“Then let it carry the sea with it,” Lucy said. “Salt, wind, trade. Your mind knows how to return to places when they are allowed to feel like themselves.”
Anthony bent over the page again, writing with more care than before. The irritation that had sharpened his movements earlier was gone now, replaced by confidence.
After a moment, he said, almost to himself, “It isn’t harder. It just makes more sense.”
“Good,” Lucy replied softly. She shifted closer, so they were both looking at the page together. “Now do this one.”
She tapped the next date, the paper rustling faintly beneath her finger. “Why was this year written down?”
Anthony squinted. “That was when they finally solved the problem of longitude.”
“Exactly,” Lucy said. “What made it so difficult?”
He brightened a little, encouraged. “No one could measure it properly at sea. Ships were lost because of it.”
“Good, and how long did they try?” she asked.
“Years,” he said promptly. “Decades.”
Lucy nodded. “Then that is your anchor. Do not remember the number first. Remember the struggle.”
She paused, then smiled faintly. “Now, if this discovery were a meal, what would it be?”
He frowned, considering. “A stew?”
“Why a stew?”
“Because it takes a long time,” he said slowly. “Many things have to go into it before it works.”
“There you are,” Lucy said, pleased. “A long, slow stew, watched over carefully, until at last it is fit to serve. When you think of that year, you think of the pot finally coming off the fire.”
He glanced back at the date, then nodded once. “You’re very clever, Miss Lucy.”
Lucy leaned back, satisfied. “Thank you so much, Anthony. I cannot recall the last time someone said that to me.”
A sharp click of footsteps announced Brook before he was even visible. Anthony glanced toward the doorway, and Lucy’s eyes lit with interest, and she straightened instinctively. Brook was Rowan’s second-oldest son, and he was a mystery to her. She had heard much of this second son, the one who, unlike most well-bred boys, delighted in clever tricks, in bending the rules just enough to unsettle adults. He was said to be irrepressibly mischievous, never satisfied with obedience for its own sake. Until this moment, she had never spoken with him, never seen him up close for more than a few seconds. In fact, Brook had never said a word to her.
“What is it, Brook?” Anthony asked, looking up from his book as his brother appeared in the doorway, hair tousled and eyes bright with curiosity.
“I need to know why the sundial is off this morning,” Brook said, frowning. “I measured the shadow twice, and it’s almost five minutes behind the clock.”
Anthony blinked. “For school?”
“No,” Brook said quickly, waving a hand. “I just like to know when things don’t line up.”
Anthony considered him for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, it would make more sense if you ask Miss Lucy. She’s helping me study. She can help you.”
Lucy’s voice cut in. “Good morning, Brook. Did the sundial wake you fairly?”
“I will not stay,” the boy declared, arms crossed, chin jutting. “I do not need lessons from you.”
Anthony groaned. “Don’t be rude, Brook. She’s only trying to help.”
“What? I do not need her help,” he whispered to Anthony.
Lucy raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. “Indeed? Yet, you’ve found your way here. I take it the sundial, or whatever pressing matter brought you, could not wait?”
Brook scowled. “It’s not pressing. I just needed Anthony. That is all.”
