Five-thirty in the afternoon on a Fourthday

“I think you should retake the oral section of the examinations,” she said, “in a written format. The purpose of the oral examinations is to observe the student’s ability to respond to certain thought exercises on demand. Typically the more expedient approach is oral question and answer, but some people don’t perform well without a visual component. I think your written scores suggest you are one of them.”

This was about the dumbest bullshit I’d ever heard, because if a regular written exam didn’t count for a test of a student’s ability to respond to a “thought exercise” on demand, I didn’t know what did. But when she stopped talking, I kept quiet still. Whether from being out of that stupid enchanted room, or learning I wouldn’t be kicked out of the detective course, my miserable feeling was dissipating a bit—but I was still afraid to say something wrong and have this offer, whatever it was exactly, withdrawn.

“Are you interested in retaking the exam?” she asked. “You’ll be administered a different set of questions than you were originally, but the substance of the subject matter will be materially similar.”

I was only waiting for her to stop talking so I could agree to it without interrupting her. “Yes. I’m interested.” I opened my bag and fumbled for the writing case Nan had given me last year. “Only, have you got a sharpener? I just have the three pencils and they’re all dull because I forgot my own at home.”

The woman blinked, as if surprised. “I meant, you can retake it next week after having some time to prepare.”

“I have to wait?” I asked, with more despair than I exactly intended.

“You want to take a ninety minute written exam now?” She stared at me. “At five-thirty in the afternoon on a Fourthday? Wouldn’t you prefer to take the weekend to prepare and come back fresh on Firstday?”

It occurred to me belatedly that perhaps this lady would not prefer to stay late when most people were already starting their weekend, just to babysit me while I took a **** detective test I flunked the first time around. “That’s fine,” I said reluctantly. “I didn’t mean to be difficult. I just thought to spare myself the walk from the fourth ward, and missing part of my scheduled patrol shift.”

The woman studied me for a moment. “You truly would prefer to do your retake right this second? Because if this one doesn’t go well that’s it until the next testing window. Most people would prefer to wait.”

I studied her back, trying to decide if this was a trick. “Is it a serious offer to take it today?” I asked after I couldn’t decide what she really meant. “I’ll come back, if it isn’t.”

She raised both eyebrows at me, as if I were insane, then seemed to come to a decision. She motioned to the little table on the other side of her office. “It’s a serious offer. I’ll proctor you here, if you don’t object to me catching up on paperwork while you go through it.”

I nodded quickly. “No. Thank you. I’d just rather have it all over with.”

It didn’t take me the full ninety minutes to be through with all the questions to my satisfaction, which was nice because I suspected Curry might be starting to worry after how long it had been. All in, the worst part of the whole thing was the anxiety I felt when I’d worn my third pencil down enough that I wasn’t sure how much further I’d get without needing to go and sharpen my pencils again. Except, after only a few minutes of fretting in the back of my mind about my pencil predicament, I heard the woman clear her throat and became aware she was standing next to me with two freshly sharpened pencils.

It was hard to imagine she’d been very productive at her paperwork, if she was paying such close attention she realized when my pencil inventory was fully depleted. But that was her problem, not mine. I took them with an appreciative nod and continued my enumeration of what the serious crimes unit was supposed to do about it when a newborn (indicated by estimated age of under three weeks) infant was found dead in a residential district in poor weather conditions without anything to indicate who either of the parents were, and no footprint on file with the Lytian temple.

Before I knew it this was all over and I read back over my five dead-body problems to be certain I hadn’t missed anything, and when I was satisfied with what I had written down I looked at the woman’s hourglass and saw there was sand left in it still. She seemed mildly surprised that I was declaring myself finished.

“Thank you,” I told her as she sealed my exam pages into one of the fancy new types of envelope with a pre-glued flap that one was supposed to lick to seal—remarkable—and despite the tremendous ill-will I had felt toward her earlier, I meant it.

The woman smiled at me.

“I hope you will not take it personally,” I added, “that I would be very pleased never to cross paths with you ever again in all my life.”

She snorted with tired laughter at that, though I hadn’t been committed to that being a funny statement.

“Likewise.”

I was halfway back to the fourth ward before I realized I had no idea what the woman’s name was.

When I pushed open the kitchen door at home an hour after leaving the citadel, Curry did his best to pretend he hadn’t been waiting there mere feet away battling with himself whether to stay or go looking for me ever since I failed to turn up for dinner.

“It took a little longer than I thought,” he said in a tone so mild I could tell what a supreme effort he was making not to put too fine a point on that statement, then made a noise of surprise as I bulled into him and hugged him round the middle.

“Did something bad happen?” he asked in distress, but instead of giving him a proper answer I shook my head and leaned harder against him.

“No. Just a hard day. Tell you later,” I said, and because Curry was nothing if not a very good partner, despite his obvious reservations he left off asking anything else and simply folded his big arms around my shoulders.