I Loaded the Occult Panel

The Ambrosian Library sat at the end of a narrow alley.

Its facade was modest. Centuries of hands had polished the granite lintel to a smooth gleam.

Wooden crates were stacked in the courtyard, and hemp ropes sat in piles beneath the pillars. The air smelled of paste, camphor, and old leather.

A dozen or so young men were hunched over tables, copying books. The rustling of their pens merged into a continuous sheet of sound.

Every so often, someone would pull their right hand back to shake it out before returning to the transcription.

”Professor Mortimer. Mr. Williams.”

Luca squeezed his way through the gap between the tables, carrying his usual stack of papers in his arms.

”You’ve arrived at a good time. The curator is inside.”

The curator was a frail old priest. He stood in the center of the Fico Hall, only reaching the top edge of the wooden crates beside him. The crevices of his fingernails were stained with ink.

”Professor Mortimer.” He offered a bow and led them to the innermost room for the routine tour, showing off the collection to guests who had traveled from afar.Naturally, only a Scholar received such treatment.

Wooden shelves lined the innermost room, and a massive tome lay flat across one of them.

”This is the Codex Atlanticus.”

”Over three hundred years ago, a Spanish collector gathered all of Leonardo’s scattered pages, pasted them onto mounting boards of this size, and bound them into a single volume.”

The old priest puffed out his chest with pride at the mention of the name.

The first thing that caught Richard’s eye was the writing. Dense rows of text crawled from right to left, and every stroke was reversed.

”Mirror writing.”

”He was left-handed,” Mortimer explained. ”Some say he did this to prevent others from peeking.”

The old professor shook his head.

”He wrote a dozen pages every day. If a man did this just to ward off thieves, he’d tire himself to death.”

Richard pulled out Venus’s silver mirror. Right on cue, the reflection reversed the writing back to normal.

Through the mirror, Richard faintly recognized the text as the Tuscan dialect—from the region of Florence—four hundred years ago.

The spelling was entirely the writer’s own invention; he added vowels wherever he pleased.

He ran through his Learning, but his database lacked a matching reference chart.

So, he abandoned the words and looked at the drawings instead.

A series of gears was sketched on that page. The second page showed water, and the third displayed a diagram of a dismantled bird’s wing.

The next item was a drafted canvas that took up an entire wall.

It depicted a crowd of people. Some were arguing, some were writing, and others sat on the steps, resting their heads on their hands.

Two figures walked forward in the center; one pointed a hand toward the sky, while the other pressed a palm downward.

The old priest was equally proud of this piece. ”This is Raphael’s large cartoon for ’The School of Athens.’ The fresco on that wall in the Vatican was transferred from this very paper.

”But they later added another figure to the painting. You would know if you’ve seen it.”

Richard stepped around to the side. ”May I take a closer look?”

”You may, but do not touch.”

He leaned in and noticed tiny holes along the edges of the lines.

There were tens of thousands of these holes across the entire sheet.

”It’s called pouncing,” the old priest explained from the side.

”You press the paper against the wall and pat a bag of charcoal dust along the holes. The dust slips through, leaving a trail of dots on the wall. The painter then follows those dots.”

The final item was a camphor wood box lined with velvet. Inside lay dozens of palm-sized slips of paper.

”An illustrated ’Iliad’ from the fifth century. The original pages are long gone; people later cut the illustrations out and pasted them onto other paper for preservation.”

Richard looked down and saw that the colors were still intact.

Red for robes, blue for water. Most of the gold leaf had flaked off, and what remained looked dim beneath the light.

The figures in the illustrations were all short with large heads and arms longer than their legs.

One drawing showed two armies shouting at each other across a river, their mouths wide open.

Richard stood before the box for a long time. The seal upon it was incredibly tight, letting almost no ether leak out while guarding against malicious destruction.

But ”almost no” meant there was still a tiny bit, and it would be a waste not to take it.

Richard knew that despite the abundance of exhibits, he only had one chance to absorb points.

After a single attempt, the curator would never let him get this close a second time, so he picked the oldest piece.

Richard extended his hand forward, feigning the intent to closely inspect the figures in the drawing.

[Available Points: 2.18... 2.29... 2.33]

The absorption speed grew slower and slower, but it was still something.

[Available Points: 2.35... 2.37]

He shifted half a step closer, stopping with his nose less than a palm’s width from the parchment.

