His brother’s name.
His family’s name.
He’d been carrying the anger and frustration of the problem for weeks, doing nothing as it ate his soul alive, and he’d let it go too far.
He’d forgotten that ten years ago today he’d lost the reason the name had value.
And for the first time in weeks, Collin felt an emotion other than anger and apathy.
He mourned.
And took action.
Two
The roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.
—Aristotle,Nicomachean Ethics
Elizabeth Essex held the frame of the beehive so that the sunlight illuminated the fresh, white honeycomb. “Ah, there you are.” She studied the eggs at the base of the wax comb, their little rice shape a welcome indicator that the queen was in residence and busy doing her job. She placed the frame back in the box. “You may be shy; nonetheless, you’re a good queen,” she whispered to the frames, noting the way the bees ignored her presence unless they used her for a momentary resting place before carrying on with their flight.
With care, she placed the lid on the hive and walked away, brushing off the few bees that were riding on her skirt.
“Off you go.” Her long, lean fingers brushed the bees’ bodies gently, and her smile widened as they caught flight and disappeared back toward the hive.
As she moved through the open field, she closed her eyes, savoring the warm sunshine after manydays of rain. Likely it wouldn’t last the afternoon. However, one must enjoy the fleeting moments of sunshine when they happened.
Her chestnut mare nickered as she approached.
“Enjoying the grass, Winifred?” Elizabeth asked, untying the leather reins from a fat, low branch. Caressing the mare’s neck, she took a deep breath and slung herself onto the side saddle. After adjusting her skirts, she gave a soft click of her tongue to urge the horse to move.
The countryside spread open before her as she took the small deer path toward the main road that led to Cambridge. She ducked under a low branch as the well-used road came into view. The sound of a carriage made her pause before she glanced to the left, watching as a luxurious conveyance with four blood bays raced up the road. Drawing her mare farther back from the road, she watched as the black carriage with an unfamiliar crest passed by. Her mare tossed her head and huffed, as if impatient to move quickly as well. Elizabeth patted her neck once more and urged the mare onto the road, following far behind the rapidly moving carriage.
The apiary wasn’t far from the town and was her favorite place to retreat to when the halls of the university got too stifling. It was difficult to be at the university often but not a part of it, excluded. She breathed deeply of the country air and steeled herself to prepare for the next few hours. As she enteredthe town, she turned toward the River Cam. The bridge would lead to Trinity College, one of the many colleges of Cambridge. She dismounted and took a side street that led to the mews. After handing Winifred off to a groom, she headed toward a little-known entrance to Christ’s College.
The ancient door opened silently, and she stepped through, closing it behind her. As she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the hall, the scent of old books and stored furniture smelled like home. She navigated in the dim light until she reached another door. Smoothing her skirt, she tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear with her other hand and inhaled a deep breath. The door pushed open effortlessly, and in a moment, the world was transformed. Keeping the door mostly closed, she watched, staying out of view.
Light spilled onto the gleaming floor of Christ’s College. Students walked purposefully toward the various lecture halls, giving wide berth to the professors who taught in them. The air was thick with expectation and also a hushed reverence. She’d have to wait to sneak from the doorway to the library unnoticed. It was a miracle she was allowed on campus at all. However, after the untimely death of her mother, Elizabeth had been allowed to be near her father, as long as she was unseen. But though she was older, she refused to give up theopportunity to visit the library and help her father research. It filled her with a purpose and completed that unrelenting desire for learning she couldn’t satisfy anywhere else.
Professor Goodary gave her a fleeting nod as he spotted her peeking into the hall. He was an old friend of her father’s and had pleaded her case before the board many years ago. She closed the door an inch more, waiting. After a few minutes, the hall cleared and gave her an opportunity to dash across the way to the library, which was usually vacant this time of day.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and skirted along the edge of the hallway, head down, lifting her eyes only enough to see ahead a few steps so she wouldn’t miss the correct door to the library. The brass handle for the entrance swung toward her just as she was about to grasp it. Jumping back, she waited as two men barreled out into the hall, their focus farther down the corridor. She’d ducked behind the swinging doors and thankfully escaped notice.Late. She cast judgment as they disappeared down the hall.
She quickly escaped into the library. The door closed behind her, walling off the hallway, and peace flooded her. The space was illuminated by windows along one wall, casting the sun’s glow on the rows of bookshelves that lined the opposite wall, with neat little alcoves dotted between them,some empty, some occupied by a student deep in thought or study. Elizabeth’s shoulders relaxed, and she held her head higher as she moved freely into the one place in Cambridge University where she felt like she belonged.
Even if no one else agreed with her sentiment.
She made her way to the back of the library and smiled to herself at the sight of a familiar gray head bent over a leather-bound tome of some ancient era.
“Papa,” she greeted, earning a bleary upward glance from her father and a delayed smile.
“Ah. There you are. How are the bees?” he asked, returning his focus to his book.
“Well enough. What are you studying?” Elizabeth asked, then answered her own question as she lifted the front of the book to study the title. “Socrates?”
“In philosophy, one must always question, and questioning comes from constant study, my dear.”
Elizabeth’s heart warmed at her father’s words; he’d repeated the same phrase often. She returned with a quote from Galileo she’d often heard him say as well. “‘You cannot teach a man anything, you can only help him to find it within himself…’ Right, Papa?” she said with a confident tone and took a seat beside him.
