Tibby could have been later, but she certainly could have been more on time to her first ever class at Brunnhold. Books spilling out of her hand, an episcope being pulled in by a passive behind her and a light silk scraf billowing behind her she blustered into the lecture thatre like a light breeze.

A few of the chatting students stopped to look at her, while many didn’t- clearly under the impression that their particular conversation about so and sos trip to Mugroba during break took precedence over something as trivial as their education. Those closer stopped to peer at her face a little distastefully.

“Now the more astute members of the class will have noticed,” said Tibby, instructing the passive where to put the episcope with a small wave of her hand, making sure the projector was in line with the white screen at the front of the class. Projectors were apparently more widely used in Mers than in Brunnhold, but she’d aready prepared the slides and her hand did cramp so from too much writing. “I am not Professor Devut. You will have been informed that I am taking intermediate and advanced classes now, and no, nobody is here to talk about Amaline Devut’s…breakdown. So you can lower your hands immediatley. ”

A few dozen hands lowered slowly and Tibby stood behind her podium, licking her tumb to rifle through a few papers before smiling widely at the class.

“If you didn’t know me already, I am Professor Tabitha Gauchey. And from what I’ve gathered of Professor Devut’s style of teaching, you’ll be in for a lot more work with me.”

Ignoring the groans of the class, Tibby beamed as though she had just offered her students extra ice cream as opposed to extra homework. There were mutinous whispers and Tibby guessed that nicknames and possible offensive doodles were being thought up. It didn’t phase her though- she was confident that the class would be won over in the end.
The episcope was switched on to reveal the a slide of writing and their was a shuffling of papers and the sound of inkwells being filled in preparation to take notes.

“Now, for my expectations: each class I teach lasts precisely one hour, fourty five minutes. I however, spend an excess of eight hours planning for a lesson and I expect an intermediate to do a minimum of six hours reading preparation prior to my lectures….now…I know that seems rather a large ask, but I guarantee you with a well planned out study timetable the reading will done in no time at all, and you’ll have plenty of free time. The reading material will be mostly the same as the books Professor Devut set out for you, so there will be no need to run out and buy new textbooks- and anything that is not on Devut’s reading list but is on mine is easily accessed in the library.

As for written work, the intermediate ethics course is divided into four units for the rest of this school year (if you could, at the end of class take a course outline, you will be able to see this in full) and for each unit I will set three essays. You will have approximately a week to complete each essay I set. These are not optional and I expect them to be handed in promptly for marking. You should be prepared to read any one of these essays out to the class as it is likely I will call upon you to do so at least once during the school year.

On this course, eloquence is just as important as written ability and so I also require that each student in this class takes part in at least one oral presentation and one group debate. A list of all available presentation and debate topics will be handed out along with the unit guide. It is my aim to get through one debate and four oral presentations a week- excluding this one, and you can volunteer as many times as you like, though precedence will be given to those who have not spoken yet.

At the end of each unit there will be an assessment- this is simply to see where you are at with a particular subject and help with your study for finals. It will not make up any part of your final grade in ethics but a failing grade- that is one less than forty percent- will see you re-taking the examination in your free time after mandatory revision sessions with me to be held after the school day has finished. And of course, good result will make your ethics teacher rather happy.”

Students shook their hands out after making notes of Tibby’s requirements, already missing Devut, who was a much softer touch. But Tibby’s lessons had been carefully honed in Mers and, if she had nothing else going for her, though they demanded a lot from the students they got the most out of them.

“Before we begin, if there are any questions regarding the course, I’ll be happy to address them. And also, since I’ve told you all what I expect of you, perhaps a few members of the class would be kind enough to suggest what they expect of me and of any ethics teacher in order to see you all achieve your full potential on this particular course.”

Horace sat there, silent, like the majority of the class. He was content with going along with his Ethics course as if nothing had happened to last professor. But some people were never content unless their were insults involved. A eight former, by the name of Bernard Ogden, was one of these people. He sat directly to the right of Horace. His sharp, blonde features practically bled into his personality. He was always hoping to see someone cry, obviously a sociopath.

The blonde student leaned to Horace's ear. His mind cooking up a scheme to get either someone remanded or for the professor to cry. He truly was an evil genius.

"Horace, I have an idea."

With his head still facing the professor, his flicked his eyes to his right. "What, Ogden?"

