My past? I didn’t really have one. Not until then.

  As for my personality, I would say I was born academically intelligent; naturally, taking pride in that trait became a core part of my identity. Beyond that, I inherited an ample ego from my mother. My daily aim was simple: to speak rarely, but with a sharpness that left an impression.

  I was the second son, born four years after my brother, Harry. My father always said that Harry was his mirror image, while I had inherited the attitude of my mother, Margaret. I have no memory of her. She died giving birth to my younger sister, Elenora, when I was only two. Consequently, the three of us were known throughout the family as "poor, motherless children"—a label that, in my opinion, never hindered my growth. One does not mourn for blue skies if he has never seen them.

  Still, my father never remarried, remaining a devotee to the memory of his wife. I believe that was why he turned a blind eye to my contemptuous remarks and my cold observations of others; he saw in them a reflection of the woman he loved. He often told me, “Your mother hated me to death at first, yet I was moonstruck by her very name. I am curious to see who you will choose, Vincent, as you have already adopted her bold tongue and sharp gaze.”

  My father was a wealthy merchant, respected and subtly feared by those who knew him. But at the mention of my mother, he became a hopeless romantic.

  I completed my early education in my hometown of Chester before moving to Bristol for university. My father took great pride in my academic achievements and granted me the freedom to choose my own path. I was fond of Mathematics, History, Philosophy, and Literature. I also had a knack for languages; after English, I was fluent in German and French, and I could read Latin texts without the aid of a lexicon.

  It was early autumn when I arrived at Bristol University. After sending my luggage to the hostel, I went straight to the office of my guardian, Professor Sterling. It was a clear afternoon, though a cold wind bit at the air. I knocked and entered upon his permission.

  “You must be Vincent Markwood,” Sterling said, gesturing to the chair opposite his heavy oak desk. “I received your father’s letter last week and was delighted to hear you would be studying here. Come, sit. You must be exhausted. How is your room? Do you like it?”

  Large glass windows to our left rattled lightly in the wind, bathing the room in the cold, blue light of the afternoon sky. Sterling was a tall man with sharp features that had been softened and wrinkled by age. He spoke softly, with an enigmatic passion that matched his smile.

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  “I sent my luggage there, but I have not seen the room myself yet,” I replied, taking a seat. His smile annoyed me, but I remained aloof and respectful.

  “I hope you find it to your liking. Tell me, Vincent, how is William?”

  “Father is in good health. He suffers from lung infections in the cold, but with proper care, he passes the winters without much worry.”

  “The last time I saw him in Chester was at your mother's funeral,” Sterling reminisced. “I would never have left him in such grief, but I was compelled to go. My sister had contracted Tuberculosis; it had reached her brain, and she wished to see me one last time before she passed. What an agonizing year that was!”

  I remained silent, offering only a single, perfunctory nod. Other people’s emotions never had any effect on me. Even when I watched my father crying bitterly at night, clutching my mother’s dresses to his chest, I felt nothing for his sadness. My only thought was why one would allow themselves to become so pathetically dependent on someone they were bound to lose. It is difficult to control one's heart—I understand that—but why do people make so little effort to save themselves? I didn't hate my family, but they often disappointed and bored me. But still I possessed just enough morality to consider them dear to me.

  “I think I am boring you, Vincent,” Sterling said with a soft smirk. He was correct.

  “Not at all, Sir. I was merely listening wholeheartedly.”

  My expression betrayed me; I leaned back in my chair with subtle boredom. Sterling smiled with the sort of warmth, elders reserve for pouting toddlers. It irritated me immensely.

  “I think I know what you are thinking, Sir,” I said, meeting his blue eyes.

  “Enlighten me, then.”

  “You are thinking that I greatly resemble my mother in the way I face the emotions of others. I have heard that at least five times a day for the last twenty years,” I said, raising my chin.

  “And what if I told you that you were wrong?” the elder man asked, his smile deepening.

  “Then I would ask you to enlighten me with your own thoughts.”

  Sterling studied me for a moment, then laughed softly. “What subjects will you choose? Tell me, so I may write your references.” He pulled a pad of yellowed parchment from his drawer.

  The word "annoyed" was no longer sufficient for what I felt. I maintained my aloof gaze and pushed my silver spectacles up the bridge of my nose. “Mathematics and History. I also intend to study Philosophy, Literature, and Languages.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I speak German and French. I wish to polish my Latin.”

  “C'est sans aucun doute exceptionnel,” he remarked. (It is undoubtedly exceptional.)

  “Vous êtes trop gentil,” I replied. (You are too kind.)

  He wrote on his pad with an ink pen. I wondered if his cheekbones ached from so much smiling.

  “I am afraid you will have to tolerate me as your Mathematics and Philosophy teacher,” he said.

  “It would be an honor to learn from a teacher who holds his own insights in such remarkably high regard,” I replied, glancing toward the window.

  He met my barb with silence and that same unshakeable smile. He pushed three pieces of paper toward me. “Classes begin on the twenty-third.”

  “I am grateful,” I said, bowing slightly as I stood. The sky outside was darkening. After a final farewell, I left the office and headed toward my room.