A/N:
Dear Readers,
I am finally back with another chapter, which I know has taken me so long to post. The life has got extremely busy and some events threw me off track. I hope that you will find this long chapter interesting, as was my intention when I was writing it. However, it is not beta-ed, so all the errors, mistakes and inconsistencies with the Victorian era and the voice of our heroine are solely my own doing, despite the time spent in research. You're welcome to point them out. If you're been enjoying the story so far, please consider leaving a review.
Yours, ardently xx
Sunflower
A Morning Thrice Perplexing
The next day I arose earlier than was my habit. With the weight of responsibilities upon my shoulders, I could not afford the luxury of lingering in Morpheus' embrace long after the first rays of the sun had found their way to my little room. I had a multiplicity of tasks on hand: tending the garden, a tutoring hour with Miss Luna, and house-cleaning being my main self-appointed duties for the day. I considered all of these activities agreeable enough, albeit, at the same time, I was already looking forward to that sweet hour of the day where I could cease from the bustle and bid adieu to the world for a couple of blessed hours. With a book in my hand, I was quite regardless of the passage of time.
When I entered the kitchen to prepare a bowl of oatmeal for me and papa, I found him already sitting at the table, a mug of coffee steaming in his hands and a half-finished slice of brown toasted bread on a chipped porcelain plate - his favourite, depicting a scene of a strange-looking creature that resembled an eagle-headed, winged lion cleaving the air with its outstretched majestic pinions. Not being overly familiar with Greek mythology, I could only guess it was a Gryffin.
The remains of the breakfast consisting of toast, cheese and a small variety of seasonal vegetables stood on the table. How fragrant was the steam of coffee, and the aroma of toast, even if slightly burnt, I thought lovingly. Papa was a master when it came to his craft but the more mundane activities such as cooking were not his forte.
I took hold of the other mug of steaming beverage, clearly set there for me. Father looked up from his meal and informed that he was going up north-west to Salisbury soon after to sell some of his artwork. A craft fair was held there each June, drawing all artists, tinkers and craftsmen such as papa from the neighbouring villages and towns. It was a long journey, especially with our old chestnut mare, Nelly, whose years of faithful service and old age showed in its drooping fetlocks, loss of muscle mass, and diminished eyesight, which made her a reliable but rather laggard means of transportation. The poor beast was prone to come to a standstill every now and then to graze on the odd patch of grass while swishing her tail lazily, and papa was not the sort of man to beat it into obedience.
I've been to Salisbury myself on several occasions, used to accompanying my father there when I was still a child. Each such trip appeared to me as a marvellous adventure. I remembered the gentle rocking of the cart, as we entered the woods by a winding path that led through the grove of aged pines, rustling poplars, far spreading elms and sylphlike aspens, breathtaking likewise in their spring verdure and golden autumn attire. I listened with rapture to the exultant birdsong and delighted in the lavishness of Mother Nature, showcasing its riches ungrudgingly to prince and beggar alike, while each bend and curve of the road thrilled me with the echo of adventure awaiting beyond the predictable borders of my hometown.
I enjoyed long conversations with papa that made the lengthy ride a pleasure and reward in itself. He was a born conversationalist, equally engaging in discussing profound truths and philosophical issues about life, suffering and purpose, and laughing over the sweet trivialities. He possessed a natural knack for storytelling, coupled with a flair for the fascinating and the meaningful. Many an evening, I sat enchanted, with father perched at my bedside, weaving tales of adventure, fantasy and romance, and I, hanging on his every word in fascination and wonder of a child. Strange and wonderful creatures were usually the subject of his stories: dragons, giants, goblins, trolls, fairies, mermaids and wizards embarking on magical quests. One story that I found particularly terrifying was about an old and powerful dark Sorcerer whose relentless pursuit for dominance and immortality brought about years of wars and conflict, reaping a harvest of countless innocent lives, and shaking the very foundations of the magical world. There was something in the way papa narrated the story that left a strong impression on my youthful, receptive mind that perhaps beneath the surface of a fearsome children's tale lay shadows of events steeped in reality.
Naturally, as I matured and my understanding of the world broadened, Salisbury, which once seemed to me so brilliant, had lost much of its appeal. I was aware that behind the colour and vibrant excitement of its fairs lurked crime and corruption, while poverty and inequality openly roamed the streets of the city.