With that, Ogden proceeded to spell out his plan to the gullible redhead. Horace was one to always please someone that could increase his social standing in the University. He believed Ogden was one that could do such a thing, so he decided to do as he was told.

Horace's hand shot up. Not waiting to be called on, he proceeded to ask his 'question'. "Excuse me, Professor, but what is that on your cheek?"

A dark smile formed on Ogden's face.

Tibby’s smile waned slightly as she looked carefully at the tallest boy in the room. “What’s your name?” she said looking towards him.

Moving out from behind the podium, Tibby leaned on to the table where the Episcope was placed, her two arms behind her. “I suppose I must reassure you all that I have not been eating bistleberries in a rather messy fashion, nor have I just done some form of murder and forgotten to wipe the blood of the wretched deceased from my face. It is a birthmark. And will be accompanying me to every one of your classes, so I suggest you get used to it.”

She rifled through that careful lesson plan as she leant, before putting it to one side. Those had always been Cleo's idea any way, and this was fun.

“But I believe our redheaded friend is quite concerned with my outward appearance, and some cultures would believe he was right to. There were a smattering of ancient systems that measured a man’s character, defined who was good in accordance to for example where a birthmark lay on the face or the height of a person."

"And it seems,” smiled Tibby, giving a hand to Horace as an actor might to the orchestra during a curtain call, “That we have an expert in our friend here. I wonder if you could enlighten us, young sir, on the Bastian movement cataloguing particular facial features to find corresponding character traits? Since you seem to be a rather staunch follower of it.”

A few members of the class blinked and wondered if they ought to be taking notes, it didn’t sound like anything that was on the sylabus. But Tibby was a woman who could go wonderfully off topic; her mind was so full of the broad spectrum of ethics that it was often difficult to confine herself to select units for the students.

Horace's eyes widened at his scolding. Why was he so gullible? He glared at Benard Ogden, who was snickering to himself. That laaugh always sounded like a crow choking. Horace wanted to wring the boy by his neck.

He glanced back at the professor, who was still waiting for a name. "Uh . . . my name is Horace Aquila." He could only supply a name, not a word on the subject of Bastian Ethics. "As for the subject you want me to astound the class with, I'm afraid I cannot. I haven't even heard of such a subject. Which is the entire reason I've chosen this course, to learn of such things. Would you mind explaining?" Where had that come from? He'd never spoken to a superior like that, Now compared to what other students said to professors, that was tame, but not for Horace.

After realizing his mistake, he abruptly hung his head. He didn't want to see her face after his little outburst.

Tibby nodded, “Well Mr. Aquila, next time you chose to ask such a question in my class I hope you will be able to qualify your outburst.”

But she shot him a small smile, to show there were no hard feelings, as if to say 'no harm done, it was only a matter of time before somebody asked'

“Anthroposcopy,” said Tibby placing her hands flat on the desk, “is the assessment of a person’s character by their physical characteristics. It was widely popular in early Bastian cultures but fell into disrepute several hundred years ago for being, in part, practiced by shysters and vagabonds and in part for being a load of old guff.”

Tapping her cheek, she easily recalled the information from those ethical textbooks stored inside of her mind. “In answer to your question, Mr. Aquila, ‘what’s that on my face’ an ancient Bastian might say that it was an indication of my character. According to Anthroposcopy a birthmark on the right cheek indicates ‘A quiet woman, one who is a little bit stupid, and has difficulty solving any sort of problems. The woman with the birthmark is lazy, and neither brave nor kind to others but what she really loves is sex,” Tibby’s eyes sparkled as members of the class tittered, nervously. “I’ll leave the judgments of that up to you. But the idea has long fallen out of popularity and is widely discredited.”

She leaned on the desk, “But it is interesting of course, to study where ancient cultures drew their values from. They suggest that our values can be found in our facial features and that therefore man must be born with an inherent moral coda- without the influence of outside sources.”

Throwing a piece of chalk in the air and catching it excitedly, Tibby flitted over to the chalk board. “Ethical intuitionism” she wrote in swirling, looping letters. “we sometimes have intuitive awareness of value, or intuitive knowledge of evaluative facts, which forms the foundation of our ethical knowledge.”

“Ethical intuitionism is a theory that states that man has a priori knowledge of moral values. To put it simply, we just know. We just know what right and wrong is. Regardless of outside information. Regardless of analyzing other systems of what makes good and bad, Hedonism, Utilitarianism and Egoism all put to one side.”

