The morning is bright but cool. It's just perfect for jogging. I take my normal route toward the village. There are only a few maids going to milk cows on the nearby field. People don't know what they are missing with these early mornings. The birds, the sun, the green forest. It's all at its best at this time of day.
I notice that I jog a bit slower than usually just to enjoy the moment. No sweat-drowning today. Or the whole week. Things are going smoothly for a change. It's good though that I know how to push away disturbing thoughts. There are few problems that are not alleviated by sweat.
I jog past the temple. Merchants are putting up their booths at the market square. I hope no strawberry sellers show up in our town any more. There should be better organised police in this country. How could a merchant slip from their hands like that? They must have missed something, or did not ask the right people, or the right way. I bet the police does not know how to do detective work. Chief Wismuth is not the sharpest pencil in the bag.
Fortunately my detective work is making progress. The file is really informative and opened up a whole new avenue of research. It is good to be respected in the Royal Library. Otherwise they would definitely not lent that file to me. The Great Battle does indeed look different in the new light. It was not just a random act of brutality, but rather a subtle and carefully planned series of actions. Well, even careful planning does not always yield what is expected.
Now that I have been able to make these connections, the history of the Great Battle will get new chapters. The material is rich enough even for a whole book. That is something; new books on such an important topic are not seen every year. Most books nowadays are either frivolous or weak in expression. Could the new book be even taught in schools? That would really be something.
Who would have thought that a young lady from a noble family would be such a centrepiece in this historical chain of events? Nothing like that was expected from her. Well, she was undoubtedly intelligent, but her family was guiding her toward international career. Ambassador's wife, that was his father's plan. And why not? Good manners, fluent skills in four languages - or was it also Flambish, I have to check - and socially active. Oh, young Mr Umbershire must have been thrilled when the families started discussions about engagement. He had already graduated and had his degree in both political sciences and international trade, also an impressive merit at the age of 25. And then this charming girl from one of the most respectful families in the country accepted the invitation to date. With such good support from both families and very positive progress, he must have been devastated when it all failed in such a bizarre way.
I must ask for audience to Mr Umbershire as soon as he visits the country. Although it must have been awful at the time, I am pretty sure that afterwards he has been quite happy that he did not marry Mary Shannon. Although he might not want to talk about those days, I am pretty sure he knows many things about the events of that year, events not described in my file.
Ah, this was good jogging. Food for soul and body. And a new, carefully thought action point to my task list, as should be. And as should be, time for shower.
While combing my hair in front of the bathroom mirror, I notice that my moustache have grown. It must be the age, they grow faster now. It has been enough to trim them on Sundays. I suppose that I'll have to start trimming them on Thursdays as well.
~x~
When I walk to the school, I see a snake curled on top of a boulder just beside the road. It looks like a common viper, but something draws my attention. The morning is still cool, and the rock is on the shadowy side of the road. Vipers are bashful and they only come to visible places to warm up.
"Viper piper sit on a rock.
Turn east and west like a cock.
Tell us fortunes don't be shy
Help us with your allseeing eye."
It's funny how this western children's riddle comes to my mind. The snake is not turning around but lying very still just like snakes do.
The door to the principal's office is open when I walk by toward my own classroom.
"Good morning, Almeron", I say.
"Good morning, Herbert. Remember that it's you turn to present the teacher's digest in the Friday meeting."
"I certainly do. See you then."
I walk to my classroom and organise some books for a group work for the classes. It takes some time to find good chapters about which interesting topics can be given to the students. They are too picky nowadays in my opinion, do not get interested in questions for which they do not see immediate relevance for the present. They do not understand the complex fabric of events and underlying causes. And especially they do not understand the effort of searching, finding, and organising tiny pieces of information and subsequent joy when they click into their correct places. Recently I have had a lot of that joy as my file has been very informative of my new friend Mary Sharon Shannon. The file is a cornucopia of unknown underlying causes of events that have been widely known but not properly understood. It is also remarkable how unpleasant was the way to make such a pleasant discovery.
The students start coming in and distract my train of thoughts.
"Good morning, professor Cole."
Indeed, if we hadn't had that appalling discussion with Osborn Woodsham, I would probably never found out that the famous rebel and sorcerer leader Archibald Rey's widow Sharon Rey was born with the name Mary Sharon Shannon and is a sister to duchess Woodsham, young Mr Woodsham mother. I'm not surprised that the family is taking great effort to keep this information hidden.
~x~
After the class I file the books back to their correct places on the shelves. I also organise some of my papers so that when I have time for research, I can focus on substance rather than cleaning. I go for lunch a bit late and in the front hall it takes me several seconds to realise how unfortunate that decision was. The bulletin board is fully covered with posters of Geltoech's masks. Everyone has passed here before me and seen these. What is this? I rush to the bulletin board and tear all posters down in rage. This must not happen in our school! This must end!
_____________________________________
OK, featuring a new narrator. I hope I was able to answer some questions and open a few new avenues of drama.
Your next topic: club (with two different interpretations)
Dad out.
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