I Loaded the Occult Panel

Saturday morning brought a rare burst of sunlight to Briston.

Sunlight squeezed through the gap in the curtains, drawing a bright line across the floorboards.

Richard woke later than usual. Decoding until his brain overloaded last night meant his body needed the extra sleep.

He rolled over, intending to linger in bed a little longer.

The clatter of dishes drifted up from downstairs, mingled with the sound of his sister talking.

Resigned, he got out of bed, dressed, and went downstairs.

Evelyn was alone in the kitchen, an apron tied around her waist as she arranged bread on the toasting rack.

”Where are Mom and Dad?”

”Dad went to the post office to mail something. Mom’s resting in the bedroom—she coughed for a while last night.”

Evelyn flipped the toasted bread with practiced ease.She had helped their mother with the housework since she was little. Washing dishes, scrubbing floors, toasting bread—she was far more skilled at chores than other girls her age.

Before, or at least until two weeks ago, Richard’s role in the household had been ”the one who needed taking care of.”

Frail and constantly sick, he had consumed most of their mother’s attention, leaving Evelyn to naturally shoulder whatever was left.

She was a year younger than Richard, but there were times she sounded more like an older sister than an actual older sister would.

Lately, however, that dynamic had been subtly shifting, all because Richard had started actively helping around the house.

He cleared the dishes, woke up early to clean the ash from the fireplace, and the day before yesterday, he had even tried sewing a missing button back onto his coat—though his stitches were so crooked their mother had taken it back to redo herself.

Evelyn’s reaction to all this was complicated.

On one hand, she was glad her brother was finally no longer a useless, sickly invalid.

On the other hand, though she couldn’t quite put it into words, it felt like something deep inside had been displaced.

For the past few years, ”taking care of her brother” had been a major part of her presence in the family.

Their mother managed his health while she managed his daily needs—a chain that had been running smoothly for a long time.

Now, one link in that chain suddenly no longer needed her.

Judging by his recent performance at school, it was more accurate to say that particular link had suddenly started turning on its own—and turning unusually fast.

”Toast is ready.” Evelyn set the plate on the table. ”Butter it yourself.”

”Alright.”

”Tea is on the stove. Pour it yourself.”

”Got it.”

She watched Richard pour his own tea, butter his toast, and cut the bread in half before suddenly speaking up.

”Richard, are you doing something behind our backs lately?”

”Homework. I told you.”

”Liar. Who locks their homework in a drawer?”

Richard chewed his bread and lied without batting an eye. ”I locked up my diary.”

”Since when do you keep a diary?”

”Recently.”

”About what?”

”About how my sister asks more questions every day.”

Evelyn glared at him, tearing her toast into small pieces and aggressively shoving them into her mouth one by one.

After a moment of quiet, she abruptly changed the subject.

”Richard, Mom’s birthday is coming up.”

”Yeah, the tenth of next month.”

”You actually remember the date?” The girl looked surprised.

The old Richard’s memory for dates had been near zero. Birthdays, anniversaries, rent day—he had relied entirely on others reminding him just to get a grunt of acknowledgment.

”My memory’s gotten a bit better lately.”

Evelyn didn’t press the issue, but her eyes narrowed.

”I want to buy Mom something,” she said, her voice muffled around her last bite of toast.

”A scarf, or a pair of gloves. She’s worn hers for years, and there are holes worn straight through the fingertips.”

”Sure. How much do we need?”

”The cheapest wool gloves are two shillings and sixpence. The nicer ones are three shillings.”

She sounded disheartened stating the price; three shillings was no small sum for them.

”Split it half and half?” Richard offered.

”Where would you get the money?” Evelyn asked bluntly.

The question was a quiet probe.

Where was someone who never even had enough pocket money getting the confidence to suddenly go halves?

”Warren’s been buying me lunch every day, so I’ve been saving the money I normally spend on food. I should have enough saved up by next month.”

Evelyn’s expression softened. This was something she already knew.

”Alright, it’s a deal. We’ll get the three-shilling ones.”

”Yeah. The three-shilling ones.”

The brother and sister clinked teacups, which held cheap black tea thinned with milk.

...

After breakfast, they left the house.

They were nominally going out to browse for their mother’s birthday gift, but in truth, both just needed some fresh air.

Between school and chores, Evelyn rarely had the chance to get out.