“There are of course many arguments against such a theory but it is supported too,” Tibby smiled and studied the chalk once more, fiddling it between her fingers and when she spoke again it was with a hushed, reverential voice. “The mona. These sentient particles that make up everything, that existed time immemorial, before you and I were born, before textbooks and tomes there was the mona. It works through us, we feel it around us and the mona has it’s own will. The mona simply knows. And as the galdori, the mona sure as shoot communicates this knowledge with us.”

She smiled, “Now, I’m sure every single student in this room knows the noble uses like the back of their hand. But let’s refresh out memory shall we... anyone?”

"The Noble Uses . . . " Horace's voice rang around the room. This was his chance to redeem himself and his idiotic remark. Thank Alioe, she started with the Noble Uses. Horace knew them frontwards, backwards, by heart, and maybe even upside down.

"They are the set of rules laid out for us. They govern our limitations in magic. They tell us only to call upon the mona for knowledge, conquest, and glorification of the Gods." A smug smiled formed upon Horace's face. Magic, like music, was second nature to the young Anaxi. He reveled in boasting of his skill, no matter how subtle the boasting was.

"Of course, if we do not abide by these rules, the mona would not be pleased. They would be furious, as they should, and we would be no better than . . . wicks." A slight murmur broke out in the class. Students were notorious for pushing the limits of the Uses. Most of the students had probably had some mild backlash once or twice for not following the rules. Horace was an exception to this. He was one of those students who wouldn't even cast ignite if it didn't qualify under one of the Uses. So he sat there, silent, waiting for the professor to proceed.

“Thank you Mr Aquila,” said Tibby, scrawling the noble uses onto the board and underlining ‘noble’ several times.

“Now, of course, it was the galdori who gave this criterion the title of ‘noble’, which to many is synonymous with good suggesting that in our society to please the mona and to live ethically fall under the same umberella. The noble uses provide limitations on our use of magic, the mona sees to it that we do not abuse our powers- and gives us some insight into what it means to be good for most galdori.”

She underlined noble once more for good measure and tapped her finger on knowledge. “We can apply the noble uses to ethical dilemmas in our lives- from the pursuit of knowledge comes Intellectualism, which indicates that the best action in a situation is the one that best fosters and promotes knowledge. Within conquest comes Egoism, the belief that the moral person is the self-interested person, holds that an action is right if it maximizes good for the self. And by glorifying the gods, we ought to act in a way that best reflects the wills of the gods- the moral person will always seek to appease the gods."

“We only have to looks around the walls of this university to see that the noble uses are in action, specifically intellectualism. All galdori children have the right to an education, our society fosters and promotes knowledge to a high degree,” she picked up a book as though to illustrate the point. “We draw many values from the noble uses. Just as the Bastians once saw their values in the faces of others.”

“But who agrees with Ethical intuitionism- not just in the mona- but in man too? Who believes that as a whole our instincts govern what we perceive as right and wrong? We can argue that only through trial and error have the galdori learnt of the noble uses, that we allowed the mona to shape them for us and did not garner this knowledge a priori. We are governed by social structures, we draw our values from many other places.”

“I want you all to get out a piece of paper and draw a circle, divide that circle into the parts you believe you gained your own sense of right and wrong from. You can include the law, the noble uses that we discussed, your parents, anything you like. How much we can put down to pure intuition had how much is a direct influence of our upbringing is entirely debatable. “

Horace reached into his leather satchel and pulled out a piece of parchment. He was already pleased with this new professor. She taught in such an illuminating way, it simply astonished him. This idea is great, he thought while drawing the circle. The circle was easy, though dividing it up was the hard part.

There was too many influences in young Horace's life. He quickly narrowed down his choices though. He chose his parents, Brunnhold, the government, and inborn reasoning. After a few moments of thinking, it finally hit him. He would split the circle four ways. He put his parents in the top left, Brunnhold in the top right, the government in the bottom left, and reasoning in the remaining space.

Because of such a simple circle, Horace was one of the first ones finished. He glanced around the hall, eying the other students. Ogden's circle was still blank and another student had too many slice to make sense out of. Then Horace was back to watching and waiting for the professor.

“Now, What differences do you notice do you notice between other member’s of the class and their charts and yours. When you look at your diagram, do you think this chart would have been different when you were ten years younger? What about when you are ten years older? Do you think you would adhere to any ‘moral code’ had these influences not existed?”

