On Wednesday morning, Mira asked why people put letters in envelopes if they wanted someone to read them.
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“So the right person reads them,” I said, trying to butter bread with a knife that had somehow acquired a bend overnight.
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“Then how does the letter know?”
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“It doesn't. The person delivering it reads the name.”
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She thought about that while I wrapped her lunch. “What if they can't read?”
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“Then they ask someone who can.”
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“Would you help?”
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“Of course.”
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She nodded, but she didn't go back to breakfast. Instead she picked at the corner of Sir Flopsy's little bag. I had begun to recognize that particular silence. It usually meant she'd asked a smaller question to make room for a larger one.
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“Mommy sent a letter?”
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“She was going to write one last night.”
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“To Grandpa?”
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“Yes.”
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“Does he know me?”
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The knife slipped against the plate. I put it down before it could do anything worse. “Not yet, sweetheart. Your mother is telling him some important things. She'll decide how to explain the rest.”
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Mira looked at her bread. “He likes presents.”
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“Does he?”
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“He says he doesn't, but he keeps them.”
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I wanted to ask what she remembered about him. Instead I found a clean piece of paper and gave it to her. “You can draw him something, if you want. We don't have to send it today.”
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She drew while I ate the piece of bread I'd ruined. It tasted mostly of butter, which was better than the alternative.
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***
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Evelyn was waiting near the academy's east stairs. She had a book open but hadn't turned the page by the time I reached her.
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“Morning.”
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“Good morning.” She closed it, keeping a finger between the pages. “I wrote to him.”
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I stopped beside her. “How did it go?”
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“The writing or the sending?”
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“Either.”
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“The writing took four attempts. I sent the third.”
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“Why not the fourth?”
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“It sounded like a formal complaint against my own father.” She gave a tired little smile. “I was angrier than I thought.”
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We moved out of the way of two students carrying a crate of practice crystals. I wanted to ask exactly what she'd written, then decided that would make her explain herself twice in less than twelve hours.
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“Did you sleep?” I asked.
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“A little. Have you eaten?”
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“Yes.”
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“Something besides bread?”
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I looked at her. “Mira's been telling you things.”
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“She worries about you.”
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“So do you, apparently.”
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“Yes.” She said it without smiling, and I had to look away for a moment. “He may reply quickly. He may take a few days. I don't know which I'd prefer.”
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“Do you want to talk about it after class?”
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“I'd like that. Not about the letter all afternoon, though.”
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“Good. I have a whole list of other things to be anxious about.”
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She laughed, once, and took my hand before we went inside.
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***
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Halden had already begun sorting the seminar feedback. Most of it was ordinary: requests for clearer diagrams, a question about mana expenditure, two invitations to repeat the stationary demonstration for smaller groups. One visitor had written that the comparison would be more convincing with a larger sample. He was right.
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“Arden asked for a copy of the approved summary,” Halden said. “I sent the same version everyone else receives.”
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“Did she leave an institution for the record?” I asked.
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“No. Independent observer, as we discussed.” He glanced up. “Is there a problem?”
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“No. I asked her yesterday and she referred me to you.”
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“Then she followed the arrangement.” Halden handed me a stack of forms. “You two have enough work without investigating the audience.”
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I took the forms. It was irritating when a professor made sense before I'd finished worrying.
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The new work concerned the question Arden had raised. Halden wanted a proposal for measuring force transmitted into the protected space, not another attempt to make the barrier survive longer. We weren't to use a living subject. Nessa suggested a suspended indicator plate behind a low-power shield; Evelyn pointed out that its supports might absorb part of the impact and distort the result.
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“Then we measure the supports too,” I said.
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“We'd have to,” Nessa replied. “And if the plate swings into the shield, I stop the test.”
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Halden wrote that down. For the first time all morning, the problem felt like something I could work on rather than something waiting to happen to me.
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***
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At midday I went to the archive to confirm Thursday's appointment. Miss Vale had the letter's condition record open on her desk, with a blank space reserved for its condition after transport. The rigid folder stood upright in a locked cabinet behind her.
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“The specialist has agreed to the restrictions,” she said. “Angled light, visual comparison, no removal of material. If they suggest anything else, we stop and discuss it before proceeding.”
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“Will they ask where we found it?”
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“Probably. You may say it belongs to a family member and that the circumstances are private.” She examined me over her spectacles. “That isn't a guarantee they won't be curious.”
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“I know.”
