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Merroth leaned out from Edward John's arms as far as he was able, causing Edward John to struggle with his balance. "You were asking me a stupid question!" he informed Beatrix. From maniac troublemaker to perfectly lucid in under two seconds. "I can count as high as the circle number!" So he knew his shapes, if not his Greek letters and advanced mathematical concepts, and had intended pi as an actual answer to her question. He glared at Beatrix ineffectually, trying to visually communicate that while he could indeed keep counting to infinity, he was upset at being asked to. Apparently, Merroth was not familiar with the concept of blindness, either.

"Shouldn't he have said three million or thousands?" asked Edward John, incapable of having the same conversation as Beatrix and Merroth. "He can add and subtract and multiply anything you give him... And divide." The last bit was added hastily, as poor Edward John had forgotten about division for a moment there.

A look crossed Merroth's face. He was not happy. He wanted to make another angry retort but was not sure what under the circumstances was an appropriately terrible thing to say. He hated being called stupid so much that when someone provided a path away from eternal stupidity, he actually had to pause a moment to consider it.

"Mer," said Edward John softly, sensing an opening. He put Merroth down and brushed a hand over Merroth's hair. Edward John might not have known anything about math, he might not have been capable of instilling responsibility and discipline in Merroth, but every once in a while his overriding compassion and love for his sister and Merroth got through. "You like maths."

"No," said Merroth sullenly, for the sake of being contrary. Edward John smiled. For a moment, they were not in Beatrix's office, but in the basement where the dust shone golden in the sunbeams and the rats scurried.

"Good man," said Edward John, which always made Merroth feel a little guilty. He pinched Merroth's chin and stood. "Merroth will do his best to listen to you. His very best." He looked at Merroth meaningfully, but Merroth was too busy scowling and balling his fists in his pockets to notice.

Merroth turned his nose up and sneered uglily, but challenge was an appropriate way to approach him. He boasted, "I can do any math," and dared Beatrix right back to prove him wrong. This war was ON. He bristled with readiness for whatever challenges Beatrix might have for him, prepared to assault her little test singlemindedly and prove to her that not only could he do it and wasn't stupid, he was brilliant and the real test being given was whether or not Beatrix recognized that. Certainly no one else had. Merroth was beginning to feel very, very smug about this situation.

Merroth blanched. That wasn't a number. That, too, wasn't a number. They weren't even proper letters. "What is this," he demanded, glaring at Beatrix. Another trick? Some weird new way for her to inflict torture? But he tried to make something of it anyway. Since he didn't know what all the Greek letters meant (or necessarily all the symbols, for that matter) he just sort of put down what he thought was right. Some of the details were definable in context. Others he kind of guessed at, and looked unhappy about it. He hated guessing.

But he did it, figuring that Beatrix probably handed him this paper because she didn't know the answers and needed his help. Even if he was wrong, he was more right than an unanswered question because he had provided some sort of answer. Nerys often suggested that it was better to try and work out the correct details later than not try at all. Poor Beatrix didn't even know that.

Merroth's completed test, which he felt really uneasy about, was nevetheless handed back to Beatrix. It was certainly easy to fault Merroth's penmanship, which displayed the type of lettering often found in kindergarteners. Big, looping forms, some of them backwards, the lines all ragged and uncertain. Merroth could spell a lot of words but he was somewhat less interested in making those words communicable to other people. If they couldn't read his handwriting, it was just proof of how much less awesome they were.

Merroth did not understand the question, and just stared at Beatrix looking like the idiot he was trying so hard to prove he was not. It didn't matter, though, because Edward John said, "What?" and that was answer enough.

It was not bliss to have to admit there were gaps in his knowledge, but to Merroth, it was near enough. They were numbers after all. There existed even more numbers. He was barely conscious of conversing with Beatrix, of explaining in a straightforward manner his thought process, because the bulk of his mind was elsewhere. There were more numbers just like he thought there had to be. Edward John had been wrong, the things that were in Merroth's head did exist, Edward John just didn't know that they did because Edward John was stupid. Merroth felt bad for poor Edward John, dumb and stupid and totally defeated before he even entered the fray.

If there were numbers for those things, and functions of those things, then maybe there were numbers and functions for all the things that swam in Merroth's head where numbers were concerned. Edward John's numbers had been insufficient and left Merroth trying to explain things in very long equations, but Beatrix's funny squiggly numbers that looked like deformed letters were beautiful and elegant. Merroth wanted to learn all of them.

Edward John jarred awake from his half-nap now that his input was again being requested, though it took him a moment to figure out what Beatrix was asking of him and understand he was not being accused of some crime. (As an ex-privateer, Edward John had been guilty of many crimes, though it was not those crimes that at this moment concerned him.) "Oh, I don't know," he said, truthful as ever, trailing off into rambled musings, "how much did we have maths growing up? Once or twice a week?" It had been a very long time ago. Lifetimes, even.