She paused to allow the class to think, “The idea that virtues and goodness can be taught is a classical philosophy originating in Anaxas,” Tibby chuckled, “Where else of course? The textbook Principia Ethica outlines chapter 6. It contains a dialogue by the early philosopher Sigwick contemplating the notion that virtue is indeed taught and- and, I’m hinting strongly here, it may come up in your finals- so read it, learn it, know it.”

Tibby returned to the chalk board, “In preparation for the next class I’d like you to read Chapter 6 of Principia Ethica, and Chapter 2 of Ethics in action- and they are on your set reading list, I’ve checked. Also answer these questions for a class discussion on the dialogue"

Glancing at a paper she had prepared before the class, Tibby wrote down the questions, shaking her hand as it began to cramp up- bloody chalk boards.

1. Outline the text’s first and second arguments for holding that virtue cannot be taught? Does Sigwick accept the premises? If not, why do you think he makes the argument?

2. How does the author use our practice of blame and punishment as evidence for his view?

3. What is the argument for holding that justice and piety are the same thing and for holding that wisdom and temperance are the same thing?

"I expect these answers to be written up fully and explored in depth- at least a page for each question please, and don’t think if you don’t raise your hand I won’t call on you- I will call on anyone I wish at random. If you have any difficulty do come and see me because I won’t accept not understanding the text as an excuse unless you do ask for help. And that's in for...”

Tibby flicked her timetable and ran a finger down the page, "the day after tomorrow. Lovely." There were some conspiratorial groans since the last professor usually waited a whole week between setting an assignment and taking it in.

Tibby waited for the class to write the assignment down before shuffling her papers, “I believe that’s time class unless there are any questions.”

Eden never really had anyone to talk to at Brunnhold. There were some lower years on the rowing team that liked him fine, some upper years too (maybe they liked his arms more than they liked him, but they didn't mention how silly his hair was or how funny his eyes went sometimes -- and that was a start). But about serious things, truly and epically life-teetering-on-the-precipice-of-everything things, there was no one to seek counsel from. It was quite a funny conundrum. Morally and physically. Not to mention that he had quite on accident found himself in a lecture hall with a demon every afterlunch since break.

Stupid break. Stupid Cartographer's Convention. Stupid Hamis.

Miss Gauchey's lecture hall was blessedly gushing out students. Who else could he go to? The woman seemed to know all sorts of things about all sorts of ethical quandries. And, most of all, she didn't know his parents. That was the most important bit. All this scribbling pages upon pages in his little journal wasn't quite doing it. Eden, in his advancing years, was very much starting to question the total law of his mother's opinions. Very meekly, cautiously, but he was poking pinprick holes in her logic. A bit. A little bit. A scholarly opinion couldn't hurt.

Eden weaved through the outpour of students, deftly as he could around an armful of books (which wasn't much), and peeked into the classroom. They were a few stragglers and...oh, Ophur. Oh, Alioe, it was that too tall Anaxi thing that snubbed him in that beastly old man's class. Eden's hand tensed around a ludicrously large engineering tome clutched to his chest. The desire to chuck it across the lecture hall was very strong, but Eden was a very good boy. He didn't. He exhibited self-control, which was something his mother said he'd extraordinarily lacked over Hamis break.

"Ah, excuse me!" Eden called over the echoing drone of mumbling students and rattling chairs. "Um...Miss Gauchey? May I...ah..." he chewed on his lip and stared sullenly at the floor, as if the words he wanted were written there. "May I speak with you, um...after class? It's of relatively high importance. Um. I guess."

Horace decided to stay after class and ask the professor a few questions; as well as apologize for his 'outburst' at the beginning of class. He was quite ashamed for succumbing to Ogden's trick, but he knew he would live and forget. Besides, the class was one of his favorite and he preferred Professor Gauchey to the previous one. She was witty, bright, and . . . pretty good looking; except for the red splash across her face.

Finally gathering everything into his satchel, Horace made his way to the professor. He walked up behind her, while she was talking to some young Hessean - the Hessean from anthropology. Horace tried to recall his name. His memory banks were a bit full, so it took a minute for the redhead to remember - Edenai! His name was Edenai! Professor Sturmvos seemed to dislike the poor boy very much.

"Um . . . Professor Gauchey? After you are done conversing with Edenai, may I have a word?"