Still papa asked, "Are you sure you don't want to keep me company? Nothing would delight me more than journeying with my lovely daughter by my side to make the time pass faster."
I rose from the table and leaned over my father, placing a peck on his wrinkled forehead.
"Oh, Papa but you love being alone as much as I. Besides, I have a project which demands my time and attention. I shall be waiting for you at home. I know you'll do well as always. Your craftwork is magnificent and I wonder why the Queen herself has not sent for you yet to have it displayed in the royal palace for all to admire."
I knew that had he wished to, he could elevate his art above the level of craft and trade. My father, however, did not think it befitting a true artist with a soul, to pursue vainglory, chase idle gold, or court the influence of the noble. He remained modest, unbothered by winning the acclaim of a wider audience. I knew that whether it was a broken handle of an aged kettle belonging to a widowed neighbour of meagre means that demanded repair, or one of his commissioned music boxes sold for considerable sum, he would engage in both tasks with equal fidelity and application.
"To the man who loves art for its own sake, it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived." Father quoted with a smile, thus effectively robbing me of my argument.
Having said that, he finished packing his works into a large woven basket and shut its lid. Despite his protests, I helped him heft it onto the cart awaiting outside, and secure its position with ropes. For a brief moment we stood in silence. I knew he would be back within three days but it was so rare that we suffered a longer separation, and the journey, as was the case of most extended journeys of that time, was also associated with some measure of risk, and a possibility of highway robbery could not be ruled out. Admittingly, neither father in his unassuming faded coat and plain brown trousers, nor his worn, two-wheeled chaise gave any impression of affluence as to make it a desirous object of theft. That thought proved sufficient to stave off my fears.
Father held my hands in his for a while.
"I know my daughter is as persistent as she is resourceful, even if a little hard-headed. When I return I will be glad to hear about the developments of your project. I love you, dear, more than you know."
I hoped the squeeze I gave his hand spoke of my own affection.
In the tender atmosphere of our farewell that ensued, he tightened the straps on Nelly, fixed the bridle, gave the horse a gentle tap and climbed onto the carriage seat. Taking hold of the reins, he said, "Hermione, I've nearly forgotten. Would you do me a favour and take this parcel to Mr Ollivander?" With that, he pulled a small parcel from his breast pocket and handed it to me.
"Yes, Papa." I tucked the package in the folds of my waist pocket.
I wished him godspeed and with a final wave, he gave the reins a toss. Nelly began to trot out of the yard while I stood still for a while, as if fixed in place, watching the cart roll away slowly, its silhouette growing smaller in the distance and darker against the brightening rays of the risen sun.
With my mind already wrapped in my own little world, I directed my steps toward the garden. My eyes swept over this little haven of calm, with young birches and firs planted in the corner, providing both shade from the summer heat, and shelter from the chilly, northern winds. All sorts of old-fashioned flowers grew there: marigolds, violets, sweet-williams, forget-me-nots, nasturtiums, and queenly peonies, contending for beauty with royal roses, splendidly dressed in whites, reds and pinks, along with various fragrant herbs. The gentle breeze carried the sweet fragrance of the blossoms, the fresh aroma of thyme and mint, mingled with the delicate tang of fir-balsam. Having fetched my gardening tools, I spent the following hour there, a sweet hour of labour that rendered me physically wearied to the degree it also had an invigorating effect on my mind and spirit. Next, I fed the poultry and noted, with no small contentment, a dozen eggs that should earn me a little profit (Papa's earnings were sufficient to allow us to live in moderate comfort, though devoid of indulgence of the flesh but I was keen, nonetheless, to pay myself for the ancillaries such as ink and paper).
Having fulfilled my morning duties around the household, I headed toward the Lovegood house to meet with Miss Luna. I found my pupil in the depths of an old orchard adjacent to the house. She was sitting on a swing, her hair ruffled by the wind and forming a little pale halo around her angelic face, with vision fixed somewhere beyond, not aware of my approaching. The air filled with her sweet, high singing voice, "Accio once, Accio twice, let it suit your own device, Swish and flick is all that's needed, you must not doubt but believe it".
