He had been carrying the red pen since Tokyo.
This was not a symbolic choice. It was a practical one: he used red for annotation, for flagging, for the small marks that meant here, look at this, this is the thing that does not match. He had used red pens in every audit engagement of his career. He had three in his document bag, the same brand, because the ink flow was consistent in a way that others were not, and consistency mattered when you were making marks that needed to be legible months later.
He did not think about the red pen at all when he took it out on the fourth day in the main Archive and uncapped it and applied it to the margin of the Verdant Prophecy copy he was reviewing.
Lysera was across the table. She looked up.
Her expression moved through several things in rapid succession. He caught: recognition of what he was doing, assessment of what it meant, something that in another person he might have called horror, and then the suppression of that thing into a very controlled surface.
She said: That is a sacred text.
He said, without looking up: It is a copy. The original, if it exists, is in the restricted archive. This is a reproduction. I am making annotations in the margin, not on the text. The annotations are reversible, since they are in a different medium from the original ink and can be removed without damage to the underlying document. I have done this before.
She said: Not to a sacred text.
He said: I treat all documents the same. That is the point of the methodology.
She said: In Elyndor, the Verdant Prophecy is not any document.
He said: I understand that. But if I treat it differently from any document, I introduce a bias into my methodology. The whole purpose of the methodology is that it does not have exceptions for emotional significance. If I make an exception for the Prophecy because it is sacred, I cannot trust my findings, because my findings would be shaped by my deference to the claim that it should not be questioned.
She was very still.
He said: I am not questioning whether it should exist. I am questioning whether it is what it says it is. Those are different questions.
She said, carefully: For most people in Elyndor, they are not different questions.
He said: I know. That is part of the problem.
He went back to annotating.
The silence that followed had the quality of a silence in which a decision was being made. He could feel it, the way he had learned to feel the weather-change of certain silences in certain rooms: not hostile, not approving, but working. She was deciding something.
He annotated three more passages. He noted two more discrepancies, one a word-choice issue of the kind he had already flagged and one a structural irregularity that suggested an insertion: the rhythm of the surrounding paragraphs was consistent and the passage in question was not, which was the textual equivalent of a rounding error. Different source, same category of wrongness.
He said: Come look at this.
She came around to his side of the table. He pointed to the passage. He said: Read the two paragraphs before and the two paragraphs after, and then read this one.
She read. She was quiet. He watched her face do the thing it did when she was processing something she had not previously seen as a unit: the slight focusing of attention, the almost-invisible movement of her lips as she read and re-read.
She said: The cadence is different.
He said: Yes.
She said: The sentence length is different. The grammatical structure in this paragraph uses a passive construction that does not appear in the surrounding text.
He said: Different author. Or the same author, different time, inserting a passage they did not write into an established text. Either way, this paragraph was not written at the same time as the text around it.
She looked at the red annotation he had made in the margin. She looked at it for a long time.
He said: I know the marking is uncomfortable for you.
She said: It is not a matter of comfort. It is a matter of what it means, here, to mark a text in this way. It means someone has found fault with it. In Elyndor, the Prophecy does not contain fault. The Prophecy is the measure by which fault is determined elsewhere.
He said: And if the measure itself is wrong?
She looked at him.
He said: That is the question I am trying to answer. Not rhetorically. Actually. If the Prophecy is the measure, and the measure has been modified, then everything measured by it for three hundred years has been measured against the wrong standard. The red pen is not the problem. The problem is the three hundred years.
She was quiet for a long time.
Then she did something he had not expected. She picked up her own pen, uncapped it, looked at the passage he had annotated, and in her precise, even handwriting, wrote underneath his annotation: confirmed: structural irregularity, cadence inconsistency with surrounding text. L. Vey, Archive Keeper.
He looked at what she had written.
She put the cap back on her pen and went back to her side of the table.
He wrote in his notes that evening: she signed it. She put her name and her title on a document that flags an error in the Verdant Prophecy. That is not a small thing. She knows it is not a small thing. That is why she did it the way she did it: precisely, without comment, and then moved on as if it were the next correct step in a sequence of correct steps. She is making this look like ordinary professional conduct, which is the most protective frame she can give to an act that is, in this kingdom, extraordinary.
He thought about the distance she had traveled to get to that moment. He thought about sixty years of being irreproachable. He thought about what it cost to put your name on something that your entire professional identity had been built around not putting your name on.
