“And therefore, if one were to extrapolate the sum areas of the squares on either side of the right angle from their lengths, as such...” Master Debinforth continued, his maddeningly monotonous voice punctuated by the rapid fire scrapes of his chalk. “...One can evidently, and obviously, conclude that the sum of the areas of the two squares is, necessarily, equal to the area of the square of the final side of the triangle.” There was a short pause. “One can also, evidently, not pay any heed to his exceedingly, and inexplicably, patient tutor.” As he finished he spun smartly on his heel and leveled a withering glare at Quentin.

The sudden silence shook Quentin from his reverie, causing him to jerk upright and reach reflexively for his pen. Far from the adroit recovery he was envisioning, he instead only managed to knock his extremely full inkwell spinning across the desk. Quentin froze, hand still outstretched, as he and Master Debinforth watched the inkwell take its time coming to a stop. His notes, suit trousers, and, most terrifyingly, several of Master Debinforth's textbooks were now thoroughly soaked in deep black ink. A few excruciating seconds passed with Quentin still motionless under Master Debinforth's glare before the aged tutor let out an exasperated sigh.

“Young Master Calloway,” he said sternly. Quentin blanched at the name, Master Debinforth only referred to him by his surname when he was exceptionally peeved. “I'm quite sure I have no idea what you expect to accomplish by remaining frozen while your latest… mishap is given free reign over your desk.”

“Good Master Debinforth, I recall a very wise, and extremely old, friend of mine mentioning a particularly intelligent species of rodent in the Bel Traten savanna that is able to avoid detection, even from the most wily of predators, by remaining absolutely still.” Quentin replied, attempting to move his lips as little as possible. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the faintest shadow of a smile tweak the corners of Master Debinforth’s mouth before he promptly returned to his trademark scowl. When he finally spoke there was no physical sign any such childish amusement had ever crossed his mind.

“It pains me to say that I truly don’t know whether to be disheartened that you’ve managed to destroy your, no doubt meticulous, notes and have apparently adopted the evasion tactics of common rodentia.” He paused dramatically as Quentin slumped back into his chair, dabbing weakly at his stained trousers with his handkerchief. “Or to simply take some solace in the fact that evidently a modicum of my teachings have, despite your best efforts, managed to trickle into that solid block of marble you call a head,” he finished, eyes twinkling. Far more than a shadow of a smirk crossed his face this time, his otherwise austere bearing belying the warmth and levity that only Quentin, on occasion, was able to elicit. Quentin groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Block of marble again? I seem to recall you employing that selfsame devastating rejoinder just yesterday when I, allegedly, failed to deliver my essay on the ‘History of Intertown Commerce and Taxation in Southeastern Pelcantor’. I realize that keeping up with so many students can be difficult for a man of your... esteemed age, but I hold you to a higher standard.” In response Debinforth covered his heart with his hand in mock pain.

“You wound me, young Master Quentin. Although the first several dozen jabs at my age were ineffectual, your admirable perseverance in the face of reason has finally paid off. I am truly shaken.” He paused again. Never had Quentin met someone quite this fond of dramatic pauses. “However! I must say that your condemnation was somewhat diluted by your improper usage of the word ‘alleged.’ You see, for that to have been accurate, we would need some contention over the veracity of your claims when, in fact, your essay was clearly not received. Additionally,” 

He’s really leaning into it today, Quentin thought. A few more minutes and he might forget about his ruined textbooks. 

“...the justifications for its absence were surprisingly feeble coming from such an accomplished raconteur as yourself.” Quentin sat up straighter, completely abandoning any hopes of salvaging his trousers. That’s the second pair this week; Father is going to kill me.

“Completely unfounded assaults upon my honor aside, I really did finish that essay and Pascal really did steal it,” Quentin said earnestly. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, slicking parts of it straight up and smearing ink across his forehead.

“And what in the world would Pascal want with your essay?” challenged Debinforth.

“Well, naturally, he was planning on building a nest out of it and of course I didn’t have the heart to stop him. In fact, if you were to go to the western barn right now and climb up into the eaves, I believe you’d find it. It’s rather dashing actually; the white of the parchment against the browns of the other assorted detritus he’s collected presents quite the pleasing contrast. He’s really got an eye for design, that Pascal,” said Quentin, wiping the excess ink from his hands onto his suit vest. It was already black anyway, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Marion rather enjoyed searching for stuffy new outfits to torment him with.