Baffled by the unfamiliar song and the strange vocabulary it contained, I paused to listen, but at that moment the girl noticed me and the song died on her lips. She slipped down from the swing and greeted me with a curtsey. I noted she was barefoot, to which she replied, with a forbearing sigh, "It's the nargles' doing, I thought there was one hiding under my bed for the longest time…It is alright, my mum always said things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end. If not always in the ways we expect."
I did not know what to make of her strange string of words, I did not understand what a nargle was and I thought I had misheard her.
"Dear one, tell me, what was the song you were singing? Could you teach it to me?"
A rush of pink blossomed on her cheeks, as if I had caught her engaged in some clandestine activity.
"This is a song my mum frequently sang to me but I can only recall the first two verses," she responded meekly.
"You must miss her tremendously," I said cautiously, watching her reaction to what I imagined was a rather painful subject.
"She passed away when I was still very small but I know I shall see her again. We have parted for several years but will spend many more together, 'behind the veil'."
She sounded very calm and assured, as if she was declaring that the sun shall rise again. Once more, I was amazed at her maturity, so incongruent with her delicate age and ethereal mien.
Together, we entered the house and settled in the small parlour. As my eyes took in the surroundings, I observed that it differed decidedly from every drawing room I had been in.
The room looked much more spacious than the exterior hinted at, as if it had suddenly stretched and expanded upon our entrance. The walls were painted with flowers, insects and birds in bright primary colours, reminiscent of a child's whimsical imagination. The furniture was sparse and outdated, as if each piece was picked at random: a long bench-type table, furnished for our lesson with the nursery book, parchment, quills and a couple of rushlights; next, two plain chairs, a cupboard crammed with eccentric- looking objects of which usage I could only guess, a padded tuffet and a single green rocking chair, with bold high rockers, with a patchwork cushion on the wooden seat. Models of creatures I did not recognise were suspended from the high, circular ceiling and it almost looked like they fluttered, as if animated by an invisible gust of wind, though no rush of air could be felt inside.
Despite the spaciousness and modest furnishing, the Lovegood drawing room appeared disorderly and I quietly pondered how anyone could ever maintain the clarity of thought in this marriage of colour and disarray.
Our lesson passed in a pleasant and productive manner. Miss Luna was a studious, responsive young lady, and her inquisitiveness matched my desire to share the knowledge I acquired; her answers as well as her questions revealed wit and brilliance of mind and I did not spare my praise at the advancements she was making. We had long laid the book of nursery rhymes aside, and moved on to weightier, more serious subjects of study.
Mr Lovegood was not at home, was gone to Bristol, she informed me when I remarked that it was very quiet, and I could not help but shake my head at such evidence of parental irresponsibility and absence of foresight - a candle could have burnt, the house gone aflame and he wouldn't have known. What baffled me even more was her calm acceptance and easiness with which she announced the news.
"Papa often pops in and out. He had left right before you came and said he shall be back in over an hour. Besides he knew you were coming so I would not be entirely on my own."
"Luna, he could not have gone to Bristol this morning and expect to be back so soon. The city is at least a two-hours' ride away and that is only a one-way journey. You must have misunderstood him. What exactly did he say to you? Perhaps he went to the town square to run some errands?"
I thought this was much more probable but the girl insisted calmly that she was not wrong and I found I could not persuade her otherwise. Luna was not a quarrelsome type: she bore my suasions and patiently listened to my line of reasoning, pointing at the logical flaw of her words. At length I grew impressed with her quiet assertiveness and invariably sweet disposition, despite my developing impatience at her father's carefree attitude and what I conjectured, misleading words, for I now believed her narrative and thought her father alone was to blame for making her believe such falsehoods.
I made up my mind to stay with her until his return, as long as it might take. It turned out not to be long; soon after we had concluded our studies, having gone over the content of the lesson briefly again for improved retention, Mr Lovegood materialised. We heard his voice from the hall, calling out to us, "Luna, precious, are you there with Miss Granger?"
In lieu of reply, Luna sprang from the table at once and leapt in her father's direction.
I followed her and saw Mr Lovegoodood standing in the narrow hallway. To anyone who considered his house odd, the owner presented a still more bizarre visage. He was a tall, thin man, slightly cross-eyed and clean-shaven, unheeding of the fashion that demanded a man to grow a respectable beard or a pair of whiskers at the very least.
