Arthur watched the boy from the edge of the frayed rug, the practiced, pleasant curve of his lips never wavering.
The conclusions he comes to using his deductive capabilities are consistently incorrect, Arthur observed in the quiet of his mind. Every leap the boy made was executed with total logical clarity, yet every conclusion fell miles from the truth. They reflected the reference sheet of a monk who had lived in a monastery since birth—someone viewing an unfamiliar world through a rigid lens of prayer beads, mortuary rites, and ascetic charity.
Still, Arthur could hardly fault him for the leap. If the Devreux family weren't so influential, their movements and ministerial proclamations so well-detailed in the news, Arthur also would have believed that they were dead, with how she acted.
Before Celeste could take two steps toward the armoire, her frantic momentum abruptly broke. The simulated urgency evaporated in an instant. Forgetting the wardrobe entirely, she pivoted on her heel, dragged her feet lazily through a heap of silk skirts, and collapsed backward onto the colossal four-poster bed.
The springs groaned under her weight. She lay sprawled half on the mattress, teal hair fanning out like spilled ink over an avalanche of rumpled pillows, her riding boots dangling over the edge of the carved frame. One foot swung in an idle, aimless rhythm against the wood.
"Cedric—" Celeste groaned, tilting her head until her amber-gold eyes found him upside down. "Do you have any more candy?"
Arthur adjusted his posture, maintaining his effortless, accommodating warmth.
"I do, but are you sure you want to spend the rest of your daily stipend now, my lady?"
"Yes!"
The response came without a fraction of a second's hesitation. She threw both arms into the air, her fingers curling impatiently toward him.
Arthur dipped his hand into the interior pocket of his black coat, retrieved two cylindrical caramel sticks wrapped in pale wax paper, and crossed the room to drop them into her waiting palms.
Celeste tore the paper away with her teeth, humming in instant contentment as she stuffed one of the chews into her cheek.
Arthur's smile remained steady as he watched her happily chew, but beneath the surface, his mind filed the transaction with cold precision.
Caramel sticks.
In their very first meeting, Arthur had promised her a duel when the second year began, using the challenge as a tether to manage her chaotic volatility. In that same meeting, observing her complete indifference to campus administration, he had also advised her to collect her weekly stipend from the bursar.
She had never collected it. Instead, she had proposed an entirely different deal: Arthur could collect her credits directly and use them as his own, but in return, he would have to buy her anything she wanted, up to the total value of her weekly stipend, whenever she wanted it.
At the time, the arrangement had seemed like an obvious asymmetric advantage. Factoring in her manic flightiness, chaotic detachment, and arbitrary amnesia, Arthur had figured that she would forget to order on most days. Over weeks and months, he would be able to profit significantly with the pooled credits of Rank One and Rank Two, accumulating a quiet reserve of capital that he could use for the future—to fund off-book alchemical supplies, independent research, or emergency contingencies.
It had been a complete miscalculation.
Despite her erratic behavior and inability to grasp basic social norms, she was remarkably sharp when it came to practical arithmetic. She kept flawless track of time, remembered commissary prices to the copper, and calculated running balances with uncanny accuracy. She liquidated her daily allotment to the decimal, every single day.
After three months of managing her, Arthur's net earnings from the venture were precisely zero.
In fact, his net earnings were negative ten thousand credits, if factoring in that platinum credit he had given her as a gift three months ago.
Arthur watched as Celeste rolled onto her side, gnawing on the confection with rhythmic bliss. Deep in the pocket of her uniform jacket, the heavy, metallic outline of that very platinum coin shifted against the linen.
She had never spent it. She had never cashed it. She just kept it in her pocket like an ordinary shiny stone, leaving Arthur ten thousand credits in the red for the privilege of handing her caramel on demand.
It's my loss, Arthur thought, a quiet amusement surfacing beneath his practiced composure.
Across the cluttered floor, Cyril had already taken Celeste's barked command with total, dutiful seriousness. Having navigated around the rosewood vanity, the fourteen-year-old was currently locked in a physical struggle with the nearest colossal portrait. The heavy, gilded oak frame stood a good head taller than he was and stretched twice his shoulder width. Cyril's slender arms strained against the carved molding, his white cotton robes bunching at his shoulders as the massive slab of wood and lacquered canvas tilted forward, teetering on the verge of toppling straight over him.
Celeste, having scrambled off the mattress to linger nearby, hovered over the spectacle with her hands perched on her hips, fully prepared to offer more chaotic commentary.
Arthur stepped in before the frame could crush the boy.
Moving with practiced ease, Arthur caught Celeste by the shoulder with an open palm and gave her a firm, casual shove sideways, sending her tumbling onto an untidy heap of velvet gowns resting on the floorboards.
"Stop," Arthur said, his voice laced with dry amusement.
In the same fluid stride, Arthur reached out and caught the top edge of the falling canvas with one hand, arresting its downward momentum without breaking a sweat. With his other hand, he gently nudged Cyril's arm aside, guiding the younger boy backward out of harm's way.
"You're too heartless with your demands, my lady—Cyril doesn't have integrated circuits," Arthur chided lightly, casting an easy, teasing glance down at her. "Please let me handle it instead."
Celeste, still chewing enthusiastically on her caramel stick, pushed herself up from the tangled heap of dresses. Shaking the loose teal locks from her face, she picked herself off the ground and dusted her knees with utter indifference.
"It's fine if it breaks, but you can do whatever you want," she said, placing a pointed emphasis on the word as she stared directly at his eyes.
Arthur smiled warmly. "Understood."
He eased the colossal painting upright, setting the gilded base firmly back against the rosewood skirting before turning his attention back to Cyril. The boy was looking down at his palms, which were lightly coated in wood dust and aged lacquer, though his pristine robes had somehow survived unsoiled.
"Great!" Arthur said, his tone shifting into the bright, encouraging cadence of an attentive senior. "I'll handle the heavy stuff, while you can help with the rest. But first, let's get you changed—we wouldn't want to get your white gown dirty. I have a set of clothes from first semester in my room that should be your size."
Cyril smoothed a hand over the rough-spun cotton across his chest.
I'm fine wearing this, he thought, having lived his entire life in identical ascetic cloth. Yet, as his crimson eyes met Arthur's open, reassuring expression, a quiet flicker of curiosity stirred in his chest. I wonder what mentor's room looks like.
Nodding slightly, Cyril lowered his hands and fell in behind him. I'll follow him.
With a parting wave from Celeste—who had already lost interest and was happily digging for her second caramel stick—the two stepped out of the chaotic chamber, pulling the heavy oak doors shut and making their way down the quiet gallery.