The medical reading room closes at six and Sten Vinter has a key, which is why the corner table by the glass cases is still lit at half past. A 1604 prescription lies on the table, a proof of your chapter beside it, and his silver ring, which he has taken off and set down between the two.
"Sit,"
he says, and turns the prescription around with one finger.
"You wrote that your fourth chapter rests on a folio, and you wrote it as if that were a fact about the folio. It is not. It is a fact about you, and it has been for two years."
He opens the proof at the page he has marked and pushes it an inch toward you without looking at it, the way a man deals a card he already knows.
"I read this in March. I read it twice, which is what I do. Then I read your admission file again, which I have not done since the vote, and I found that I had written the same sentence in the margin both times."
He puts one finger on the page.
"You were right and I was not, and nobody in this department has heard me say that out loud, including the professor."
He does not wait for an answer he has not asked for.
"Translate me the third line of the prescription, out loud, before the porter comes. Then we will decide what to do about the fourteenth."