He thought: some people perform bravery loudly, with statement and gesture, in ways that announce themselves as significant. And some people perform bravery by picking up a pen and writing their name and title underneath an annotation in red ink, and then capping the pen and going back to the other end of the table as if nothing unusual has happened.
He found the second kind significantly harder to do, in his experience.
He found it, correspondingly, significantly more worth noting when he saw it.
The Archive settled around them both. The light continued its sourceless warmth. He picked up his pen. He went back to the text. There were forty-three more passages to annotate before he reached the end of this copy, and he intended to reach the end of it before he stopped for the day, because he was mid-sequence, and stopping mid-sequence introduced the risk of missing connections, and missing connections was, in his professional history, the thing most likely to produce incomplete findings.
He did not stop mid-sequence. He never stopped mid-sequence. He had not stopped mid-sequence in nine years and he did not intend to start now.
He finished the annotation of the main publicly available copy of the Verdant Prophecy three days after the red pen incident. The completed document had forty-three red marks and eleven blue marks, the blue marks being Lysera's additions: she had begun annotating alongside him, in her precise blue ink, adding confirmation notes and cross-references to other materials she knew without needing to look up.
The system that evolved between them was not discussed. It simply developed, the way methodologies develop between people who are good at the same kind of work and have been doing it long enough to see where the other person's approach and their own create efficiencies by being different. He found the discrepancies. She contextualized them. He noted what was missing. She named what should be there. He dated things. She knew when the dates mattered.
The completed annotated copy was, he thought, the most carefully documented piece of evidence he had ever produced. More careful than the report that had gotten him transferred at twenty-six. More careful than the documentation he had assembled on the fourth occasion, which he had sent to an external body as a last attempt at finding a channel that responded, and which had resulted in a quiet investigation and a settlement that he had never been officially told the terms of.
This was more careful than both of those because it was being assembled in a place where the stakes of getting it wrong were of a different order.
He said, on the day they finished: We need to start on the secondary materials.
She said: The administrative records around the Prophecy's production and distribution.
He said: Yes. And the ceremonial administration records. And anything that touches the binding ceremony. And the correspondence files for the period around the modification.
She said: That is a very large amount of material.
He said: How much of it is accessible to me in my current role?
She said: Most of it. There are three categories of restricted material I cannot access, even as Archive Keeper. The restricted archive generally. The sealed Oracle correspondence archive. And the binding ceremony records specifically, which are classified separately from the general restricted archive.
He said: Three separate classification tiers for three different categories of the same thing I'm looking for.
She said: Yes.
He said: Who designed that classification system?
She said: The current classification system for the restricted materials was established approximately three hundred years ago.
He said: Along with the comprehensive reclassification of the public materials.
She said: Yes.
He said: The same decision-maker designed both the concealment of the documents that had been modified and the protection of the documents that would expose the modification.
She said: That is one interpretation.
He said: It is the interpretation that requires the fewest additional assumptions given the evidence already assembled.
She was quiet for a moment. She said: Yes. It is.
He went back to the notes. He went back to the work. There was always more work, and the work was always the same work from a new angle: find the thing that did not fit, establish why it did not fit, document the documentation of the not-fitting in a way that produced a complete record.
He had been doing this for nine years. He was very good at it.
He was, he thought, the best he had ever been at it, which was either because the work here was more important, or because he was doing it alongside someone who was as good at her part of it as he was at his, or because for the first time in nine years he was doing the work without the specific knowledge that the channel it was meant for was probably not going to respond.
He could not be certain the channel here would respond either. He had no guarantees. He was an auditor from a logistics company in a kingdom that had not known he existed three weeks ago. He had no authority, no standing, no institutional backing.
He had the documents. He had the dates. He had the annotations in red ink and blue ink, and he had Miron's linguistic research, and he had a sixty-year case built by a woman who had spent sixty years being irreproachable in service of a moment that might finally have arrived.
He thought: that might be enough. He thought: I have to proceed as if it is enough, because the alternative is to stop, and stopping is not something he knew how to do when the numbers were wrong and the documentation existed to prove it.
He picked up his pen. He went on to the next file.
He thought, afterward, about the specific form of Lysera's signature on the annotated document.