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“You can also let me answer questions about the object. That is why I'm attending.”
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I thanked her. She returned to her records, but called me back before I reached the door.
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“Adrian. Don't bring a story you feel obliged to defend. Bring the letter.”
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It took me a moment to understand what she meant. I had been preparing explanations for questions nobody had asked. Miss Vale had prepared a folder.
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***
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Lina arrived at tutoring with two sheets of calculations and an expression that suggested one of them had personally betrayed her. Tomas came five minutes later, out of breath and apologizing before he reached the door.
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“It's still your individual session,” I told Lina. “Tomas is here for the shared exercise at the end.”
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“I know. He said he wanted to see how I fixed the reset.”
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“I do,” Tomas said. “Mine keeps slipping.”
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We spent most of Lina's time on the same mistake from Monday, but it wasn't quite the same mistake anymore. She'd corrected the interval and was now compensating too early, before the channels had settled. When I asked her to explain what she expected the second impact to do, she stopped halfway through the answer.
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“Oh.”
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“Found it?”
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“I think so. I kept solving the problem I had yesterday.”
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I knew the feeling.
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During the shared exercise, Tomas caught his own shoulder lifting before the impact. Lina waited for the reset instead of rushing it. They each managed the sequence once, then failed on the next attempt. Neither seemed particularly discouraged.
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“Can we do this again on Friday?” Tomas asked.
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“I need to check the room schedule.” I wrote the request down rather than agreeing immediately. “If Halden approves it, yes. The individual lessons stay separate.”
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After they left, I counted the tutoring payment and put it in the envelope marked RENT. I still had to pay for groceries. The bread Evelyn had brought last night was helping more than I'd admitted, but I didn't want to make her generosity part of my budget.
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***
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I found Evelyn in the courtyard after her last class. She was sitting on the low wall with her gloves beside her, watching a pair of students try to carry a large chalkboard through a narrow doorway. Neither had thought to turn it sideways.
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“Did you help?” I asked.
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“They've nearly worked it out.”
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One of the students turned the board. They both looked offended by how easily it fit.
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Evelyn moved her gloves so I could sit. For a while we watched people cross the courtyard. I told her about Lina and Tomas, then about Miss Vale's arrangements. She listened without asking whether I was avoiding the subject of her father. I was, a little. She had asked not to spend the whole afternoon on the letter.
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Eventually she said, “I told him I care about you.”
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I turned toward her.
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“In the letter. I didn't describe you as a research partner or a friend whose company I enjoy. I used your name.”
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“Thank you.” It came out too quietly. “I mean—thank you for telling me.”
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“I also told him I won't agree to an engagement he arranges without speaking to me.”
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I hadn't known whether there was an engagement under discussion. I was afraid to ask, and she noticed.
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“There isn't one,” she said. “Not that I know of. I wanted to be clear before there could be.”
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“That sounds reasonable.”
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“It sounded less reasonable on the fourth draft.”
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I looked at her hands. “Are you frightened of his answer?”
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“Yes.” She pulled on one glove, then took it off again. “And I'm angry that I'm frightened. He loves me. I know that. I wish I could be sure he'll listen.”
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I didn't have an answer that would make those things fit together. I held out my hand, and after a moment she took it.
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***
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Mira had finished her drawing by the time I collected her. She showed it to me on the walk home: a man in a long coat holding Sir Flopsy by one ear. Beside him she'd drawn a small square that might have been a window or a parcel.
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“Is this your grandfather?”
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“Mhm. He has a garden with white stones. He says I shouldn't run on them.”
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“Because they're slippery?”
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“Because I fall.”
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I stopped myself from asking when she'd fallen, or where, or whether it was before the night she came to us. She had offered a memory, not an invitation to turn the walk home into an interview.
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“Would you like me to show Mommy?” I asked.
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“Yes. But not until she's happy.”
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I folded the drawing carefully. “We can ask her when she'd like to see it.”
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That evening, after supper, Mira made a place for it beside the drawings on our wall. She didn't ask whether a reply had arrived. I didn't tell her that I had checked the hallway twice for a messenger who had no reason to come to my address.
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Before bed, she pointed to the little square in the picture.
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“That's where he keeps the presents,” she said.
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“Your grandfather?”
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She nodded. “He says they're not presents until you give them.”
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I tucked the blanket around her and left the drawing where she could see it. Tomorrow we would examine the letter she'd carried out of the future. Tonight, I was glad she'd remembered something from that future that hadn't frightened her.