I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

It was a copy of the *Imperial City Morning Post*, folded twice. The front-page headline was printed in bold, large lead type:

”Third Expeditionary Force to New Continent Lost, Colonial Affairs Department Denies Connection to ’Native Anomaly’”

After making sure the man had actually gotten off, Richard picked up the newspaper and unfolded it.

The wording in the main article was measured and cautious:

”The expeditionary force lost contact with its rear command after advancing into the central highlands of the New Continent. It has been over six weeks.

A Speaker for the expeditionary force stated that the loss of communication may be related to the harsh local climate and terrain, and that a second relief team is being organized.

As for the recent rumors circulating among the public about a so-called native anomaly, the Speaker denied them, stating that there were ’no circumstances beyond the normal scope.’”

Richard silently read the passage twice.

’No circumstances beyond the normal scope.’ The phrase echoed the conclusion of a government report from decades ago.

The wording was always perfectly airtight, denying everything while explaining nothing at all.

But Richard had read some scattered fragments on the shelves of the library’s third floor.

The Ether concentration in the New Continent was far greater than in the Old Continent, and Mysticism Techniques from the Old Continent would partially fail there.

For the expeditionary force to push deep into the interior was like throwing a group of people who had only ever trained in a swimming pool into the Drake Passage.

He scanned down the page.

The third page was a jumble of domestic news and advertisements, the layout crammed and dense.

A small ad was squeezed between the obituaries and a medicine advertisement:

”Spirit Medium Lady Mary—The Most Gifted Spirit Medium in the Imperial Capital”

”All Questions Answered, Even the Dead Can Speak”

”For Appointments, Visit 17 Huayue Street. Closed Sundays.”

Beside the ad was a mimeographed portrait, only about an inch square.

The ink had bled in a circle, and the print quality was little better than the hemorrhoid cream ad next to it.

But even in such a crude print, you could still tell that the person in the portrait had exquisitely shaped eyes and brows.

Her jawline was smooth, her nose straight, and the curve of her lips had been deliberately sketched by the artist to have a slightly lazy yet demure upward tilt.

For a mimeographed portrait, the face was almost too beautiful.

Richard stared at the ad for a while.

In the seats diagonally across from him, two middle-aged men in gray checkered coats were chatting together.

One of them, wearing a felt hat, was pinching a cigarette in his hand, oblivious as the ember burned close to his fingers.

”...That Lady Mary, you’ve heard of her, right?”

The man’s voice rose and fell amidst the din of the third-class carriage.

Richard’s hearing was sharper than most, and he could catch most of what was said from across the aisle.

”On Huayue Street, she’s got a shingle out for Spirit Communication, but on the sly...”

The man in the felt hat stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and made a vulgar gesture with his hand.

His companion chuckled twice, his voice greasy.

”That’s right. Everyone knows what goes on in the back rooms of those shops on Huayue Street, behind the crystal balls and candlesticks they put out front.”

The man in the felt hat shook his head.

”That’s what you call talent. Whether it’s Divination or her... other business, she’s got the big shots of the Imperial Capital eating out of her hand. And she can openly advertise in the papers without anyone investigating her. You’re telling me she doesn’t have someone backing her?”

At this, the two men lowered their voices, and Richard could only catch a few words intermittently:

”...some Count or other...,” ”...the Police Bureau...,” ”...that business before Christmas...” He couldn’t form a complete sentence, but the meaning was clear enough.

’Huayue Street.’

’Spirit mediums, high-class prostitutes, a private garden for the rich and powerful, gray-market deals that never show up on any ledger.’

Richard committed the place name to memory, along with the street number and the mimeographed portrait.

’17 Huayue Street, Spirit Medium Lady Mary.’

’A famed beauty of the Imperial Capital, a guest of honor to the powerful, and, ostensibly, a Spirit Medium.’

’Extrapolating from the Warren Family’s hiring of Mrs. MacNeil, most Spirit Mediums follow the path of quietly getting rich.’

’This one in the Imperial Capital did the opposite, not only placing newspaper ads but even printing her portrait in them.’

’Either she’s a complete fraud using her beauty to attract clients, or she has real abilities to back up such flamboyance.’

”What are you looking at?” His father peeked out from behind the edge of his newspaper with one eye.

”News from the Imperial Capital.” Richard turned the paper back to the front page.

His father’s gaze swept over the Spirit Medium ad, and his brow furrowed slightly.

”They’re all frauds.”

”Mm.”

”That whole Huayue Street area is full of shady dealings. Don’t go wandering around when you get to the Imperial Capital.”

”I know.”

His sister, sitting next to him, heard the exchange and leaned over curiously.

”Spirit Medium Lady Mary... ’All Questions Answered, Even the Dead Can Speak.’ This ad is so over-the-top.”

She leaned in a little closer to look at the mimeographed portrait.

”Still, the woman in the drawing is quite pretty.”

”She is.”

”Are all the frauds in the Imperial Capital this good-looking? None of the old fortune-telling ladies in Brighton are anything to look at.”

”Everything’s more expensive in the Imperial Capital. I guess the standards for being a fraud are higher, too.”

Evelyn tilted her head, quickly lost interest in the newspaper, and went back to gazing out the window at the scenery.

Outside the window, the hills were gradually giving way to flatter land. Fields were divided into large farm plots by neat fences.

In the distance, the faint silhouette of a city began to appear on the horizon.

There weren’t many chimneys; instead, cathedral spires and the silhouettes of bell towers formed an undulating skyline.

The Imperial Capital was getting closer.

...

It was past noon when the train pulled into the station.

The Imperial City Central Station was leagues better than the old station in Brighton.

The cast-iron dome was absurdly high; you had to crane your neck just to look up at it.

There were more than a dozen platforms. Steam engines squatted side-by-side at the end of the tracks, panting like a herd of black behemoths.

Passengers poured out of the carriages, merging into a dense human tide that shoved its way toward the exit.

Richard and his family were swept along by the current of people.

Completely different from the gray, cramped feeling of Brighton’s Central Station, everything in the Imperial Capital’s station seemed to have been magnified several times over.

The dome was higher, the concourses wider, and even the cast floral patterns on the iron pillars were more elaborate.

The inlaid stone slabs of the floor had been polished to a mirror shine by the hundreds of thousands of shoe soles that crossed them daily.

Outside the station’s main entrance, the streetscape of the Imperial Capital unfolded before them.

Manicured plane trees lined both sides of the street, their trunks whitewashed. Their leaves rustled in the autumn wind.

In the distance, the twin towers of a Cathedral rose above the cluster of buildings, the Cross on its spire dazzlingly bright in the afternoon sun.

There were far more carriages than in Brighton—four-wheeled, two-wheeled, open-topped, enclosed—weaving through the streets in a constant stream.

Occasionally, a motorcar would emerge from the throng of carriages, its horn blaring with confidence.

Evelyn stood on the steps of the station entrance, her eyes unable to take it all in.

”It’s so big! So much bigger than Brighton.”

”...Didn’t we come here last time?”

”We did, but I can never get enough of it.”

As she spoke, her gaze followed a deep red, four-wheeled carriage.

The carriage’s lacquer finish was so bright you could see your reflection in it, and a family crest was painted in gold on the door.

The two black horses pulling it had glossy, slick coats, and the copper buttons on their harnesses glinted in the sunlight.

The driver sat in the coachman’s seat, dressed in a uniform, his hat pulled down so low that only his chin was visible.

”How much do you think a carriage like that costs?” Evelyn asked, knowing she wouldn’t get an answer.

”Probably more than our house,” Richard replied offhandedly.