[Available Points: 2.39... 2.43]

”Mr. Williams.”

The curator’s voice sounded behind him, and a hand tapped lightly on his shoulder.

Richard decided to quit while ahead, stepping back to where he belonged.

The old priest’s eyes narrowed behind his pince-nez, staring at the young man’s hand.

”Your hand.”

Richard pulled his hand back, scraping away the last trace of seeping ether while he was at it.

[Available Points: 2.46]

”My apologies, I got too close. I’ve never seen such a precious original artwork before, and I got a bit carried away...”

The curator nodded, not finding it strange. He had been that age once himself.

”It’s fine. Just don’t let it happen again.”

”Father, I’d like to ask about someone.”

Mortimer leaned his cane against a pillar and clasped his hands together in front of him.

”Does the library have an administrator like this: in his forties, of average height, with a pencil tucked behind his ear?”

The old priest looked troubled.

”We have quite a few people here who match that description. I don’t know which one you mean.”

”He led me down to the fourth floor.”

The old priest gave him a perplexed look.

”Professor, there is no fourth floor in this library.”

Mortimer touched his thinning hair, unsure of how to follow that up.

Over the next half hour, Mortimer asked everything he could.

The duty roster was pulled out. Seven administrators had been on duty over the past few days, and all seven were currently moving crates in the courtyard.

Mortimer went to look and found them sweating profusely from the labor. They didn’t look remotely profound or mysterious, and besides, none of their faces matched.

The payroll ledger was brought out. After checking it thoroughly, the accountant threw his hands up.

”Sir, when it comes to issuing wages, it’s impossible for us to pay an extra, non-existent person.”

The library cards issued over the past few days were also retrieved. The old priest compared them one by one until he had checked them all.

”Professor, the person you mentioned has never been here.”

Mortimer sighed softly. He had known it wouldn’t be that easy.

”Sorry to have troubled you.”

”It’s no trouble. If you remember anything else, feel free to ask me anytime.”

The old priest left, leaving just the two of them under the cloister.

”Professor, you originally wanted to introduce me to someone?” Richard asked.

Mortimer did not deny it.

”Yes. Unfortunately, our luck is poor. He doesn’t want to see us.”

He pointed his cane toward the courtyard.

”Alright, let’s drop the subject. You still have your transcription task this afternoon.”

At two in the afternoon, the copyists took their break.

About twenty young men scattered from the long tables and flooded under the cloister in the courtyard.

Some soaked their wrists in basins of cold water, while others crouched on the steps, gnawing on bread hard enough to hammer nails.

Luca squeezed his way over, holding two small white porcelain cups.

”Mr. Williams.”

”Call me Richard.”

”Then please don’t call me Mr. Valle. Everyone calls me Luca.”

He handed over one of the cups and added quite formally:

”No sugar.”

Three or four people under the cloister laughed aloud.

Richard held the eye-wateringly bitter stuff and accepted his fate.

Someone on the steps coughed. It was a tall young man from Padua, wearing glasses that clearly didn’t fit his face.

He spoke in Latin, and his tone was immediately barbed.

”Mr. Williams, let me ask you a question.”

”Go ahead.”

”When you do fieldwork in your honorable country, what is the first thing you do when you arrive at a location?”

”Report in.”

”To whom?”

”The Branch Office. You hand in your paperwork and get a number. If something goes wrong, someone will handle it, and when you get back, you can get reimbursed.”

The cloister fell silent for two seconds before the dozen or so young men burst into a noisy debate.

”We have to go to the university,” the two from Padua said in unison.

”Our area is managed by the parish,” a young man with a southern accent said.

”That’s how it is in Naples. You go to the parish priest first.”

”The chamber of commerce.” A Genoese man next to Luca raised his hand. ”Where we’re from, you ask the chamber of commerce about everything first.”

”The Quartermaster Department,” the one from Turin stated firmly.

”What about Venice?” someone shouted.

”In Venice, it depends on which island you’re on.”

”In Bologna, it’s the Guild.”

”Which Guild?”

”...Depends on what trade you’re in.”

The Paduan pushed his glasses up his nose.

”So over here, you need to get one thing straight.”

”What’s that?”

”Figure out whose turf you’re standing on.”

He stood up from the steps and dusted off his trousers.