“Rather serendipitous, wouldn’t you say, that your good friend Pascal happened to pilfer your essay, out of all the parchment in the estate, and then proceeded to ensconce himself in the highest corner of the furthest barn,” responded Master Debinforth conversationally.

“Quite thoughtful of him, wasn’t it?” Quentin said cheerfully, “although it definitely was not the only parchment he stole. He’s amassed quite the selection of papers, leaflets, handkerchiefs, assorted priceless jewelry… it’s rather impressive. However, to tell you the truth I was somewhat disappointed that, of all the assignments he could have stolen, he went with one of the few I had actually bothered to finish. It was truly a masterpiece of economic critique and analysis. Equal parts scathing and scandalous. We’re lucky, in a way. ‘Intertown Commerce and Taxation in Southeastern Pelcantor’ would have never been the same,” He finished solemnly. Master Debinforth let out another weary sigh.

“Speaking of aspersions cast upon your honor, that was quite the display of loyalty to poor, maligned Pascal. You know Marion is just waiting for an excuse to get rid of him, so I’d advise you to retrieve that jewelry before she finds out who the real culprit was.”

Master Debinforth stood, brushed nonexistent dust from his finely tailored suit, then looked down over his spectacles toward Quentin. “And while you’re at it, if you were to recover that essay, I might actually have something positive to report to your father when he asks after your studies this evening.” He glanced down at the ink covered desk. “But I think it’s safe to say there will be no further lessons today,” he said wryly. Quentin immediately jumped to his feet and was part way to the door when Master Debinforth called after him. “And don’t get any ideas about further mishaps freeing you from lessons! I’ll have the inkwell installed in your desk if need be!” Quentin, however, was already out the door and halfway down the hall.

He skidded around the corner, whipped past the bannister of the eastern stairwell, and ran up the stairs two at a time. As he crested the final step, he caught sight of Marion bustling through the doorway of his father’s study, her favorite cane in hand. He attempted, mid run, to slow to a respectable speed while simultaneously hiding his ink stained clothes and fixing his disheveled hair. His hands went to his hair just as his hastily slowed foot caught the top step, sending him sprawling. The matronly house steward’s eyes bulged as he fell, the not quite dried ink on his trousers smearing across the wood floor of the landing. Quentin quickly scrambled to his feet, panting, while Marion glowered at him.

“Young Master Calloway!” she said sternly, clearly attempting to keep her voice calm, “do you have any idea how expensive this staircase was? These floorboards? You had better pray whatever that is you’ve plastered all over them does not stain or so help me your father will be getting quite an earful.” She slowly made her way over to him and began inspecting his clothing. 

“I--” Quentin began before she immediately cut him off.

“Oh my lord, and your new suit! Ruined! Barely even made it a week this time.” She withdrew a large handkerchief from her uniform and began forcefully scrubbing the ink from his forehead. “Truly I don’t know why I even bother. Hopeless! You’re very lucky the dinner guests will be arriving shortly, or I swear I’d have your father make you clean this up yourself!” 

She stopped scrubbing his face, stepped back, and sighed dramatically. “Well that’ll have to do, no time for a bath. At least whatever you got into this time matches your hair.” Hoping that was a dismissal, Quentin moved to step past her and found her ivory cane blocking his path. “Speaking of which,” she continued, “it’s getting much too long. That, and the lack of meat on your bones, and you’ll have half the guests wondering if Lord Calloway has a daughter they hadn’t heard about!” She smirked, apparently rather pleased with herself, and lowered the cane.

Quentin started forward but was again blocked.

“Oh and lastly,” she said, her voice growing cold, “tonight is very important to your father, so if I see even a single hair of that blasted beast you call a pet, I swear I’ll have it skinned and fed to the hounds.” With that, she moved her cane primly from his path and tottered past him down the stairs. Quentin waited until she was out of earshot before he resumed sprinting toward his rooms.

His personal corner of the Calloway estate was comprised of two vast chambers and a third, smaller, private washroom all nestled in the back of the top floor. He pushed open the imposing double doors to his bedroom and slid inside before carefully closing them behind him with a sigh of relief. He surveyed his modest domain: the only place in the entire estate free from Marion’s watchful eyes. At the center sat a rather ostentatious four-poster, decorated in the Calloway colors of deep black and forest green, wide enough to fit at least four of him comfortably. He stepped forward then fell backwards through the green silk canopy onto the luxurious comforter, sinking several inches into the cloud-like pillows. Only after he hit the bed did he consider his still slightly damp trousers. Oh well, the bed is already black anyway. Collapsing back and closing his eyes, he imagined he was floating in a tranquil lagoon far from Calloway Estate and its tyrannical steward.

