A Butterfly Through the Mist - Side Story 4

Tilia never once looked back during the rest of the lecture.

What a waste of effort. With a hollow face, Ilex pressed his finger into the corner of the syllabus and regretted his vacation.

If I’d known it’d be like this, I should’ve just waited in front of the Ambrose estate. At least then I might’ve seen her face once.

The class ended just as his regret reached bottomless depths. Just as he had arrived right on time, Raus left at the precise end of class.

Guess I’ll just go back to the dorm. As he resignedly prepared to leave the lecture hall empty-handed, Tilia, who had no need for review, rose before him and brushed past.

She merely walked down the stepped aisle and passed by him. Yet in that moment, Ilex clearly felt it.

Those spring-green eyes glanced over him. In eyes that always looked at him with the indifference of someone spotting a rock on the ground, there was—for a moment—a glint of curiosity.

Tilia didn’t stop walking. She left the lecture hall without hesitation.

But having received her gaze with his entire being, Ilex couldn’t move from the spot.

He remained dazed until the next class was about to begin. Only when the incoming freshmen began taking their seats did he slowly rise.

Clutched tightly in his hand as he climbed the stairs, his face still flushed, was a syllabus with its corner creased.

***

‘Ah, this… I definitely studied this before. How was it supposed to be interpreted again?’

On a night so dark even the moon hid behind clouds, the lamp on Ilex Davenport’s dorm desk remained lit.

Unaware of how long the sun had set, the man buried his head in the commentary book, correcting and re-correcting his misreadings.

‘Okay. So from now on, this particle should be interpreted like this…’

Ah. He realized just how dark it had gotten only after flipping to the final page of the commentary.

Ilex let out a small laugh, belatedly realizing he’d studied straight through dinner.

I’ve really gone mad. The now-familiar self-mockery slipped from his lips.

Had he ever studied anything this diligently before in his life? He asked himself—but it wasn’t even worth asking. He had never poured this much effort into anything before, let alone studying.

Even as he rose with a deflated heart, he carefully checked his summary notes and packed them into his bag. Because he needed them for tomorrow’s class. The thought made him laugh again as he walked toward the bathroom.

Since last spring, when Tilia Ambrose had glanced at him—his life had changed completely.

Changed? No—it had gone completely off the rails. Ilex Davenport was now memorizing classical literature as if he were possessed by the ghost of a dead rhetorician.

The first to notice this insane transformation was Anthony Raus. The professor, who had always seemed to disapprove of Ilex despite his top grades and poor attitude, reacted strangely upon seeing the student now attend every lecture with a serious expression.

“So you’ve finally succumbed to the charm of rhetoric, Davenport.”

What nonsense. When Raus approached him with that line before class, Ilex was extremely annoyed.

But the moment he noticed Tilia, sitting in the front row with her book open, subtly turn her head in his direction, the lie flowed naturally from his mouth.

“Well… Nothing reveals timeless truths quite like the classics.”

At that, Raus laughed heartily and gave him a friendly pat on the back.

Get your filthy hand off me. Even while thinking that, Ilex was hyperaware of how Tilia’s head turned just a bit more toward him.

Those subtle movements, those almost nonexistent signs of interest—they became his sustenance. He gathered up every scrap and devoured them, studying rhetoric until dawn each night.

I nearly lost my mind from boredom.

Of course, that didn’t mean he suddenly started enjoying rhetoric or found it easier to decipher. To him, classics were still boring epitaphs written by the dead. He had no interest in the testaments of past eras—not in this life or the next.

Ilex Davenport studied every single day for one reason only—Tilia. For grades that would serve as proof to show her.

His interpretation skills were terrible, but fortunately, he had the cunning to compensate. Rather than trying to improve his hopeless comprehension, Ilex focused on identifying which works and question types were likely to appear on exams. He read Raus’s papers, learned theories that might be accepted as model answers from the professor’s books, and memorized the interpretations of works likely to be used for test questions.

To stay efficient, he excluded works by authors ideologically sensitive to the current regime and anything that had been used in last year’s graduation exam. He didn’t want to become good at rhetoric—he just wanted to get good grades and make a strong impression.

What would be on next week’s quiz?

Cooling his heated head with cold water, Ilex mentally skimmed through past test questions.

Since a work by Eric Benderson already appeared, chances were high they’d cover Dyer’s later works.

‘Dyer’s tricky…’

Realizing that the poet heavily used rhetorical devices he particularly struggled with, Ilex turned off the tap without hesitation.

Just a bit more review before I sleep. With water dripping from his hair, the man returned to the table where he had been sitting just moments earlier.

He knew it well himself—that he wasn’t in a sane state of mind.

He was already addicted. Completely entranced by the attention Tilia Ambrose gave him—by the faintest flicker of interest she showed whenever he got a good grade.

Even if it was just wary vigilance toward a top student, it didn’t matter. He had never even received such a glance from her before.

If I take first place, maybe this time that little head of hers will finally turn my way.

As he memorized complex metaphors with a fluttering heart he couldn’t help, the moon sank and the sun rose in the distance.

But though he had mumbled that he’d only study for a bit before resting his eyes, Ilex remained frozen in his seat, unaware that dawn had come just as night once had.

***

“Davenport. May I have a word with you?”

First place on the next quiz, of course, was his.

Raus, who in the middle of class had praised him out of nowhere for achieving the first perfect score he’d ever seen since teaching at the Royal Academy, summoned him at the end of the lecture.

What a pain. I need to get back and keep studying.

Ilex looked at him with a slightly annoyed face—until he noticed that Tilia, seated at the front, was packing her bag more slowly than usual. Without a word, he walked up to the professor.

“I had no idea you were so good at rhetoric, Mr. Davenport. I made that test especially difficult this time, and to think you got everything right… Honestly, I’m impressed. You reminded me of my own student days.”

Letting Raus’s words pass by one ear, Ilex focused on Tilia, still organizing her things up front.

He had suspected she might be moving deliberately slowly, and it wasn’t just in his head. Tilia was taking out her pencil case again, even though she had already packed it away. Clearly, she was highly interested in what was being said about him.

That alone dramatically lifted Ilex’s mood. Even the nonsense Raus was spouting, laced with subtle self-praise, didn’t sound so bad now.

He could endure it. If possible, he wanted the professor to praise him more—and for longer. That way, Tilia would stay right there, listening to his story.

“…So, what I wanted to ask was—have you ever thought about majoring in rhetoric? If you enter graduate school, I think I could mentor you well.”

The professor’s real intent came at the end of a long speech about his own academy days. At that, Ilex momentarily stopped glancing at Tilia and nearly let out a scoff.

Major in rhetoric?

What, am I out of my mind? I’d rather put my talents to use as a footman for House Ambrose.

Even if I am completely insane for Tilia Ambrose, I’m not about to do something that idiotic. He was about to flatly say he had no intention of studying under Raus—

Clack. The clasp of Tilia’s pencil case snapped shut. She slung her bag over her shoulder, turned away, and without even looking back, darted up the lecture hall steps and left the room.