Andrei POV
Michaelmas Term, 1980
Oxford in autumn was a picture of venerable hustle. The spires seemed to pierce the low, grey sky, and the air carried the scent of damp leaves and old stone. We had come to the Dragon School, not just for Daphne's class showcase, but at Margaret's quiet insistence. "It's time she saw the next step," she'd said, and beneath her words was the unspoken truth: it was time for her to be *seen*.
The Dragon buzzed with a different energy than Eton. It was younger, brighter, a preparatory furnace for the Oxford colleges themselves. Children in blue jumpers darted across quadrangles with a confident ease that spoke of privilege and potential. Daphne, clutching Margaret's hand, took it all in with her wide, observant eyes. She was not intimidated; she was cataloguing.
The showcase was held in a hall adorned with student art—bold paintings and precise geometrical sculptures. Daphne's class, the ten-year-olds, presented a "Symposium of the Senses." It was not a simple play. One group performed a short scene from *A Midsummer Night's Dream* in French. Another demonstrated the physics of sound with homemade instruments. Daphne's part was characteristic.
She stood alone at a lectern, a small, composed figure. "I will present a comparative analysis of architectural motifs in the Oxford cityscape," she announced, her voice clear. Using a carousel of slides she'd helped arrange, she pointed out how the Gothic arches of the Bodleian conveyed "aspiration and order," while the rounded Saxon towers of St. Michael's felt "protective and rooted." She connected them to the Dragon School's own hybrid architecture. "It's a bridge," she concluded simply. "Between the old protective walls and the new, aspiring sky."
It was a breathtakingly mature observation for a child, delivered not with pretension, but with the calm curiosity of a natural scholar. I saw Margaret's friends, a small cluster of academics and one influential editor from Oxford University Press, leaning forward, intrigued. This was the "balanced intelligence" in action—art, history, and emotional perception woven into a single, keen insight.
Afterward, over tea in a senior common room, the introductions were made. Mum's circle was sharp, kind, and intellectually formidable.
Professor Eleanor Vance (History, my old Penguin editor, it turned out, was also a fellow of St. Hilda's) smiled at Daphne. "Your observation about bridges was rather profound, my dear. Do you enjoy finding the links between things?"
Daphne nodded. "It's like a puzzle where all the pieces are from different boxes, but they still fit."
Dr. Aris Thorne*(Economics, and a distant cousin of the venture capitalist Alistair) chuckled. "A formidable metaphor for interdisciplinary study." He turned to me. "And you're the strategist at Eton, I hear? Your brother is making waves at Harrow. A family of distinct vectors."
Mr. Benji Cohen, the OUP editor, was most direct. "That children's series of yours, the cat in the museum. It's clever. It teaches lateral thinking. There's a market for that kind of structured imagination. Have you considered a companion series for older readers? Something with historical puzzles?"
The conversation flowed around us, a network of minds. I watched Daphne blossom under the genuine, non-condescending attention. She answered questions about her favorite books and her interest in animal behavior with a thoughtful grace that captivated the room. This was her element—not performance, but dialogue.
For me, the visit was a strategic reconnaissance. The Dragon was a feeder not just for Oxford, but for a certain kind of mind. The System quietly logged the contacts, cross-referencing Dr. Thorne with his cousin's venture capital firm, noting Eleanor Vance's dual role in publishing and academia. These were the gatekeepers of legitimacy in the world of ideas.
On the train back to London, Daphne was quiet, looking out at the blurring countryside. "I liked it there," she said finally. "The stones have stories, and the people listen to them."
Mum put an arm around her. "You could tell them a story they haven't heard yet."
I saw the path crystallizing. Damien's arena was the physical and social field of Harrow and Lord's. Mine was the strategic and financial grid of London and the future. Daphne's kingdom would be the world of ideas, of cultural legitimacy. The Dragon School, and later Oxford, would be her training ground to become a professor, a writer, a critic—a respected voice whose endorsement could sanctify a creative project or shape a public conversation.
She would be our family's ultimate credential. And one day, when I launched a film studio or a media empire, having a sister who was Professor Daphne Stevens of Oxford commenting on its cultural merit would be an asset no amount of venture capital could buy.
The train rattled on, carrying us home. Three siblings, three diverging paths. But for the first time, I saw the blueprint of how those paths could one day converge to build something unassailable. Damien would provide the public platform, I would build the engine, and Daphne, from her Oxford spire, would grant it the lasting light of respectability.
A/N
Daphne has been seen and marked by a powerful academic circle. The Dragon School is now a likely destination for her. How will this new, clear path for Daphne influence Andrei's long-term planning? Will he begin to subtly curate her education or opportunities to align with his future needs, and if so, how does he navigate the ethics of shaping his sister's destiny?)