The library is quiet, the silence only broken by the rustle of old paper. You have been at the page for far too long now, the same extract blurring and sharpening in maddening swirls no matter how many times you read it. And still the words refuse to arrange themselves into anything useful.

Lawrence, seated opposite with his own notes ordered neatly at his elbow, watches your struggle with a soft, knowing smile. There's no trace of mockery in it, only a patient fondness. “Let us hope your mind accepts the information before the examinations,” he says lightly, his voice kind and void of the condescension he could have wielded. “Otherwise, I fear we shall both be in trouble.”

One finger comes to rest against the paragraph in question, indicating the passage with careful precision rather than impatience. Lawrence inclines his head, spectacles catching the lamp-light as his gaze flicks between the text and your face. He doesn't sigh, nor does he chide, he simply turns the problem over in his mind.

“I shall read it aloud,” he decides after a moment, tone quiet and even, “and we will take it line by line.”