After a few blissful minutes he forced his eyes open; his father’s all important dinner precluded any further relaxation. He pulled his arms to his sides and began lethargically rolling himself across the enormous mattress. He teetered on the edge of the substantial comforter, then slowly tipped downward before flopping face down onto the plush rug beneath his bed. Sighing, he slowly pushed himself to his feet, moved to the equally gaudy wardrobe at the back of the bedroom, and, with some effort, pulled it open.

He stepped back and surveyed the sea of black and green clothing before him. Marion definitely wasn’t one for variety. The contents of this wardrobe alone represented a small fortune, one that Quentin considered completely wasted on the assortment of nearly identical suits, jackets, and vests. He closed his eyes and selected one of the more palatable, Marion might finally kill him if he went down in the stained trousers he was wearing, and begrudgingly began pulling it on. As he finished the last of a series of elaborate fastenings up the side of his vest, he shrugged on his suit jacket and turned to inspect himself in the enormous mirror against the far wall.

He wore his standard midnight black jacket, intricate green embroidery outlining the edges of the sharply peaked lapel and tailored perfectly to his slim shoulders, atop a matching shirt and a deep emerald vest. Fine black trousers, fitted to his lanky legs, his favorite green socks, and simple black loafers completed the outfit. Quentin contemplated his appearance for a moment, then replaced the ruined handkerchief in his breast pocket with a vibrant gold and wrapped a matching thin scarf around his neck. The hair above his forehead still stuck out at an odd angle from the dried ink, but after wrestling with it for a few minutes, he managed to make it at least look intentional. He sighed, annoyed at how much he enjoyed how he looked in the overpriced ensemble.

He was about to head down to the foyer, guests would be arriving soon and he would be expected to be there to greet them, before Marion’s parting words suddenly sprang into his mind. Pascal! Quentin had to be sure to find him before Marion did. One of his favorite hideouts in the manor was the eaves of Quentin’s study, so Quentin spun and dashed through the door at the back of his bedroom.

He burst through the small doorway into the study, its soaring walls covered with row after row of books stretching from the ground all the way to the top edge of the ceiling. The majority were only accessible through a convoluted series of sliding ladders that currently lay still under a solid layer of dust. Quentin had only bothered to open a small fraction of the tomes, however, that never seemed to discourage Master Debinforth from incessantly adding to the considerable collection.

Perhaps he believed that the easy access to boundless information would manage to inspire further learning in Quentin, but instead he simply found it overwhelming and avoided spending more time in his study than he had to. He also had a, hopefully irrational, fear that the cases upon cases of books had lain untouched for so long that even attempting to dislodge one might cause the entire wall to topple over and bury him.

“Pascal!” he called, eyes darting around the room. “Pascal?” He took a few steps forward, then continued under his breath. “Come on you furry fool, I don’t have time for this.” Abandoning that approach, Quentin glanced about furtively then approached a bookcase in the corner behind the writing desk. After verifying once again that nobody was nearby, he crouched down then reached out and tugged on an ancient looking book titled Migratory Patterns of the Highland [AnimalName]. The top half of the book slid smoothly outward, followed by a deep thunk from inside the bookcase.

Quentin slowly pulled on the book, causing the entire section of the bookcase to swing outward, revealing a tiny closet-sized room within. He stepped quickly inside, pulling a small handle on the hidden door and sliding it back into place behind him.

When his family had built this new estate two years ago, Quentin had told the craftsmen working on his quarters that his father had ordered this hidden room to be built behind the bookcases, and that he wanted it kept hidden from any official blueprints or discussions. It had been a relatively simple matter to shift the bookcases forward to match a false wall panel, and the builders were unperturbed by the clandestine manner of his request, as secret passages and rooms were very popular in the wealthiest manors. Quentin was sure his father had several of his own hidden throughout the estate but had, so far, been unsuccessful in his efforts to discover them.

