“I see them. I can read them... sometimes... but it’s as if the letters become mixed up. And I get confused. And then I panic and...” He sighed. “It takes me twice as long to sort the question and then write the answer, so I’m never able to finish the exam,” he added on a sigh.
Smith-Jones regarded him with skepticism for a moment. “You claim to know the material.”
“I do,” Andrew affirmed. “I remember everything you’ve ever said in the lecture hall.
“Apollo’s mother was...?”
“Leto.”
“And his twin sister?”
“Artemis, goddess of the hunt,” Andrew replied.
“Their father was...?”
“Zeus.”
Intrigued, Smith-Jones continued to put forth questions, and Andrew answered each and every one correctly. When he was prompted to provide more information, Andrew gave it, his words the exact same words Smith-Jones had used in his lectures.
“Mr. Comber, it is obvious you have been paying attention in my class,” Smith-Jones announced. “So I’m going to give you a passing grade.”
“You are, sir?” Andrew asked in surprise, his eyes rounding.
“How many other classes are you taking in which you have this... jumbled words issue?”
Andrew shook his head. “Only those that require a good deal of reading, sir,” he replied. “Mathematics is not a problem. Numbers seem to stay put on the page. And neither are my art classes.”
Smith-Jones regarded him a moment before he asked, “What will you do for your living, Mr. Comber?”
Furrowing his brows, Andrew said, “I am the spare heir, sir, to the Aimsley earldom. Since there aren’t any wars at the moment, I hope to spend my days in artistic pursuits. Drawing and painting.”
“Well, I already know you’re good at drawing,” Smith-Jones said, pulling a paper from those in the stack at the edge of his desk.
Andrew winced at seeing the pencil drawing of a scantily clad Professor Smith-Jones in the guise of Neptune. A trident held in one hand and his bushy eyebrows somewhat exaggerated, Neptune appeared ready to send a tidal wave over the entirety of Great Britain. “I wondered what happened to that one,” Andrew whispered.
“Fell out of your book after class one day,” Smith-Jones replied. “I admit to a moment of seething anger before I realized how good I look as a Roman god.”
“You have the voice to go along with the rendering, sir,” Andrew stated. “Very god-like. Which is probably why I remember everything you’ve said in class.”
The professor laughed, the booming sound no doubt heard all the way down to the courtyard below. Mere mortals were probably scrambling to take cover lest the stone walls crumbled in its wake. “You’re dismissed, Comber. But I’m keeping the drawing,” Smith-Jones stated.
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Andrew stood to leave, but his professor held up a staying hand. “As with any artwork you produce in your future, Comber, you need to sign it,” he said, holding out a quill.
Blinking, Andrew took the quill and dipped it in the ink pot at the front of Smith-Jones’ desk. He signed his name in the lower right corner of the drawing. “It’s my honor, sir,” he said as he placed the quill back in its holder and handed the drawing to the professor.
“Now, I trust once you’re back in London, you’ll find some lovely young woman with a huge dowry who can support you for the rest of your life,” Smith-Jones remarked.
“If I’m still alive, sir.” At seeing his professor’s look of surprise, Andrew added, “My Father will kill me when he learns of this.”
Smith-Jones sighed. “I’ve already informed the dean, but... if you were to send a note to the earl right away, it may help your cause,” he suggested. “Better to learn of it from you than from the dean.”
Andrew inhaled softly. “Yes, sir.”
Feeling a sense of relief combined with dread, Andrew took his leave of the professor’s office and made his way to the nearest public house.
If he did marry a young woman for her dowry, at least he wouldn’t be forced to live the life of a pauper.
