Fifty pages left. Forty-nine. Forty-eight. Forty-seven. Forty-six. Behind her, her father scrutinised the results she had written down on a piece of paper an hour before. Forty-five. Forty-four. Twelve days until her entrance exam to Harvard University. Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-one. Accelerated. Forty. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight. Thirty-seven. Thirty-six. Thirty-five. Her father coughed. He put the paper away in a folder. Thirty-four. Thirty-thirty-three. Thirty-two. Thirty-one. Thirty. She thought only of the results; of taking her exams as soon as possible to start university and study whatever she wanted. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six. Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Twenty-three. Twenty-two. Twenty-one. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Her relatives had advised her to relax, that she was only six years old, that there would be time later to go to college and get her doctorate as she wanted. Her grandmother had talked to her father about delaying admission to Harvard; and her father had asked her. She refused to delay her admission. Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two.
One.
She closed the book. A tired sigh of relief escaped her. She resisted admitting that her head hurt a little. Her father stood back up and approached her, gently resting a hand on her tiny shoulder. She spun around in the chair and jumped to the floor, clutching her father's relinquished hand.
"Are you going to need that book again?" Her father pointed to the volume he had closed.
"No," she answered quickly.
Holding hands, father and daughter left the study where Edward Ashford once dwelled. She was supposed to have finished an hour earlier to lessen the workload, but both were systematically ignoring the recommendations of the psychologists her father had hired to unravel the mystery of her intelligence. They had all concluded, and long ago, that she was exceptional. They did not understand how a little girl had outperformed established scientists and Nobel Prize winners in intelligence tests. So incredible was her ability that it had rendered obsolete the curricula they had designed for her. In the end, her grandmother and father suggested a routine to which she unquestioningly subscribed because of its effectiveness. The routine had consisted of alternating a couple of hours of study with an hour of rest because her grandmother had insisted that, regardless of her intelligence, she was a child and, as a child, she should make the most of her childhood and play. She understood her grandmother's concern, since she too wanted to play, but she was indifferent to the exaggerated concern for her childhood. She did similar things to Alfred and had gone to school to take her preparatory classes. If childhood consisted of primary and secondary school, as all children were expected to do, she was glad she didn't have a childhood.
They went to her bedroom, where her father bade her goodnight, hugged her and kissed her on the forehead. The nanny, who came in as her father left, helped her undress and put on her silk pyjamas. She went to bed by herself while the nanny turned off the lights and closed the door.