”You people from Albion can use one form all the way to Edinburgh.”

”Our forms can’t even leave the city.”

On October 31st, fog rolled into Milan.

The fog was cleaner than the Imperial Capital’s, but it still erased the far end of the alley.

People carrying chrysanthemums had been walking down the street continuously since morning, a steady stream of white flowing from the mouth of the alley toward the cemetery.

Richard copied texts in his inn room until the afternoon, then set the broken antler tip wrapped in reins on his lap.

It had been trembling since yesterday morning, vibrating at about the same frequency as his Pocket Watch.

Considering the importance of the matter, he brought it up directly with Professor Mortimer.

After all, both professors had assisted him throughout the entire name-substitution ritual for his grandfather.

There was no need to hide it, and he needed someone to watch over him while he controlled the shadow anyway.

Mortimer sat in the chair by the window and listened from beginning to end without interrupting.

”Old Mike advised you not to go back then. He felt you wouldn’t gain anything and would only risk your life.”

”But he didn’t know the cards you were holding.”

The old professor stood up, walked to the window, and drew the curtain back a sliver.

Nothing could be seen outside through the fog.

”If you are going to join the Wild Hunt tonight, I suggest you perform the ritual in the Ambrosian Library.”

”...Why?”

”I met a big shot in that library last week.”

Mortimer tapped his finger on the window frame.

”He’s not there today, but he’ll have left some traces behind.”

”Even if we can’t detect these traces, entities at the Virtuoso level will know at a single glance.”

Richard stood in the center of the room, slowly catching on.

”You mean we’re going to borrow His name.”

Mortimer lowered his hand.

”Right. The lord of the hunt has to bring his procession to pick you up tonight. When he looks down, the first thing he’ll see is what’s inside that library.”

”What do you think he’ll think when he sees that library?”

”He’ll be unsure.” Richard recalled the lord of the hunt’s personality.

Setting aside his miserly nature, he was also extremely cautious. During the chaos of Franc’s gas attack last time, he hadn’t made a move until the final, decisive moment, and immediately chose to quit while ahead after securing his prey.

The old professor nodded as well.

”He never touches things he’s unsure of.”

”Besides, there’s me.” He grabbed his dusty old overcoat from the back of the chair.

”I’ll be sitting next to you tonight.”

”When he weighs you, he’ll weigh me along with you.”

At nine o’clock that night, only two lamps remained lit in the library.

The old priest unlocked the doors to the Fico Hall for them without asking a single question. Before leaving, he only said, ”Don’t knock over the crates.”

Over twenty wooden crates were stacked in the hall. Richard sat down in the clearing between two rows of them.

Mortimer moved a chair three paces away and spread a newspaper across his lap, looking like he intended to read all night.

”Begin.”

Richard unbuttoned his coat. The Sphinx Lamp was pressed against his chest.

First, he summoned his shadow from behind the veil.

The mass of blackness rose from the cracks in the floor tiles and stood still beneath the lamplight.

It had eaten quite a bit this year, condensing into a solid block of ink scooped straight from the water.

”Put it on.”

The Ancient Bronze Mask covered the featureless face. The golden wings folded in, and two golden snakes slithered down its legs, wrapping tightly around its ankles.

”The Voiceless.”

Once the name settled on it, the translucent layer stretching from the mask withdrew.

Richard handed over the broken antler tip, and the shadow reached out to take it.

The moment it grabbed the antler, the air in the entire Fico Hall grew cold.

The loop of reins on the antler uncoiled on its own. The smells of permafrost, horse sweat, and grass trampled into mush by tens of thousands of hooves flooded the room, completely overpowering the scents of camphor, paste, and pine.

The blast of a horn followed close behind.

The first blast came from the north, distant, echoing across the Alps.

The second was closer, pressing against the bellies of the clouds.

By the third blast, the glass in the high windows near the ceiling began to hum in resonance.

...

There had always been someone on the fourth floor of the Ambrosiana. It was just that outsiders couldn’t find it without the administrator’s permission.

The administrator hung his lantern back on its hook and sat behind the counter.

A blank sheet of paper lay spread across the counter.

He was contemplating how to write a story.

He had been doing this for many years.

Things were fine when he was a Minor Adept; that had been his most creative period.

He could churn out two or three short stories a year, and reading them afterward still made him laugh.