She had written: confirmed: structural irregularity, cadence inconsistency with surrounding text. L. Vey, Archive Keeper.
The phrase L. Vey, Archive Keeper was the significant part. Not just her name, but her title. She had identified herself not only as a person who agreed with the finding but as the institutional authority responsible for the Archive's contents. The Archive Keeper's signature on a document identifying an error in the Verdant Prophecy was an institutional finding, not just a personal one. It had a different weight.
She knew this. She had been Archive Keeper for decades and had been trained in the weight of her official signature long before that. Signing with her title rather than without it was a deliberate choice.
He filed this under: she is building a record. Not just observing the findings but making herself part of the institutional documentation of those findings. She is creating a chain of custody for the evidence that includes her role and her authority. Whatever happens next, there will be an official record that the Archive Keeper confirmed the structural irregularity in the Verdant Prophecy.
That was not a small thing. He thought it was, in fact, a very large thing, done with very little announcement, in the specific manner of someone who understood exactly how large a thing it was and had decided to do it anyway.
He respected that kind of decision-making. He had, he reflected, always respected it more than the dramatic kind.
The documentation of the annotation process itself became, he realized, part of the evidentiary record.
In a standard audit engagement, he would produce a working paper file: notes, drafts, preliminary findings, the document trail of how the final conclusions were reached. The working paper file was not the finding itself. But it was part of the finding's credibility. A well-documented working paper showed that the conclusion had been reached through a defensible process, that the evidence had been properly examined, that the anomalies had been flagged and cross-referenced rather than simply asserted.
He had been building a working paper file since the first day. It was, at this point, more substantial than the working paper files of some of his prior engagements, which said something about either the complexity of this case or the length of time he had been spending on it or both.
Lysera's annotation added something to the working paper that it had not had before: a second independent professional reviewing the same material and reaching the same conclusion. Independent professional review was, in the methodology of audit and document verification, the most credible form of corroboration. Not a single reviewer asserting a finding but two independent reviewers, with different professional backgrounds and different starting assumptions, examining the same evidence and arriving at the same conclusion.
He had a co-reviewer now. The co-reviewer had sixty years of expertise in Elyndor's documentary tradition and a professional standing in the Archive that was, within its specific domain, unimpeachable.
The working paper was getting very strong.
He thought: almost there. Not all the way there yet. But almost.
He picked up his pen and annotated the next passage.
He thought about the specific logic of what she had done.
Annotating a sacred text was not, in the normal order of the Archive's operations, something that happened. The Prophecy was copied, studied, interpreted, cited. It was not marked up. The preservation protocols for the Prophecy copies were the most stringent in the Archive, more stringent than those for documents that were older and rarer, because the Prophecy's significance was not archival but administrative: it was a living document, the operational basis for the kingdom's governance, and treating it as a document subject to the normal processes of textual criticism was itself a kind of statement about its nature.
Lysera had made that statement. In blue ink, in her precise archival hand, she had written: confirmed. She had stated, using her professional title and authority, that this text was subject to the normal processes of textual criticism, that it could be found to have structural irregularities, that it was not exempt from the methodology of people who examined documents carefully.
This was not a small thing in a kingdom where the Prophecy was the basis of everything. It was, he thought, a significant thing. It was the thing her mother had been trying to say for thirty years before being removed for attempting to say it. Lysera had said it in a margin note, in blue ink, with her name and title attached, and then had gone back to the other end of the table and continued with her regular duties as if this were simply the next step in a sequence of correct steps.
Which it was. That was the remarkable part. It was the next correct step, taken correctly, because the correct step was finally available to be taken.
He thought about that quality of correctness for a long time after he had finished for the day. The next correct step, taken correctly. That was the phrase he kept returning to. In his experience the hardest thing about doing the right thing in institutions that resisted it was not the finding or the documenting or even the presenting. The hardest thing was the continued choosing, over time, to take the next correct step when the correct step was the harder one. She had been taking the harder correct step every day for sixty years. The red pen annotation was not an exception to that pattern. It was its clearest visible expression so far. He thought: I should not let myself underestimate what that costs. And I should not let her feel that the cost is not seen. He picked up the annotated copy. He filed it in the working paper section of his document bag. He would need it again, in a different context, when the time came to show someone what the evidence looked like assembled. For now it was documentation. The next step was the original.
