November, 1892 — A Rally

He had started going to these things because it was the easiest thing he could offer Charlie as a bribe to get her talking to him again. He'd continued when she had tentatively forgiven him (or at least pretended to) for two reasons: one, she'd stopped asking whether he was coming and begun to just assume, which meant if he wanted to stop he'd have to actually bring it up and risk another fight; two, it was clear this made her happy. He could see the difference in her eyes when she was listening to the speakers here compared to how she tuned out when their parents tried to talk to her over dinner. This was her community; it was obvious. He could hardly deprive her of it.

And the reason why he kept coming now was — well, he didn't admit this, except begrudgingly and occasionally to Charlotte, but they were starting to make a lot of sense. The one last week had an excellent point about how keeping women generally less educated contributed to sluggish growth in fields of research, medicine, science, and experimental magic; she had a wealth of historical examples to prove that when given the tools women were just as capable. A month ago one speaker had told them about New Zealand's system, already underway and not having brought society to its knees yet. They were compelling arguments, and Calvin was finding himself occasionally nodding along, though he wasn't sure he would claim to be at ease here yet.

But when he'd told his mother where they were heading today she had fretted about the possibility of rioters, so it was safe to say he was worlds ahead of any of the other Paxtons on the subject. Still he startled slightly when someone reached out to press a pamphlet into his hand. "Oh," he said, glancing from the paper to the man who had thrust it at him as though this might have been a mistake, and the other fellow would realize it and take it back. When he didn't, Cal awkwardly continued, "Uh, thanks?"

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