His white hair streamed down loosely from his head, like torrents of wispy steam. His clothing, I perceived, was un-English: he wore a white cap whose tassel dangled in front of his decisive nose and a double-breasted green-and-orange chequered waistcoat, complemented by a cloak in a shade of daffodil yellow. An odd symbol, rather like a triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around his neck.
He produced a paper bag of fudge and handed it to Miss Luna who let out a delightful squeal. Evidently grateful for the treat, she rose onto her toes and the man stooped down , getting on one knee to meet his daughter in an affectionate embrace. She threw her little arms round his neck and kissed him, while he took her by the hand and twirled her about twice.
All irritation and vexation of the spirit that had been stirring within me vanished at the sight of the scene. There could be no denying that before me stood a doting, loving father, lavish in his displays of affection and interest toward his child. Still, I had to know where he had gone and, should it be Bristol after all, how he succeeded in so prompt a return.
Before I could form a suitable question that would not signal redundant curiosity or presumptuousness on my part, Mr Lovegood addressed me himself, "Miss Granger, thank you for agreeing to tutor my Luna. I had a business to attend to, and I probably ought to have waited for your arrival but Luna said you're very careful in matters of punctuality and she would occupy herself till you came."
It crossed my mind that I had not expressed my gratitude for entrusting his daughter's learning to me. Of all parents in the village I had coaxed and reasoned with, he was the first to respond favourably and grant his permission.
"Mr Lovegood, I'm delighted to teach her. Your daughter is applying herself splendidly and I am thankful to be the one to witness her progress. Of course you're aware I received no formal instruction and I am mostly self-taught, nevertheless reading, and writing for that matter, are vital fragments of my own identity, and I am exceedingly glad to share them with a pupil so earnest. I only fear that in a few years' time she will require more than I can offer her, in other fields of study that is.
To my surprise, he waved his hand dismissively.
"I appreciate your concern, Miss Granger but this has long been settled. Luna was enrolled at school the day she was born. She will begin her formal education at age eleven."
My eyes grew wide at this announcement. I knew that the Lovegoods were not particularly well-to-do, I could infer that much from their house interior and their choice of clothing, although perhaps the latter was rather a product of the head of the family's distinctiveness of taste. How could he then afford to send Luna to school with it being so costly an affair?
"Please do not think me overly bold but can I enquire about the name and location of the institution where you'll be sending your daughter? It happens to be an area of my personal interest?"
"I'm afraid this information must remain confidential," Mr Lovegood replied apologetically. I wondered if it was said for my sake, or Luna's. After a long pause, as if he was contemplating how much he can disclose, he added, "The boarding school of which Luna will be a pupil resides in the Scottish Highlands."
Perceptibly in a hurry, or perhaps wishing to evade further interrogation, he did not wait for my response or reaction. I looked at the girl, she did not appear surprised or distraught, so I surmised it was not a novel piece of news to her.
"Now, if you'd excuse me," he said with a bow and I took it as my cue to leave, though he was very polite and subtle about it.
When I finally departed from the Lovegood house, the striking of the town's tower clock announced the eleventh hour and the sun had unveiled the brightness of his coming upon the borders of the cloudless sky. It occurred to me that in the end I had forgotten to ask about Mr Lovegood's supposed visit to Bristol.
My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in form of the visit to the town blacksmith's shop, that is Mr Ollivander, to deliver the said package. When I did not find him in his workshop, I laid the little parcel on the working surface, next to a long-handled pair of tongs. Not wishing to loiter, I intended to make for the exit, when my eyes fell on a small door in the far-end corner, previously hidden out of sight. The door was slightly ajar and must have led to a compartment I had never known was there, not that I frequented the blacksmith workshop particularly often. Perhaps my neighbour was in there, I reasoned. I thought there was no harm in investigating so I took a peek into the room behind the door.
There, I discovered rows upon rows of shelves, taller than I, filled with small rectangular-shaped containers of charcoal grey, which resembled glove boxes a little. Intrigued by this novel sight, I took a step through a narrow passage that led between the shelves on either side, so narrow that even with my small frame I had to tread carefully. With no conscious design on my part, I stopped in front of a cabinet in the third row and found myself reaching out to the shelf. My hand froze mid-air - I could have sworn I sensed a buzzing energy emitting from one of the boxes; this perception ought to leave me apprehensive but it rather fuelled my excited curiosity and hurried me forth.