The room was dimly lit by light filtering through a single broad window that took up a large percentage of the far wall. The window was entirely covered by a thick sheet of parchment Quentin had painted to resemble a generic room interior so that nobody on the grounds would think twice if they happened to look up. The small writing desk in the corner was, like the rest of the room, covered in parchment filled with Quentin's drawings, diagrams, and semi-coherent ramblings.

At the center of his desk was his most recent work, a dramatic portrait of Pascal in a posh suit posing by a grand fireplace, that by complete coincidence happened to exactly match the portrait his father had commissioned of himself that currently loomed over the entrance to the foyer. It had taken many attempts, and a large supply of berries, to get the impatient [PascalAnimalName] to sit still long enough, and Quentin was sure he still had a basket of Pascal’s favorites somewhere in here.

Quentin hurriedly rifled through the desk drawers, a pile of discarded art supplies quickly growing behind him.

“Ha!” he exclaimed in triumph as he withdrew a small wicker basket full of slightly overripe red berries. He set the basket down and hastily crammed the supplies back into the desk. Satisfied with the mostly closeable state of the drawers, he moved to the back and began pushing the desk away from the window. The window now unobstructed, he ran his fingers along the bottom edge of the sill.

There was a soft click, and the right side of the window swung inward on hidden hinges. Quentin felt the cool evening air on his face as he peeked out, quickly scanning the grounds for Pascal. Unsuccessful, he pulled his head back inside, partially closed the window, and grabbed the tiny black whistle that hung on the wall. He put it to his lips and blew, though no audible sound came out. After blowing it several more times in quick succession, he settled back on the desk to wait.

Only a few seconds passed before he heard a solid whap as something slammed into the window from outside and knocked it wide open, revealing a small creature clinging to the glass. About one and a half feet tall, Pascal was a bit on the smaller side for a [PascalAnimalName]. He held to the pane with lanky arms and short, stubby legs, each able to grip the sheer glass without difficulty. His face resembled a squashed version of a hound’s, with tall, pointed ears, a small snout, and large round eyes that made him appear constantly surprised. He was also, to Marion’s perpetual displeasure, covered head to toe in mottled black and white fur that he somehow managed to shed on everything he touched.

Pascal quickly surveyed the room and, before Quentin had a chance to react, launched himself at the basket of berries on the desk. He instantly collided with it, sending berries flying in every direction. As Quentin lowered the protective arm from his face, he found Pascal, completely unfazed, crouched over a pile of berries and stuffing them into his mouth as fast as his little hands could manage.

Quentin hastily jumped up to close the window, latching it back into place with a satisfying click. There likely wasn’t anyone out on the grounds, especially with the dinner guests arriving soon, but Quentin liked to minimize the amount of time a glaring hole was visible in the outer wall. The room also served as a great spot to keep Pascal, assuming he didn’t figure out how to operate the latch, for the duration of the evening. Returning to Pascal, who was still completely engrossed by the berries, Quentin fondly scratched him behind the ear, careful not to get any hair on his suit.

“Sorry pal, but you’re going to have to stay up here for a while,” said Quentin. “Father is having a very important dinner tonight, and if your good friend Marion sees you, we’ll all be in big trouble.” Pascal looked up at Quentin, his round eyes somehow accusatory despite no discernible change in his usual expression, then silently returned his attention to his feast.

“I know,” Quentin continued, voice placating. “I know you don’t like being cooped up in here, but trust me, you’re not missing out on anything down there.” He stood, dusting off his trousers. “I’ll make sure to come let you out as soon as I can. Father really only wants me there for appearances; I’m sure he’ll be relieved if I sneak out early.”

He began sidling towards the door, trying to keep Pascal’s attention away from his impending exit. He turned and peered through the peephole in the wall, verifying that the study beyond was empty. Satisfied, he pulled the handle, slid the bookcase out, and backed slowly out of the room. As he slid the bookcase back into place, he stole one last glance at Pascal, who was happily finishing off the basket of berries. At the last second Pascal looked up and met Quentin’s eyes. The bookcase thumped shut as he turned and leaned back against the hidden door, sighing. According to Master Debinforth [PascalAnimalName]s were native to the upper canopy of the Viridian Expanse, so he could only imagine how being confined to a glorified closet must feel.

Shaking his head, he continued forward out of his study. The room was the best place for Pascal with Marion on the warpath, and Quentin would be back to rescue him.

Just have to get this dinner over with.