***

As much as Lawrence wished he could continue his investigation of the place, he needed to attend his lessons as a conscious and hardworking Veridien student. He couldn’t say he was surprised to discover that the usual suspects attended Latin, just like him. With the exception of that fond smile that had sent his heart fluttering and beating too loudly, Bastien had returned to ignoring him as if he didn’t even exist. The Golden Circle flanked him from all sides, protecting their commander.

If Lukas got the same treatment from Bastien, no wonder he was unhappy, Lawrence thought without humor. That was unfair, of course, and crude beyond comprehension, because he was usually so objective about everything, but he was experiencing torture that couldn’t be explained or named.

Professor Moreau jumped straight into the lesson, without calling attendance or even sparing his students more than a perfunctory glance. An old chapter house served as the room for Latin lessons, and the long sturdy desks, although polished to a gleam, carried the battle scars of the many generations that might have poured their souls over the study of a dead language, whether they loved or hated it.

Lawrence studied a long dent in the wood, while struggling to focus on the professor and his words.

The Latin professor wore a coat that could’ve fit a man two sizes shorter and less wide. His small, round glasses had a tendency to slip on his small nose, and he appeared to fight the section he was reading. He held his arms, too short to go round the generous belly, tight against his body, and swayed on his feet, as if the heroic texts he was perusing were enough to provide him with the exaltation needed to propel him into real action.

“You are the new arrival.” Professor Moreau brandished his book at Lawrence. “Let’s see how well you prepared.”

That was all the distraction he needed from thinking about the main suspect too much. Lawrence accepted the proffered textbook and started reading out loud. Following the professor’s cues, he proceeded next to translate the section. Easy at first glance, the text was actually littered with traps.

Each day at Veridien was meant as a trap if he thought more.

Overly conscious of all the eyes watching him, and all the ears listening his words, he navigated the treacherous waters. A few hesitations, carefully planted to justify that Lawrence was, indeed, only a transfer student from ‘the outside’ appeared to satisfy the professor, more so than the new addition’s capacity to actually provide a proper translation.

No words of praise came once he was done, but Lawrence wasn’t expecting them anyway. Professor Moreau moved to other students, each of them showing different degrees of competence. Lawrence listened intently; after all, he was more than interested in hearing the Golden Circle and seeing if they lived up to the reputation.

And they did, of course. But none as much as Bastien. The ancient language rolled off his tongue, as if the Hawthorne heir was an Imperator himself, or a descendant from one. There were no hesitations in his pronunciation, no double-takes.

If Lawrence needed another damn reason to admire the young man, now he had one.

***

“Where did you learn?” Professor Moreau asked. He had told Lawrence to stay behind, while the other students hurried to their other lessons. Bastien didn’t glance in his direction once. Again, Lawrence was as good as invisible to the mercurial heir.

“I was taught early,” Lawrence replied courteously. “Good instruction and regular practice are both responsible. I make it a point not to waste my teachers’ efforts.”

Moreau nodded slowly. His round beady eyes observed him with interest through the glasses; he tipped his head back slightly, as though the transparent lenses themselves mediated the exchange.

“You live by the principles, yes?”

Lawrence understood. Rigor, vitality, dedication. The classics were much revered here. “Yes, Sir. Ancient languages teach us more than immediate knowledge.”

“Physical instruction is just as important here, at Veridien,” Moreau said. “Formation, we’d rather call it.” He waved as if to dismiss an insect bothering him. “Not sport. Will you manage?”

“I believe so, Sir.”

“You do look strong. Don’t allow the other boys to intimidate you. They tend to be overbearing.” The Latin professor gave him an encouraging smile. “You’re not like them. That means they have reason to be suspicious of you, even fear you. Where are you from, Lawrence?”

He had all his lies prepared. He was from neither too far nor too close, not rich but not a pauper either. The only thing recommending him for attending Veridien and inhaling its rarefied air was his education, also half-fabricated.

Professor Moreau listened carefully without interrupting him, asking questions now and then. Unlike when he was interviewed by the Rector, Lawrence didn’t feel like he was being interrogated. Now that the other students had left, the Latin professor looked more relaxed and showed genuine interest in Lawrence.

“I myself didn’t attend any prestigious academy,” Moreau confessed. “But I love Latin, and here, they only hire the best in their fields. I might sound like I’m bragging.”

“Not at all, Professor,” Lawrence said, truly meaning it. “I’ve had the honor of attending your first lesson today. While my opinion might not amount to much,” he added to show the kind of courtesy that made a good impression on people with a love for teaching but also exhibiting a healthy approach to modesty, “I must say that it was interesting and challenging.”

Moreau’s eyes, for all that they could, grew wide. “Thank you, dear boy. It is not often that students here express their appreciation for what they’re being taught. Everything is, let’s say, given to them.”

Lawrence didn’t need additional clues to understand what the Latin professor meant by that. And there was more to Moreau than met the eye. This conversation – which the Latin professor didn’t need to have with the new arrival – changed Lawrence’s initial impression of the man. Moreau looked more like an ally than anyone else so far, and yes, that included Ali, too.

Because Lawrence sensed something in his Latin Professor, and that was the sign of the outsider. From his clothes and disheveled hair to his overly energetic manner for a man who didn’t appear keen on indulging in physical activities, he looked nothing like other Veridien staff. Even the servers wore neater attire and behaved in the spirit of the place, but Lawrence felt like he’d take his Latin professor over them any moment.

There was a fondness he didn’t usually feel toward strangers adjusting his impression of Professor Moreau.

“Veridien,” Moreau continued while resting his hand briefly on Lawrence’s shoulder, “rewards excellence, my boy. But don’t forget,” he let his voice drop a smidge, “that it punishes independence just the same.”

TBC