After advancing to Major Adept, the first story he wrote was about a knight slaying a dragon to save a princess.

He stopped by the third line. The archive already held four thousand, one hundred and twelve versions of that tale. The earliest originated in Mesopotamia.

Later, he tried something nobody had written before: a fish that wanted to become a library.

The first two pages went well. On the third page, the fish started cataloging the sea, and by the fourth page, the entire piece had turned into a comprehensive index of North Sea fish.

Things only got worse after he became a Virtuoso.

He wrote about two young people falling in love in a reading room, but halfway through, their names were automatically autocorrected into author entries.

He didn’t write the final line. The paper grew one on its own: This item is for in-library reading only.

After taking the seat of Master in the Classical Records Tradition, he had only tried once more.

He wrote, ”Once upon a time...”

Before the ink was even dry, the subsequent letters began to sprout on their own.

From ”there was a king,” it listed out entries until they vanished from sight, each one followed by a year and an index number.

He put his pen down after that. Reaching the end of the Classical Records Tradition left you unable to write books; you could only return them to their proper places.

Every sentence that fell onto the paper would only automatically combine with existing stories, devoid of all originality.

Speaking of which, a procession had parked itself on his roof tonight.

The lord of the hunt had come tonight to pick up a reader inside His building.

The administrator turned His gaze toward the Fico Hall.

The boy sat cross-legged between two rows of wooden crates, his eyes closed.

Beside the boy, an old professor sat in a wicker chair.

A newspaper lay open in front of him. It should be the very same one Mortimer had bought three days ago.

The old geezer had probably finished reading it long ago and was just using it to give himself something to do.

The administrator knew exactly what Mortimer was plotting.

Bringing his student into His building, so that when the lord of the hunt looked down, the first thing he’d do was weigh whose roof he was on.

He was sharp with his petty calculations, but the administrator couldn’t say He disliked it.

In His position, all that mattered was whether a person was beneficial to their tradition and whether they made things interesting for Him.

Both the old man and the youth fulfilled those two criteria perfectly.

As for the boy himself... He flipped open the pamphlet on the counter.

The first sheet: ”Collection of Strange Tales.” One penny, authored by Mr. L.

Those six rules had been set to music. The wives in the washhouses hummed it while scrubbing, it spread to the student dormitories three days later, and after that, even the girls at the boarding schools sang it while jumping rope.

The second sheet: ”Chronicles of the Island.”

The third sheet: ”The Prudent Gentlemen.” A man with a protruding belly, and another standing half a step behind him with both hands tucked into his sleeves.

He had seen caricatures before. The Empire’s weekly magazine published them every issue, always targeting named big shots, drawing their noses a size larger than real life so anyone could recognize them.

These two sheets were different; they looked like no one in particular.

And so, every time someone turned the page, they superimposed the face of whoever they knew onto it.

One was filled in on the leather sofas of a club, another in the corridors of the Department of Internal Affairs, and another against the base of the wall at Franc’s Gare du Nord.

He hadn’t laughed at a story in a long, long time.

There were others with less influence, along with some unpublished works, which He had used His ”privileges” to read in advance.

After finishing, He closed the pamphlet, figuring that since Mortimer wanted to borrow His roof for a while, He’d let him.

He hadn’t finished reading the books here yet. The author who wrote those stories couldn’t just be casually snatched away.

The administrator raised His hand and remotely turned a page on the bookshelf in the Fico Hall.

With that single flip, the entire library presented a distinct stratification in the eyes of higher Ranks.

On the other side, Richard closed his eyes and channeled his Inspiration along the sliver of spirit embedded within the shadow.

The roof vanished, replaced entirely by a vast wilderness above.

That endless procession was marching over from Galicia.

Through the shadow’s eyes, Richard saw the tail of the procession dragging out for a long, long distance, its end nowhere in sight.

The numbers had clearly swelled this year.

Carpathian accents, Bohemian accents, stretching all the way south to the Isonzo.

The great retreat in the east this year had seen millions falling back over the entire summer;

In autumn, another front tore open over in Serbia;

The river on the western front had seen fighting from June until now, turning the stones on the riverbanks entirely white.

The earth this year was fattened on men.

The lord of the hunt reined in his mount, standing upon the belly of the clouds as he looked down.

