13 years earlier.


    Eloise was with Arran through the entire second predictions this time. She conferred with Alastair to ensure of it beforehand: Taking their occasional stroll through Battersea park (when Arran was nearly seventeen months), Eloise, not knowing when she would see Alastair again before the second prediction, turned to ask him, “Do you remember the first predictions?”


    “Yes, dear. What about it?” His tone was cheery and Eloise didn’t know what to think of it. In fact, he was more frequently off character in this way – and she found it oddly unfortunate that it reminded her more of the man he used to be – the man that she had fallen in love with.


    “Oh, I just want to make sure that that experience isn’t going to be repeated in any way again.”


    Alastair was pensive. “I think I know what you mean. Are you referring to the not receiving Arran back part?”


    “That, yes. Also, the being separated from him part. The incompetent and untruthful handling of staff part. Your terrifying hidden agenda looming about part…”


    “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have a terrifying agenda.”


    “Okay, only to you! From your perspective it’s also not hidden; but if you were to let everyone in on what your scheming, I’m confident that to most it would be a regime both morally corrupt and terrifying.”


    “But you don’t even know what it is.”


    “I know enough. And I know you.”


    Alastair made an expression with slightly hunched shoulders and wandering eyes, reluctantly granting a valid point. “Quite so…And believe me I know...I’m not expecting wide acceptance initially. These things take time.”


    Eloise let out a deep sigh, as if pushing out all further objections to the last extent of her breathe. Just let it go, Eloise. Arguing with him on this topic will get us nowhere.


    “Anyways…” Eloise said.


    Alastair picked up again. “Well, to your point, I can understand how it wouldn’t be ideal for any mother not to receive their child back from the hospital...” He looked at Eloise, anticipating that she was on the edge of her tried patience; and judging by the look on her face, he wasn’t wrong. “You have my word that it won’t happen again. I’ll speak with the hospitals management to make the arrangements.”


    “Oh, yes that fine woman that informed me that Arran was with you.” She looked at Alastair as she managed the next sentence facetiously. “Yes, please let her know and send my regards.”


    “Ah, you mean Orphee.”


    Eloise kept her gaze and made herself clear, “Listen Alastair, I want access into the chambers. There shouldn’t be a moment that I have to be away from Arran. I would also like for you to be there instead of hiding in the back somewhere. And yes, Orphee…I don’t want to see that bitch again.”


    ***


    So, as it was arranged, Eloise was in the chambers with Arran as his prediction was administered. She stood right next to the assistant wherever she went. And Eloise took some pleasure in casually abusing her new privilege, standing just a little too close, asking one too many simple questions, handling some of the equipment. The whole thing was an absolute novelty to the elderly assistant; and by the end of it, when she saw that Eloise was walking toward the printed results, she frantically tried to say something that would make her wait.


    “Uh, Mrs-Mrs. Hue, can you…”


    As she saw that Eloise was not in the least responsive to her name, marching for the printer without regard to anything else, she quickly understood that she was simply going do what she was going to do. So, she thought it pointless to waste her breath in trying to say more. Besides, she told herself, why stir trouble with an Aesthete who clearly knows people in high places? This assumption was based on the fact that she had been an administer for over 30 years and had never once before been in a situation where a visitor had access into the chambers.Stolen story; please report.


    As Eloise looked over the results she wasn’t sure what to think. Not only did the report seem unnecessarily difficult to understand, but Arran’s case was a weird one.


    Slightly frustrated, she turned to the assistant, “what does this mean?”


    The assistant gently took the papers with her old hands, “Hmm, well right off the bat I can tell you that his scores reflect an improvement in every category – much higher than what most improve by, I might add.”


    Eloise was pleased to hear this, but it didn’t answer the big question: “So is he an Aesthete?”


    The assistant turned the page, “Well, technically no.”


    “What do you mean technically?”


    The assistant went on to explain:


    “The results showed that his Passion rose a few marks, from 62 to 65, which is just a little higher than the common Innocent.


    “Okay, that’s irrelevant,” Eloise said impatiently. “What about his fluency?”


    The old woman flipped another page. “As to his fluency, his score rose a considerable amount, from 51 to 72.” The assistant took a second look as if she thought she’d misread. “I’ve actually never seen such an increase in fluency, that’s quite remarkable.”


    “And his intelligence?”


    “Ah yes, and as for his intelligence,” she turned the page and scrolled down with her finger, “a moderate increase, from 48 to 57.”


    “So, what does that mean for his status? He’s at least a Lumen, right?”


    “Well, according to the conventional standards within the Greater U.K., these scores mean that Arran is fundamentally an Innocent, and yet clearly not. As I mentioned, his intelligence is nearly double that of an average Innocent; his fluency nearly triples the average. If anything, his profile matches more closely with a Lumen than the other two.”


    “How close?”


    The old woman looked at the data and did the quick math. “He’s just 3 marks short in intelligence to fit into the Lumen category.” She then peered up thoughtfully from the last page as she let the others fall from her hand, collecting themselves evenly under the guidance of a stapled corner. “You know, in all my forty-two years of doing this, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this…”


    “Yes, it’s clearly absurd! An Aesthete with an Innocent child” – Eloise shook her head as if to erase the thought – “So, what are we going to do?”


    The assistant looked at Eloise in confusion, being uncertain for how to respond to her question. Clearly, the boy is to be filed as an Innocent since that’s what the benchmark dictates. And she knew she made that clear to Eloise, that Arran was technically an Innocent; because of course, when it comes to dictating social status, it was a technical decision. The rules were clear about that: status was always to be a black and white judgement. (Which was why Innocents, such as herself, could make such a call: the codes for what dictated an individual’s social status was already determined by a board of Aesthetes. In other words, there was nothing for an Innocent in her position to decide. The job was simply matching numbers with names. If by chance there were a silver lining left to parse through, the final ruling for such an assessment would certainly not be left to the jurisdiction of an Innocent).


    So, with the conviction of one who knows her place, she responded, “Mrs. Hue, the only thing that I’m authorized to do is to create a file that represents the data given according to our criteria. Therefore, I have no other option but to record your son as an Innocent.”


    “That won’t be necessary,” a deep voice announced.


    Both heads quickly snapped to the source of the voice. To the left of Eloise, there at the threshold of an entry, stood Alastair gently leaning on the doorframe in their direction.


    “I’ll take it from here, Donna.” He addressed the assistant while approaching them. “If I may.” He gave an outstretched hand that signaled his want for the report.


    After having it in his possession, he addressed her again. “You’re excused.”


    The assistant was vexed by this man’s sudden intrusion. But it was the fact that he knew her name, this mysterious gentleman, and that he entered with such authority and style of ownership, that she couldn’t help but surrender to his command.


    Lightly bowing, she took her exit without a word.


    Alastair then looked to Eloise, “I’ll deal with this.”


    There were many times that she had doubted Alastair’s words in the past – an instinct trained through many lies and unfulfilled promises – that even though she was blocked from reading his mind, lines of untruth hardly went undetected. But when he spoke then, she was happy to find that there was none of that, nothing which she could pin as false; she was confident that he meant what he had said.


    Thinking about it further: This was the good and terrible thing about Alastair – that whatever he meant to do would surely come to pass. He was that kind of man.


    Thus, at age two, Arran’s second round of predictions proved to be only marginally less unfortunate than the first. But because of the fact that Arran was so close to being within the score range of a potential Aesthete (Lumen), and because of the less-than-reputable but nevertheless powerful connections of Alastair, a new category was created to distinguish Arran. This was simply called, “Out of Category.”