Tibby tried to place the Hessean student who approached her after class, finding all of these new faces merging into lumps even awkward Hessean faces with such large tufts of flaxen hair. What was not hard to place, however, was the look on his face- the obvious look of a boy reluctantly looking for a slice of good advice. Perching on the edge of the desk on the stage, she nodded at the young man ready to listen to what he said, imagining his problems in that wildly melodramatic way that her mind seemed to do.

But before the boy could unburden himself on tales of sordid under aged love affairs, or bitter rivalries and duels at dawn the voice of Mr Aquila, guest star of Tibby’s lecture piped up, also requesting an audience with her. Looking at the Hessean boy, what did Aquila call him…Edendai was is…Tibby guessed that his problem was more pressing, more private. Grinning at the two men, she stood up and smiled.

“Well I seem to be quite popular this period. And just what I was hoping for….two strapping young men,” she walked over to the episcope on the stage and beckoned the two boys forwards, “If you don’t mind, the passives who helped me get this into the lecture room seemed to have vanished and I need someone to help me get this back to my office. If you’d be so kind, Mr Aquila and Mr…I’m sorry I don’t know your name yet, I would appreciate it greatly. And you can talk to me on the way if you feel comfortable, or in my office, which is nice and private.”

She gave Eden a pointed smile, “I have biscuits. And tea, if you drink the dreadful stuff.”

Eden didn't much enjoy being called 'strapping' by anyone, and his crinkled nose broadcasted as much. It was something only his mother said, or perhaps his grandmother, followed by an all too affectionate rumple of his hair. Much less did anybody ever call him a man. Sixteen didn't feel too much bigger than fifteen after all.

"I...sure," he mumbled. "My name is Edenai Andriocus Aiello, Professor Gauchey. I'm...um...in one of your early morning classes." Being forgettable was his one mercy. Lingering in the farthest reaches of the lecture hall with his nose buried in books and doodles was good for going unnoticed. Eden's look flickering from sullen to one of deep concern when he gave great black episcope a once over. He rubbed his arms skeptically, doubting if they were up to such as task, even though all they did lately was grow and grow and get awkward sketch marks.

His skin felt all hot and too tight, and he really and truly wished that gangly Horace-thing would just up and leave already. Toddle off to go lick his textbooks or whatever it was he did all day. The whole dirty business was mortifying enough as it stood -- Eden didn't need some boy hovering and even eavesdropping for all of it.

With a sigh, Eden slid his hands experimently under the huge metal chassis, taking the hind end with all those spiny looking bobs. They dug into his chest and it hurt, sure, but he didn't want to handle that delicate looking lens on the opposite end. He leveled a brief glower on Horace before shifting his gaze up to Proffessor Gauchey over the edge of the episcope. Not a glower, then -- more like beseeching, more like gods, for the love of everything golden and shiny, can't you make him leave? It also could've said something like no, I'm not comfortable talking about this anyplace at all, much less in a lecture hall with some jug-eared genius creature.

"Do you plan on helping, Horace?" Eden asked the episcope.

Horace quickly fastened his satchel to prevent it from falling off and grabbed the other side of the episcope; otherwise known as the beast. After struggling for a moment, he finally gained his footing and could carry the best with (what some people would call) ease.

"Of course I have - " He exhaled, beginning to breathe deeper. The episcope seemed to be getting heavier. " - it, Edenai." The redhead smiled at the boy and then gave his attention to the professor. "Don't worry, Professor Gauchey, I won't take much of your time. I just have a few general questions about today's class."

With every step, the episcope became increasingly heavier. Horace wished he had some athletic ability. He could always join the rowing team; how hard would it be to steer a boat?

"You alright, back there Edenai? Is it getting heavy?" He said, strenuously.

“My heroes,” smiled Tibby, clapping her hands together, “Don’t worry, my office isn’t too far from the lecture theatre.” Taking her books and notes in her arms, she strode out of the door with that fast confident gait. Luckily for Eden and Horace, Tibby was not using her characteristic embellishment and her office really was very close to the lecture hall- Tibby had been very lucky to snag it and mercifully not up the largest flight of stairs.

She reached into her jacket pocket and slid her key into the door, gesturing for the boys to enter. The same bare breasted Mugroba she’d always had peered out at the boys, now with a new friend, an artful spectrograph of a nude woman- possibly wick from the wild arrangement of the hair, she was solid and pale as the moon in winter, bent over in a way that hid her modesty, but it was all pretty obvious that’s why Tibby liked it.