Before I could let the reason prevail, I snatched one case from its place, while my fingertips felt for the opening notch. I half- expected the box to be sealed off but the lid gave way easily.
How surprised I was to find nothing more but a stick resting on a satin lining, long and made of wood, its rigid simplicity relieved by an element of vine pattern near the handle. Seized by a sudden longing to close my hands over the baton, I could hardly suppress it, though I was now certain this room and view were not meant for my prying eyes. I suspected I had known all along but inherent curiosity would not permit me to forego the opportunity to explore. I was struck with a strange impression that something momentous and significant would take place if I was to carry on.
With my fingers almost brushing the smooth surface, I hesitated, and then I heard a pronounced clearing of the throat, which caused me to drop the entire box and its contents, which landed on the floor with a soft rattle.
"Miss Granger?"
Feeling my cheek warm with the thought that I have been caught mousing about, especially by Mr Ollivander whom I deeply respected and wished to think well of me, I turned, anticipating his indignation, which would have been well justified. However, casting a furtive glance at him, I noted that although his brows were knitted together, his face did not bear any markings of anger or disappointment but rather of interest and curiosity.
"I-my father asked me to deliver a package. Please believe me I did not intend to overstep the line. I only heard this strange buzzing noise…" I paused, thinking that what I was going to say would not make much sense and Mr Ollivander was ready to think I was not in my right mind. I motioned to the object I had left atop the working surface in the shop, visible through the door opening from where we were presently standing.
"Thank you." He replied, his eyes not even shifting to the indicated parcel as he continued penetrating me with a studious gaze.
Not knowing what else to say, I murmured quiet apologies and goodbyes and left hurriedly, too flustered to pause and pick up the scattered contents of the box. Retreating back to the street I was followed by his curious gaze through the window pane.
Thoroughly dazed by the experience, not even stopping to calm my excited nerves and allow my quickened breath a chance to recover, I hastened on along the road. I was bent to return to the comfort of my own house, I needed time on my own to consider all the peculiar things that had been said and observed: Miss Luna's song, the unfamiliar creature she referred to -was it a nargle? The discussion of Mr Lovegood's whereabouts, his unannounced return - I did not think I even heard him enter through the door but I could be mistaken, and finally the rather astonishing revelation about the mysterious boarding school Luna was to attend. I could make no sense of it all. Out of them all, the experience in Mr Ollivander's workshop was by far the most striking.
Entirely lost in thought and unwatchful of the path ahead, I found myself stumbling straight into a solid chest. Alarmed and dismayed by the collision, from which impact I nearly buckled, I felt two muscular arms closing momentarily on mine, drawing me up, so that for a few seconds their owner and I were engulfed in an awkward embrace.
"Hermione, how is it that we can't even pass each other by without you falling into my arms. " I heard a smooth voice that I immediately recognised, "It's as if the stars have envisioned us together, as if we are but helpless victims of the mighty workings of fate attempting to unite us."
"Mr Lockhart." I nodded courteously though it did not come easily to me, speaking to that hateful man. A stronger, more spirited reaction that such spoken words would normally elicit from me, was tempered by the feeling on my face burning hotly, still aflame from the awkward position I had whisked myself in by my own carelessness.
"Why do you insist on continuing in such official airs? We've known each other since childhood. Though, I must say that I would have never guessed this bushy-haired creature would grow into such a charming lady." He said, trailing his gaze down my form in an unseemly manner that only aggravated my discomfort and displeasure. I grew self-conscious under his prolonged stare and instinctively crossed my arms over my chest, in self defence.
"You ought to call me by name-Gilderoy" he added with an upturn of his mouth, his eyes finally returning to my face.
"I'd rather not. We may have been long acquainted but I do not think we are intimate enough to drop the official titles," I said, rather too hastily, reflecting on the unfortunate choice of my words, which in this situation could sound… suggestive.
"But there is no obstacle in getting us better acquainted, or, as you said, intimate. It is really Providence's doing that I found you here for I was looking for you all over our little town." With that, he presented me with a bouquet of lillies. "For your evening table, shall I join you this evening?"
"I'm afraid I have to decline," I said without providing the reason. The fewer exchanges with this man, the better, lest he misread my intentions.