The rein-wrapped antler tip resonated below, continually drawing the lord of the hunt’s gaze into the library.

He followed it down and ended up reading the signboard of a butcher shop across the street, which displayed the day’s beef prices in three different languages.

The lord of the hunt pulled his gaze back and looked again.

This time, he managed to count the roof tiles on the building.

When he hit four thousand three hundred or so, he realized he had been counting for quite a while.

”...”

The lord of the hunt finally realized he was being toyed with—and he was completely helpless against whoever was messing with him.

He had been blocked countless times in his life.

The Solar Tradition smacked light directly in your face. The Hearth Fire Tradition welded the door shut. The Web Weaving Tradition trapped you in circles along your own path.

The people blocking him had always made it explicitly clear: I am blocking you.

This library, however, was politely telling the lord of the hunt: Look all you want. If you can actually see anything, I lose.

His mount reared up sharply, and the entire procession crashed into a tangled pile.

Tens of thousands of mounts reined in all at once; the vanguard stopped, but the rearguard had not.

The young man swinging an axe flew two body lengths out of his saddle, landing flat on the back of the barefoot man’s horse.

The barefoot man shoved him off, sending him rolling right to the red-coated man’s feet.

”What’s going on?”

”Shut up.”

The lord of the hunt didn’t turn back.

He had heard many books being turned. The old scholar flipped through that ledger on his lap every single day, so much that he had calluses on his ears from hearing it.

He had witnessed another page-turn on the night of the name substitution: a scale stretched across the sky overhead, so long that neither end could be seen, weighing down the very heavens behind the veil. That was the one who sat at the summit of ten thousand tomes.

He could gauge the weight of that scale. But this page from just now—he couldn’t gauge it at all.

How heavy could a single sheet of paper be? He didn’t know.

Classical Records was not among the five major traditions.

But the first boundary stone for every single path in those five major traditions had been carved out with words by someone.

Wherever the Master who carved those words chose to sit, anyone who was walking had to go around.

That king of gods in Northern Europe had hung himself from a tree for nine nights just to comprehend a few lines of text, even sacrificing an eye in the process. He had grown up listening to that story.

The tradition boasting the greatest number of Scholars was never to be trifled with when it reached its absolute peak.

Filled with lingering doubt and shock, the lord of the hunt thought for a brief moment before untying the horn from his saddle.

He weighed it in his palm, then blew a welcoming tune.

More than half of the tens of thousands of riders had never heard that tune, but the few who had instantly straightened their backs.

As the horn fell silent, the endless procession simultaneously reversed the weapons in their hands.

Axe blades turned inward, spear points aimed downward, bowstrings slacked, and the backs of blades faced outward.

It was the oldest of rules, signifying that the one coming up from below tonight was a guest of highest honor.

The procession parted down the middle, opening a path that stretched from the library’s roof ridge straight to the lord of the hunt’s saddle.

Flames ignited along both sides of the path, one by one.

”Does the guiding fire cost money?” the lord of the hunt asked suddenly.

”It doesn’t.” The old scholar was expressionless, long accustomed to this.

”The fire was drawn from the dead along the way.”

”Then light a few more.”

”...Two thousand are already lit.”

”Keep lighting them! Light them until there’s no room left!”

Caught between the two realms, through the sliver of spirit embedded in his shadow, Richard watched the path of fire blaze all the way down to his feet.

”Yo...”

A booming voice erupted from the middle of the procession.

”That cane-planting guy is coming again!”

The axe-swinging youth sat upright in his saddle, hoisting his axe overhead and waving it a couple of times.

”Old Scholar! Write it down! The cane-planter is here!”

”I see him!”

The tome on the old scholar’s lap sat open, and his pen was tucked behind his ear.

He looked a bit older than he had in April... Richard thought about it and decided that made no sense; the man had been old since the day he joined this procession.

The red-coated man squeezed through from the flank, stopped five or six paces away, and offered the shadow a salute.

Palm facing out, elbow nearly touching his ear.

The shadow returned the gesture.

The red coat nodded with great satisfaction, turning his head to holler into the procession.

”See that! He learns fast!”

Someone within the ranks gave an indignant snort.

The little limping hound wormed its way out from beneath the formation.

It ran crookedly, bumping and knocking over two people’s saddlebags along the way.

The small dog rushed straight to the shadow’s feet, rested its chin on the cold instep, and lay down.

