―I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.

―Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong’s satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissues of his lips. A sweetened boy’s breath. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico Road, Dalkey.

―Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.

All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.

―Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy’s shoulder with the book, what is a pier.

―A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the waves. A kind of bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.