You've reached the end of this chapter
He had been carrying the red pen since Tokyo.
This was not a symbolic choice. It was a practical one: he used red for annotation, for flagging, for the small marks that meant here, look at this, this is the thing that does not match. He had used red pens in every audit engagement of his career. He had three in his document bag, the same brand, because the ink flow was consistent in a way that others were not, and consistency mattered when you were making marks that needed to be legible months later.
He did not think about the red pen at all when he took it out on the fourth day in the main Archive and uncapped it and applied it to the margin of the Verdant Prophecy copy he was reviewing.
Lysera was across the table. She looked up.
Her expression moved through several things in rapid succession. He caught: recognition of what he was doing, assessment of what it meant, something that in another person he might have called horror, and then the suppression of that thing into a very controlled surface.
She said: That is a sacred text.
He said, without looking up: It is a copy. The original, if it exists, is in the restricted archive. This is a reproduction. I am making annotations in the margin, not on the text. The annotations are reversible, since they are in a different medium from the original ink and can be removed without damage to the underlying document. I have done this before.
She said: Not to a sacred text.
He said: I treat all documents the same. That is the point of the methodology.
She said: In Elyndor, the Verdant Prophecy is not any document.
He said: I understand that. But if I treat it differently from any document, I introduce a bias into my methodology. The whole purpose of the methodology is that it does not have exceptions for emotional significance. If I make an exception for the Prophecy because it is sacred, I cannot trust my findings, because my findings would be shaped by my deference to the claim that it should not be questioned.
She was very still.
He said: I am not questioning whether it should exist. I am questioning whether it is what it says it is. Those are different questions.
She said, carefully: For most people in Elyndor, they are not different questions.
He said: I know. That is part of the problem.
He went back to annotating.
The silence that followed had the quality of a silence in which a decision was being made. He could feel it, the way he had learned to feel the weather-change of certain silences in certain rooms: not hostile, not approving, but working. She was deciding something.
He annotated three more passages. He noted two more discrepancies, one a word-choice issue of the kind he had already flagged and one a structural irregularity that suggested an insertion: the rhythm of the surrounding paragraphs was consistent and the passage in question was not, which was the textual equivalent of a rounding error. Different source, same category of wrongness.
He said: Come look at this.
She came around to his side of the table. He pointed to the passage. He said: Read the two paragraphs before and the two paragraphs after, and then read this one.
She read. She was quiet. He watched her face do the thing it did when she was processing something she had not previously seen as a unit: the slight focusing of attention, the almost-invisible movement of her lips as she read and re-read.
She said: The cadence is different.
He said: Yes.
She said: The sentence length is different. The grammatical structure in this paragraph uses a passive construction that does not appear in the surrounding text.
He said: Different author. Or the same author, different time, inserting a passage they did not write into an established text. Either way, this paragraph was not written at the same time as the text around it.
She looked at the red annotation he had made in the margin. She looked at it for a long time.
He said: I know the marking is uncomfortable for you.
She said: It is not a matter of comfort. It is a matter of what it means, here, to mark a text in this way. It means someone has found fault with it. In Elyndor, the Prophecy does not contain fault. The Prophecy is the measure by which fault is determined elsewhere.
He said: And if the measure itself is wrong?
She looked at him.
He said: That is the question I am trying to answer. Not rhetorically. Actually. If the Prophecy is the measure, and the measure has been modified, then everything measured by it for three hundred years has been measured against the wrong standard. The red pen is not the problem. The problem is the three hundred years.
She was quiet for a long time.
Then she did something he had not expected. She picked up her own pen, uncapped it, looked at the passage he had annotated, and in her precise, even handwriting, wrote underneath his annotation: confirmed: structural irregularity, cadence inconsistency with surrounding text. L. Vey, Archive Keeper.
He looked at what she had written.
She put the cap back on her pen and went back to her side of the table.
He wrote in his notes that evening: she signed it. She put her name and her title on a document that flags an error in the Verdant Prophecy. That is not a small thing. She knows it is not a small thing. That is why she did it the way she did it: precisely, without comment, and then moved on as if it were the next correct step in a sequence of correct steps. She is making this look like ordinary professional conduct, which is the most protective frame she can give to an act that is, in this kingdom, extraordinary.
He thought about the distance she had traveled to get to that moment. He thought about sixty years of being irreproachable. He thought about what it cost to put your name on something that your entire professional identity had been built around not putting your name on.
