?! Oh—no. I didn't lose a single penny. I bought Pepsi at 9.44, and it's at 9.83 dollars now. I'm currently up six hundred and forty thousand dollars. I'll sell in the summer, at the peak."
"That's good to hear—just like your overall progress," Gerald said, sitting down on the sofa near the desk. "Richie, I keep an eye on your affairs, and I have to say—you're doing an excellent job. For now! I hope it stays that way. But, son, you need to understand that investing in securities is unreliable. Today they're rising; tomorrow they might fall, and you could lose most of your capital. That's why I was very pleased with how you started your business—and a little surprised when, instead of continuing to invest in production, you switched to securities."
"It's simpler that way, Dad," Richard shrugged. "I can't handle production and studying at the same time. You remember that summer when I had to travel all over the world to sign contracts with manufacturers and buyers. Besides, the Skrepyshes have run their course. It's a hype product—it won't last long on the market. And to come up with something new and actually implement it, I'd need at least three or four months. On top of that, it's better to manufacture things at your own factory rather than ordering them from someone else."
"Alright, alright—I won't interfere in your affairs, as promised," Gerald raised his hands as if surrendering. "But I know you've earned quite a bit. Richie, now it's time for you to make a name for yourself. Any respectable major businessman should engage in charity. It's good for one's image. I assume it won't be difficult for you to allocate a modest sum for donations."
"Mmm… suppose so," Richard drawled thoughtfully. "I do have some free funds. I think I could spare around fifty thousand dollars."
"Son, why are you talking in dollars instead of pounds?"
"Sorry—I'm just used to stock reports. It's more convenient to think in dollars there."
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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