The streets were far more crowded than on weekdays.

Housewives wrapped in scarves carried baskets for groceries, vendors pushed carts and hawked roasted chestnuts on the corners, and the cries of newsboys blended with the clatter of hooves into a noisy hum.

”Let’s go look at the gloves first.” Evelyn walked ahead, her pace faster than Richard’s.

The sleeves of her coat were a bit short, revealing a stretch of pale wrist.

As she walked, her braid bounced against the back of her head, tracing a lively arc against the drab gray streetscape.

”There’s a department store branch on Grafton Street with Saturday sales.”

”How do you know that?”

”A classmate told me.”

They turned onto Grafton Street.

The department store branch had a modest storefront, its display window showing a few women’s hats and a row of gloves.

Evelyn pressed against the glass for a long time before pointing to a pair of dark brown wool gloves in the second row.

”Those. Three shillings.”

The gloves were finely stitched and lined with thin fleece, with wear-resistant leather patches on the fingertips and palms.

Practical and unflashy, they were perfect for their mother.

”Once we save up enough pocket money next month, we’ll buy them,” Evelyn said, reluctantly tearing herself away from the window.

Heading back down Grafton Street, they passed a small alley branching off the main road.

A faded wooden sign hung at the alley entrance: ”Clement Antiquities.”

The lettering was ornate, accompanied by a small illustration of a brass kettle.

Beneath it was a description of services: ”Rare Collectibles · Estate Valuations · Door-to-Door Purchasing.”

Richard stopped in his tracks.

”Evelyn, are you interested in antiques?”

”No,” came her crisp reply.

”Then you want to browse nearby? I’m going in to look for a couple of minutes.”

”You aren’t interested in antiques either, Richard.”

”I’ve developed an interest lately. Mr. Hutton talked about old artifacts in class, and I want to see real examples.”

Evelyn gave him a skeptical up-and-down look, muttered, ”Suit yourself,” and turned to head across the street from the alley.

Richard pushed open the door to Clement Antiquities, ringing a brass bell.

The shop was modest, roughly twice the width of his family’s sitting room.

Shelves lined all four walls, packed with an assortment of objects:

Brassware, porcelain, old clocks, picture frames, candlesticks, oil paintings, figurines missing a leg, and silver cutlery rusted beyond its original color.

A gas lamp hung from the ceiling, its frosted glass shade filtering the light into a warm, soft glow.

An old man sat behind the counter, sparse white hair combed back and brass-rimmed spectacles on his nose.

He was examining something with a magnifying glass.

Looking up at the bell, the old man took in Richard’s clothes with a lack of interest. ”Good morning.”

”Good morning,” Richard said, glancing at the counter.

The old man was looking at an old coin, coated in verdigris with worn edges.

”Looking for something, young man?”

”Just browsing.”

The old man grunted, shifting his attention back to the old coin.

Richard took a slow lap around the shop.

He had tested the items at the flea market stalls, and the Panel had shown absolutely no reaction.

This shop was a few grades above the open-air stalls; the items here were older, more refined, and more diverse.

Keeping half his attention on the Panel’s available points, he started from the entrance and scanned his way along the left wall.

A brass candlestick. No reaction.

An old Pocket Watch. No reaction.

A row of porcelain tea sets. Still no reaction.

A small bronze statuette missing half an arm—the most mysterious-looking of the bunch—but still no reaction.

The shelves along the window wall held artifacts of much greater age.

A bronze oil lamp caught his eye.

The lamp’s body was roughly the size of a human head, sculpted into a crouching Sphinx.

Its wings were folded tight against its back and its head lifted slightly, the open mouth forming the spout for the wick.

The Sphinx had a shallow, dish-like indentation on its back to hold the oil.

The entire piece was covered in a thick layer of patina, though the discoloration was uneven.

The rust on the belly and base was a normal verdigris, but the patina on the Sphinx’s wings was dark and tinged with dull red, like long-dried blood.

The style was typical of antiquities from the Black Soil River Basin.

As Mr. Hutton had explained in class, the priest caste of the Black Soil River Basin used many vessels bearing the image of the Sphinx.

In their mythology, the Sphinx was the guardian of the ”Gate,” watching over the worlds of light and shadow alike.

As Richard stepped closer to the oil lamp, the Panel suddenly jumped.

[Available Points: 0.01]

He stopped immediately.