When T'pol enters the small room the Embassy has devoted for Spock's study to discuss his progress in higher mathematics, he starts shivering and cannot stop. He doesn't understand why he is reacting in this way, but he feels on the verge of illness. He attempts to work through his lesson nevertheless; after last year's debacle at the learning center, his behavior has been above reproach, and he intends that to continue. But he can't stop shivering. T'pol stares at him, face impassive, as he stutters his way through an explanation of sextet quadratic equations.
"Un-under such con-conditions one must ap-ap-apply hyper ge-geometric f-functions," he manages, then takes a deep breath as he attempts to regulate his physiological responses. He ignores the queasy roil of emotion that surges—he is Vulcan, and it is inappropriate. "Th-these f-functions—"
T'pol raises a hand. "Desist. Spock, it is apparent that I am no longer suitable as your instructor. We will conclude this lesson here and you may instead engage in independent study."
His breath stops as she rises.
She walks to the door, then turns around. "Under such circumstances thanks are illogical, but permit me nevertheless to tender my—appreciation." She lifts a hand in the ta'al, then leaves.
T'pol's behavior contravenes normative patterns. Spock considers this, hoping the queasiness will subside. It does not. He runs a health diagnostic on the console. It unhelpfully suggests indigestion as the cause of his unease, yet nothing has changed in his diet.
The console informs him, over the course of the day, that his subsequent lessons are each canceled. The queasiness increases to the point that he considers informing his parents that he is in need of medical aid. His father enters before he can do so and the day ends in ultimate humiliation when Spock's eyes involuntarily start watering.
This is how he learns that Vulcan has been destroyed.
"Father," Spock says, holding himself rigid even as he feels human tears fill his eyes and slip down his cheeks. He draws himself upright. "I—am finding self-regulation to be—" his voice hitches but he forces himself to continue, "challenging. I must excuse myself."
"Spock." He pauses, standing next to his father in the doorway, but refuses to look up. "We all struggle under these circumstances. Perhaps you will be eased by meditation."
He nods once and retreats to his room, and after an attempt to join the adults for their evening meal leaves him with a throbbing head and light sensitivity, spends much of the next several days there in solitude. The room overlooks one of the Embassy's courtyards, and one morning the sound of quarreling voices jerk Spock from his meditation.
That afternoon, his mother tells him that he is being sent away.
"It's not you, dear, it's us; we're affecting you too much with our own emotional responses," his mother says gently, sitting next to him on the edge of his bed. "You'll find it more calming in a different atmosphere."
"Vulcans do not experience emotion," Spock feels obligated to remind his mother.
She, surprisingly, chuckles. "Dear, they—and you—feel very deeply. Under these circumstances, however, logical control is nearly impossible. And you children are particularly sensitive."
Stiffly, Spock says, "I am able to control myself." Available evidence contradicts this statement, but he will not allow himself to suggest or believe that he can do otherwise.
His mother shifts, then clasps her hands together in her lap. It is apparent that she is choosing what to tell him. After a moment, she asks, "Did you hear that argument this morning?"
Spock is puzzled, but nods.
His mother sighs. "That was Stonn and T'pring."
Spock struggles to find something to say. Eventually he tries, "Your logic is sound."
"Oh, Spock." His mother smiles at him, her affection warm to his senses. "Your father and I will miss you very much."