Lucy smiled faintly and sat at last. “That is a very precise observation.”
He shifted in his chair, emboldened. “I can remember stories. I remember things people say. But this...” He gestured at the page. “It disappears the moment I close the book.”
“Then perhaps you are trying to remember it in the wrong shape,” Lucy said, lightly. “You are asking it to be flat.”
Anthony considered this. “What shape should it be?”
“That depends,” she replied. “What do you see when you look at one of them?”
He leaned closer to the page, squinting slightly. “This one feels cold. I don’t know why.”
“That is reason enough,” Lucy said. “Cold things linger.”
He glanced at her, uncertain whether she was teasing, then returned to the page. “This one feels loud,” he added after a moment. “Like people arguing.”
Lucy’s eyes softened. “Then you will remember it when you hear raised voices.”
Anthony nodded slowly, as though testing the idea rather than accepting it outright. He tapped his pencil once against the desk. “No one ever says it can be like that.”
“There are many ways to make peace with facts. This is just one of many that I have discovered,” she said. “Most of them are dull and don’t work most of the time, but I found one that was… survivable.”
Anthony glanced up. “Did you dislike learning about dates and facts too?”
“Very much,” Lucy replied and nodded, leaning closer to him. “Don’t say a word of this to anyone, but I loathed studying. All I wanted to do was read books and frolic with my cousins. Also, as a lady in society, I had the additional misfortune of being expected to remember an alarming number of people. Names, ages, titles, relations. Who belonged where, who must never be seated beside whom. A lady of society is not forgiven for confusion. So, it was tasking.”
Anthony shook his head slowly. “My problems might be too little. That sounds worse than just learning dates,” he said gravely.
“It was,” she agreed and then squinted her eyes, “so I cheated.”
Anthony straightened in his chair. “How?”
“I decided everything was food.”
He blinked. “Food?”
“Yes. Entirely shamelessly.” She pulled the book a little closer, careful not to take it from him. “When I see a name, I ask myself what it tastes like. When I see a place, I imagine what it smells of. When I see a year, I decide whether it feels heavy or light... like pudding or like bread.”
Anthony stared at her, then down at the page. “That sounds ridiculous.”
“Almost certainly,” Lucy said. “Yet it works, but not at random,” Lucy continued, her gaze settling on the open book. “Food is only useful in this case when it follows a pattern. Your mind remembers differences, not lists.”
Anthony shifted closer, resting his elbow on the desk. “What sort of pattern?”
“Importance,” she said. “Some things matter because they happened quickly. Others matter because they took time, effort, and patience. If a fact took years to come into being, it should not feel light when you try to remember it.”
She indicated the date with her finger. “Tell me, why is this discovery important enough to be marked here?”
He thought for a moment. “Because they searched for it for years before they found it.”
“Then that labor should be reflected,” Lucy replied. “Choose something that cannot be hurried, something that must be made slowly, or it fails entirely.”
Anthony nodded, understanding settling in his expression. “Bread,” he said. “The kind you leave to rise.”
“Yes,” Lucy said quietly. “Now, it will stay because it belongs.”
She moved her hand to the next line. “What about this place, what do you know of it?”
“It was by the coast.”