Toying with a phonographic record, she finally set it to play and after a short while a jazzy tune crackled into audibility, like the sound of a trumpet playing through thick mist and a cheery sort of chap warbling about his remarkable girl. “I must apologize,” smiled Tibby, “I simply can’t come back from a lecture and not play my records. You like it?” A tuba rumbled behind Tibby as she slapped her books on the desk. “Episcope over by that phallic object, if you please boys,” she said pointing to one of her fertility symbols on a side desk.

“Now, let’s see what we can do about tea and about your questions regarding my lecture Mr. Aquila. Christine dear! Oh Christine would you get us some tea and some of those nice biscuits, the rich teas and the chocolate bourbons…oh and some custard creams, since I’m in such a wicked mood.”

Oh, this room did not make him feel any less royally uncomfortable. Not a bit. Eden's already ludicrously big eyes flared to the size of teacup saucers. All sorts of unseemly things were littered about the room. The look he gave Professor Gauchey was one of utter disbelief. Why, oh why, did this have to be here of all...

If he'd been a very good patrician boy -- and he wanted to be, very very badly -- he would have kept his eyes on the tasteful carpets, set the episcope down and marched out of such a lewd place. But Eden couldn't move towards the table at all, for a moment. Big golden eyes pinging off all the dirty pieces of work like shot marbles.

"Um," he said.

It was all so distracting, Eden didn't notice he'd heaved the beastly episcope out of Horace's arms for the last few steps. The episcope slammed down onto the table, not quite on purpose, and he stood huddled into himself and blinking down at the -- what did she call it? -- phallic object as if it were some horrible insect that wanted to sting him. He tore his gaze away, hoping it would land on something safer. It landed on that brown breasted Mugrobi girl, and she was looking back at him.

"Um," he reiterated, a brown paw rubbing the nape of his neck, sheepish.

I'm in such a wicked mood, she'd said. Wicked was right. Every spark of oddness that was firing off in his brain was unfamiliar and unwelcome. Cirrusy brows knit in consternation, because he really did wish he'd stop looking. His mother would probably cry if saw him looking at things like this! And chocolate bourbon, no less. Wicked indeed.

"I don't want -- um." Words fizzled up fast like sparklers; he sank deeper into his sulk, blinking sullenly at Akua with her browness and breastedness. Let the horrible-face passive girl come back. At least that could distract him.

Eden hoped Horace could talk fast.

Horace refrained from blurting out what any seventeen year old male was conditioned to do at the site of fertility objects and phallic pieces. He quickly put his hand in his pocket and pinched his thigh. Whenever a situation turned to the odd and uncomfortable, Horace had to pinch his thigh. It was something he had done from an yearly age and never out grew it.

Finally, being released from the phallic fog, Horace regained his head and knew what he was doing. "Oh, don't worry, Professor Gauchey. I won't take long, I just have a few questions about today's class." Horace smiled, softly. The awkward level seemed to decreased with each moment. He almost forgot that Edenai was in the room.

"Do you mind if I sit down though? I would feel more comfortable that way. I always feel awkward speaking to a professor. I usually have to look down at them, which should never happen." Upon finishing the statement, Horace chuckled.

Tibby winced as her lovely projector was slammed into her desk. Honestly, these boys with their ungainly control of their own body, bashing into things, gripping pens like piikis dashing sticks against rocks it seemed as though the poor episcope was taking the brunt of the damage, “gently, please, gently,” Tibby chided softly, hand against her temple. “I know it looks like a big and brutish hulking great thing but it really is quite delicate. But thank you boys, nonetheless.”

Turning her attention back to Horace as he spoke, Tibby gave that tried and tested look of a deeply, deeply interested educator.

“I know of many students who take absolutely no mind in looking down upon their teachers, Mr. Aquila,” said Tibby taking the cup of coffee that a returning Christine placed silently in her hands. Creepy little passive, that one. “But we’ll sit nonetheless. Have a biscuit Mr. Aiello,” she said beaming at the really amusingly grumpy looking Hessean boy who was doing his best to look somewhere decent in her room. HA! Well fie to stuffy conventions, and fie to galdori concepts of decency it was all healthy natural exposure for young adults.

“But yes, the lecture- is it a problem with the assignment, or are you particularly interested in a certain topic? I have reams and reams of books in my private collection should you wish to borrow them. I’m sure I have something lying around on Anthroposcopy though I really must stress how useless it is as a theory.”