Judging by his baffled look he had not been expecting a negative reply. The arm bearing the spurned offering of flowers dropped to his side.
"I must say I'm surprised. Can you give me a valid reason as to your refusal?"
"My plate is full at the moment."
"What could be more important than the affairs of friendship, love and romance?" He said, spreading his lips what he thought must have been an irresistible smile.
"Perhaps providing the village children with proper education to alleviate them from poverty."
Lockhart shot me an incredulous look.
"Hermione," he began and again I flinched at his audacious insistence to continue using my given name when I made it clear that I did not wish him to, "Your sentiments are most admirable but surely you would not dream to assume such an immense task on your delicate shoulders? I fear you might crumble under its weight."
I bit my lip, irked as much by his words as the tone he used, as if one who must humour an unreasonable child.
"Besides, people do not value education and learning as much as a pretty face and a muscular frame."
"Weak as I may be, physically, I endeavour to accomplish my task, with others' approval, or without. In regard to your worship of physical power, you should know, Mr Lockhart, the man's greatness lies, not in being strong, but in the right using of strength; and strength is not used rightly when it serves only to carry a man above his fellows for his own solitary glory." I replied pleased that I had a suitable quote at hand, but the stinging effect of my words was lost on him.
"As to your assumption of the superiority of aesthetics over substance, and external beauty over keen mind, bright wit and worthy character - I most decidedly do not share your opinion."
"Fortunately, Miss Granger, you seem to be in possession of all these," I heard him whisper as he leaned in, and brushed a lock of my hair behind my ear.
I froze but for a second and then shook my head, astonished by the outright forwardness of his conduct. I felt a strong inclination to strike a blow at his face, so unbearably close to mine, but in time I collected myself, restraining myself to words alone to convey my displeasure.
"I wish to be left alone." I said through gritted teeth, adding, "please" only by the virtue of my good-bearing.
"Your wish is my command, Milady," he said, stepping away with a mocking bow and insincere smile planted upon his lips, but there was a resonance of a threat to his voice rather than wilful compliance and acceptance at my rejection of his advances.
I could not believe I once harboured more than a hint of attraction for that man in my adolescence. Gilderoy Lockhart was an admittedly fine-looking man, though a bit too prim and polished for my present liking.
Several years older than I, he was endowed with good features, bright and clear complexion, a mane of neatly-groomed golden tresses adorning his temples, a pair of eyes of periwinkle blue shade, and a very expressive smile. His clothes were always immaculate, even excessively so, for his apparel, from his jacquard-woven silk suit in a shade of mauve, comprising a waistcoat, embroidered with a floral motif in gold thread and sequins, and tight breeches, to the frilly white shirt with antique cufflinks and silver buckled shoes, gave him the look of a dandy.
He arrived at our village as I entered my seventeenth year, and with the naïveté of my age, the time I first laid my eyes on him, he seemed to me an embodiment of masculine virtue and chivalry. How prone to error was I in my esteem! In a short time, I learned that charm can be deceitful and a beautiful and pleasant exterior sometimes concealed an ugly and worthless soul. Vanity was indeed the beginning and the end of Gilderoy Lockhart, a trait barely tolerable in the female kind and positively insufferable in a man.
He was raised to the rank of something of a local hero, well-nigh unanimously admired by the villagers for his self- proclaimed war heroics. As a former army captain, he commanded the attention of the general public with his ravishing tales of fierce battles and prodigious acts of valour, which, combined with his good looks, inspired strong romantic feelings in the female part of the community.
Now, as we stood before each other, I felt convinced that the spell of his charm, under which I had once fallen, lost its hold on me completely and irrevocably. Furthermore, I was far from gratified in being an object of his yearnings and matrimonial sentiments myself. I did not suppose I had ever given him any encouragement so I could not sympathise with such impulses, especially when expressed in such an overt and forthright manner.
Nevertheless, fortunately for me, Mr Lockhart left soon afterwards, for which I was immensely grateful. The morning had already been perplexing enough on account of my exchange with Mr Lovegood and young Luna, followed by the strange experience in Mr Ollivander's workshop, and I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to wait a couple of days before I could discuss these incidents with my father, in whose judgement I placed great confidence.
Little did I know then that these were only a prelude to the events that would propel me onto a path of discovery and leave indelible marks on my life.