”...”

Through the sliver of spirit, Richard felt something very heavy pressing down on his foot.

”Hey.”

A soft, hoarse voice drew close.

Richard turned his head.

It was the old geezer who couldn’t remember his own name for six hundred years.

He leaned his face in close, his eyes cloudy, looking for all the world like someone who had finally caught his quarry.

”Sheepskin.”

”...What?”

”Shoes.” He lifted a foot to show the shadow; there was nothing on it.

”I want sheepskin ones. I’ve been waiting a very long time.”

The old scholar didn’t even lift his head.

”It’s written down. He wants shoes, sheepskin.”

”You say that every time.”

”And I write it down every time.”

”Then why don’t I have them?”

”Because you always forget what you asked for before dawn breaks.”

The axe-swinging youth laughed so hard beside them that he slid down from his saddle.

The horn sounded—a short blast, the tune for departure.

The procession moved out. The Alps lay below.

The snowline peeked out through the gaps in the clouds and shrank back again in flashes of white and blue.

Further south were the plains—the very plains Mortimer had sculpted out of sand on the train. The silver line of the Po River slashed across them from east to west.

Milan sat right in the center of the plains. Hundreds of spires from the white cathedral pierced through the fog, the holy statues at their peaks all facing different directions.

The villages glowed below.

Looking down through the shadow, Richard saw offerings set on the windowsills of every home.

Some left out a bowl of water, some a piece of bread, and others two or three candies, their wrappers fluttering in the wind.

A tiny pair of shoes sat in the doorway of one house.

”They’re setting out offerings for the dead.”

”For the children.”

The old scholar had moved his mount over beside him at some point.

”That’s the custom around here. Tonight, the dead return to bring gifts to the living children.”

”Before they sleep, the children leave their shoes by the door. The next morning, there will be something inside them.”

”Aren’t they afraid?”

”They are. It’s because they’re afraid that they have to set them out.”

Further north, across the mountains, things were different.

Hay was set outside farmhouse doors.

A neat bundle stood upright right by the threshold. One family even set out two bundles.

Richard saw a woman peering out the window of that house. She stared for a long time before finally closing the shutters.

”The customs here are older,” the old scholar noted.

”Those who leave hay will have good luck in the coming year.”

”And those who don’t?”

The old scholar pulled his pen down.

”Those who don’t will find sweat on their saddles when spring arrives.”

The procession headed southeast.

Richard had the shadow steady itself in the saddle and began to inventory his tasks for the night.

During the event in the middle of the year, he had sorted four thousand, nine hundred and sixty-seven people on the cloud tops, relying solely on a card format printed by the Quartermaster Department.

Right in the middle of his thoughts, he suddenly stopped.

There was a man slightly left of the middle of the procession.

The man rode an extremely ordinary mount. His hood was pulled up, and he hadn’t spoken a single word to anyone since they set out.

Richard wouldn’t have noticed him under normal circumstances.

There were plenty of silent people in this procession. Among the batch from six hundred years ago, there was one who only ever grunted.

What made him pause was the man’s position.

There was roughly a body’s length of empty space on either side of the man.

Tens of thousands of riders were crammed together, their horses’ manes practically tangled in a knot, but only he had two empty spots next to him, as if they were reserved for someone.

”Old sir, who is that in the procession?”

The pen stopped. The old scholar closed the tome on his lap.

”Which one?”

”Slightly left of the middle, the one with the hood pulled up.”

The old scholar fell silent for a moment.

”He hasn’t been here long.”

”How long?”

”Not long.”

Richard didn’t push it.

Just then, the man raised his hand.

He raised it quickly to a specific height—palm facing down, elbow tucked beneath the shoulder line.

Richard recognized the salute.

It was the modern military salute. It was the same one used by the patrol officers of the Branch Office, and the same one used by the young men in khaki uniforms on the train station platforms.

The red-coated man, all the way on the other side of the procession, let out a ”Hey” from afar.

”It’s that limp salute again!”

”Shut up.”

”Palm facing down! Look at that! Who’s going to see the calluses on his palms?!”

”That’s just the modern custom.”

”Modern customs are this limp?”

The man beneath the hood lowered his hand.

He ignored the red-coated man and kept looking over in this direction.

The wind pressed in from the front of the procession, blowing the hood back a sliver.