"I said I don't want anything," Eden huffed. This whole room was so unnerving and she had no reason to look so pleased about it. He was distinctly reminded of all the older boys, back in Mestigia, who'd pester him over dead animals. 'Straight intriguing, right?' they'd say, poking at some cart-squished hingle with their boots, all smilingly. No, no. It wasn't intriguing then and it wasn't now.

Stupid and bad, stupid breasts, stupid phallic thing, stupid naked spectrograph, stupid episcope, stupid Horace. And she was just smiling at him as if to say, Straight intriguing, right?

No, it was not.

He settled for scowling at the swirly arabesques in the carpet.

"If he's going to take too much time, I can just...leave, you know," he offered meekly. "It's not...not...not too important. Really. I'll just...um..." Eden was pointing over his shoulder to the exit, seemingly incapable of pronouncing words like 'tarry off' and 'depart' when his eyes pinged off Miss Gauchey's birthmark, off Christine's mashed up face, to the Mugrobi girl there on the sand again, all serene and pleasant with her breasts just there. Unfazed.

What a puzzling thing. What puzzled him more than the nakedness itself was how calm she was about it. Mugroba was a strange place, he decided, and he wasn't quite certain he ever wanted to go there. Endymion was unfathomably odd for liking Thul Amat so much, if all the girls tottered around like that. Maybe that's why he married that strange creature, Raha Raisu or something like that, with her strange double-name and riddle talk. Endymion was strange too, then. Strange like Mugroba.

"Why is she...?" Eden interrupted himself, interrupted Horace, interrupted Professor Gauchey. Tongue-tied and useless, he heaved a sigh. Yellow eyes narrowed to crescents, peering pointedly up at the picture. Less sullenly embarrassed and more questioning, more incredulous

"Just. There? Like that?"

“I expect it’s because I put her there, young man,” said Tibby brightly in answer to Eden’s sharp injection into the conversation. “Isn’t she stunning?” The teacher gazed fondly at her picture.

“It’s quite hot in Mugroba, you see, frills and corsets just aren’t practical and a bare breast is hardly taboo. It’s not a problem at all- look all you like, there’s no harm in it. It’s why the artist painted her after all, to be looked at, not eyed nervously once in a while before one decides that the carpet is much more interesting.”

She smiled a slightly condescending little smile directed in Eden’s direction, every inch of her seeming to say ‘aww bless’. They didn’t have nude portraits in Hesse, Tibby remembered that- it was why Cleo had liked the place and Tibby hadn’t.

“Different cultures see nudity quite differently, it isn’t practical of course not to be covered up in somewhere with a cooler temperature and over the years because it isn’t the norm in our cooler climates, we’ve begun to see it as a terrible taboo thing. But what a woman does with her body is her own choice and no one should cast judgment on it too harshly.”

She took a sip of her coffee and smiled, “Cream? In your tea, I mean?”

"She can do whatever she wants," Eden snipped back. "That doesn't mean...doesn't mean that people in cold climates need to keep her all up on their walls. That girl isn't...it is..."

He scowled up the Mugrobi girl, lip plump and eyes narrowed. "It is strange. And it makes me feel strange. And my mother says the Mugrobi people are good and scholarly and all that. Not all contrarywise backwards, dandling about with their clothes off. That doesn't sound very scholarly to me. And my brother lives there and he has never once said that people don't wear shirts. And his wife, she looks a lot like that girl --"

When did that pop into his head? Teacup saucer eyes fluttered like he'd just been struck by some funny epiphany. But it wasn't anything so big or unreal, it was just a flash in the pan image. And he wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. Eden tore his gaze away from the painting again and planted it firmly in the carpet.

That nameless beach girl and Raha Raisu-Aiello didn't look too much alike beyond that whole dark skin and having breasts bit. But they smiled peacefully at him the same, cocked their head like that at him the same. But a major, massive difference was "--and she never goes about topless when she comes to Mestigia in the summer. And it gets awful hot, it does..." he mumbled, the sudden spike of annoyance and conviction trickling out of him.

"You...you...you wouldn't understand what I needed to say anyway," Eden confessed to the carpet. It was the only one he could talk to in this horrible little room. Not Professor Gauchey, not Horace Aquila, not that horrid passive girl with her face all messed up. “I’m going to...to go.”

That satchel strap must have been screaming for mercy, with how hard he was gripping it. Eden paused in the open doorway, fingers poised on the handle.

“Thank you,” he muttered, “for all your help, Professor Gauchey.”

The click of the door closing was skittish as the rest of him.