He thought: some people perform bravery loudly, with statement and gesture, in ways that announce themselves as significant. And some people perform bravery by picking up a pen and writing their name and title underneath an annotation in red ink, and then capping the pen and going back to the other end of the table as if nothing unusual has happened.
He found the second kind significantly harder to do, in his experience.
He found it, correspondingly, significantly more worth noting when he saw it.
The Archive settled around them both. The light continued its sourceless warmth. He picked up his pen. He went back to the text. There were forty-three more passages to annotate before he reached the end of this copy, and he intended to reach the end of it before he stopped for the day, because he was mid-sequence, and stopping mid-sequence introduced the risk of missing connections, and missing connections was, in his professional history, the thing most likely to produce incomplete findings.
He did not stop mid-sequence. He never stopped mid-sequence. He had not stopped mid-sequence in nine years and he did not intend to start now.
He finished the annotation of the main publicly available copy of the Verdant Prophecy three days after the red pen incident. The completed document had forty-three red marks and eleven blue marks, the blue marks being Lysera's additions: she had begun annotating alongside him, in her precise blue ink, adding confirmation notes and cross-references to other materials she knew without needing to look up.
The system that evolved between them was not discussed. It simply developed, the way methodologies develop between people who are good at the same kind of work and have been doing it long enough to see where the other person's approach and their own create efficiencies by being different. He found the discrepancies. She contextualized them. He noted what was missing. She named what should be there. He dated things. She knew when the dates mattered.
The completed annotated copy was, he thought, the most carefully documented piece of evidence he had ever produced. More careful than the report that had gotten him transferred at twenty-six. More careful than the documentation he had assembled on the fourth occasion, which he had sent to an external body as a last attempt at finding a channel that responded, and which had resulted in a quiet investigation and a settlement that he had never been officially told the terms of.
This was more careful than both of those because it was being assembled in a place where the stakes of getting it wrong were of a different order.
He said, on the day they finished: We need to start on the secondary materials.
She said: The administrative records around the Prophecy's production and distribution.
He said: Yes. And the ceremonial administration records. And anything that touches the binding ceremony. And the correspondence files for the period around the modification.
She said: That is a very large amount of material.
He said: How much of it is accessible to me in my current role?
She said: Most of it. There are three categories of restricted material I cannot access, even as Archive Keeper. The restricted archive generally. The sealed Oracle correspondence archive. And the binding ceremony records specifically, which are classified separately from the general restricted archive.
He said: Three separate classification tiers for three different categories of the same thing I'm looking for.
She said: Yes.
He said: Who designed that classification system?
She said: The current classification system for the restricted materials was established approximately three hundred years ago.
He said: Along with the comprehensive reclassification of the public materials.
She said: Yes.
He said: The same decision-maker designed both the concealment of the documents that had been modified and the protection of the documents that would expose the modification.
She said: That is one interpretation.
He said: It is the interpretation that requires the fewest additional assumptions given the evidence already assembled.
She was quiet for a moment. She said: Yes. It is.
He went back to the notes. He went back to the work. There was always more work, and the work was always the same work from a new angle: find the thing that did not fit, establish why it did not fit, document the documentation of the not-fitting in a way that produced a complete record.
He had been doing this for nine years. He was very good at it.
He was, he thought, the best he had ever been at it, which was either because the work here was more important, or because he was doing it alongside someone who was as good at her part of it as he was at his, or because for the first time in nine years he was doing the work without the specific knowledge that the channel it was meant for was probably not going to respond.
He could not be certain the channel here would respond either. He had no guarantees. He was an auditor from a logistics company in a kingdom that had not known he existed three weeks ago. He had no authority, no standing, no institutional backing.
He had the documents. He had the dates. He had the annotations in red ink and blue ink, and he had Miron's linguistic research, and he had a sixty-year case built by a woman who had spent sixty years being irreproachable in service of a moment that might finally have arrived.
He thought: that might be enough. He thought: I have to proceed as if it is enough, because the alternative is to stop, and stopping is not something he knew how to do when the numbers were wrong and the documentation existed to prove it.
He picked up his pen. He went on to the next file.
He thought, afterward, about the specific form of Lysera's signature on the annotated document.
She had written: confirmed: structural irregularity, cadence inconsistency with surrounding text. L. Vey, Archive Keeper.
The phrase L. Vey, Archive Keeper was the significant part. Not just her name, but her title. She had identified herself not only as a person who agreed with the finding but as the institutional authority responsible for the Archive's contents. The Archive Keeper's signature on a document identifying an error in the Verdant Prophecy was an institutional finding, not just a personal one. It had a different weight.
She knew this. She had been Archive Keeper for decades and had been trained in the weight of her official signature long before that. Signing with her title rather than without it was a deliberate choice.
He filed this under: she is building a record. Not just observing the findings but making herself part of the institutional documentation of those findings. She is creating a chain of custody for the evidence that includes her role and her authority. Whatever happens next, there will be an official record that the Archive Keeper confirmed the structural irregularity in the Verdant Prophecy.
That was not a small thing. He thought it was, in fact, a very large thing, done with very little announcement, in the specific manner of someone who understood exactly how large a thing it was and had decided to do it anyway.
He respected that kind of decision-making. He had, he reflected, always respected it more than the dramatic kind.
The documentation of the annotation process itself became, he realized, part of the evidentiary record.
In a standard audit engagement, he would produce a working paper file: notes, drafts, preliminary findings, the document trail of how the final conclusions were reached. The working paper file was not the finding itself. But it was part of the finding's credibility. A well-documented working paper showed that the conclusion had been reached through a defensible process, that the evidence had been properly examined, that the anomalies had been flagged and cross-referenced rather than simply asserted.
He had been building a working paper file since the first day. It was, at this point, more substantial than the working paper files of some of his prior engagements, which said something about either the complexity of this case or the length of time he had been spending on it or both.
Lysera's annotation added something to the working paper that it had not had before: a second independent professional reviewing the same material and reaching the same conclusion. Independent professional review was, in the methodology of audit and document verification, the most credible form of corroboration. Not a single reviewer asserting a finding but two independent reviewers, with different professional backgrounds and different starting assumptions, examining the same evidence and arriving at the same conclusion.
He had a co-reviewer now. The co-reviewer had sixty years of expertise in Elyndor's documentary tradition and a professional standing in the Archive that was, within its specific domain, unimpeachable.
The working paper was getting very strong.
He thought: almost there. Not all the way there yet. But almost.
He picked up his pen and annotated the next passage.
He thought about the specific logic of what she had done.
Annotating a sacred text was not, in the normal order of the Archive's operations, something that happened. The Prophecy was copied, studied, interpreted, cited. It was not marked up. The preservation protocols for the Prophecy copies were the most stringent in the Archive, more stringent than those for documents that were older and rarer, because the Prophecy's significance was not archival but administrative: it was a living document, the operational basis for the kingdom's governance, and treating it as a document subject to the normal processes of textual criticism was itself a kind of statement about its nature.
Lysera had made that statement. In blue ink, in her precise archival hand, she had written: confirmed. She had stated, using her professional title and authority, that this text was subject to the normal processes of textual criticism, that it could be found to have structural irregularities, that it was not exempt from the methodology of people who examined documents carefully.
This was not a small thing in a kingdom where the Prophecy was the basis of everything. It was, he thought, a significant thing. It was the thing her mother had been trying to say for thirty years before being removed for attempting to say it. Lysera had said it in a margin note, in blue ink, with her name and title attached, and then had gone back to the other end of the table and continued with her regular duties as if this were simply the next step in a sequence of correct steps.
Which it was. That was the remarkable part. It was the next correct step, taken correctly, because the correct step was finally available to be taken.
He thought about that quality of correctness for a long time after he had finished for the day. The next correct step, taken correctly. That was the phrase he kept returning to. In his experience the hardest thing about doing the right thing in institutions that resisted it was not the finding or the documenting or even the presenting. The hardest thing was the continued choosing, over time, to take the next correct step when the correct step was the harder one. She had been taking the harder correct step every day for sixty years. The red pen annotation was not an exception to that pattern. It was its clearest visible expression so far. He thought: I should not let myself underestimate what that costs. And I should not let her feel that the cost is not seen. He picked up the annotated copy. He filed it in the working paper section of his document bag. He would need it again, in a different context, when the time came to show someone what the evidence looked like assembled. For now it was documentation. The next step was the original.
You've reached the end of this chapter