I Loaded the Occult Panel

”Richard Williams.”

The white-bearded gentleman burst into laughter.

The sound drew the attention of several other passengers in the carriage.

He lifted the hat from his knee and set it back down.

”I told my old friend that this year’s runner-up spoke even better than the champion.”

Richard smiled.

”Thank you for the compliment, sir.”

”A compliment?” The white-bearded gentleman waved a hand. ”That was true skill.”

He introduced himself as a retired judge who had studied law at the Imperial Capital’s School of Political Science and Economics in his youth.

He usually served as an honorary judge for the Cicero Cup, though it hadn’t been his turn this year.The gentleman in the gray coat also offered his name: a wool merchant from Nottingham who had read about the Cicero Cup in the papers while traveling on business.

”So it’s you.” The merchant shook his hand.

”I read that piece in the paper, ’Where is the Boundary of Civilization?’”

”Did you?”

”I couldn’t quite make sense of that metaphor about the ’water pipes’,” the merchant confessed.

”But I told my son, ’It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand it. You just need to remember that these words were spoken by a sixteen-year-old boy.’”

”What a coincidence,” Richard replied politely. ”How old is your son, sir?”

”Nineteen. He’s an apprentice in Nottingham.”

The merchant sighed.

”He doesn’t study.”

The carriage swayed gently.

Outside the window, the skyline of the Imperial Capital gradually dipped lower.

The centuries-old clock tower shrank from a slender spire to a mere needle on the horizon before vanishing into the twilight.

The judge fished a small silver case from his inner pocket and flipped it open.

Inside lay a neat row of slender cigars.

”Care for a smoke?”

”No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

”A true scholar.” The old judge snapped the cigar case shut. ”What does your father do?”

”He’s an engineer,” Richard answered without hesitation.

”Those three bridges in Briston—my father drafted the arches beneath them.”

The judge nodded.

”A fine trade.”

”He says so himself.”

”And your mother?”

”She’s in poor health, so she only helps out at home.”

The old judge didn’t press any further.

When the train arrived, Richard bid farewell to the two gentlemen and carried his luggage out of the station.

The smell of coal smoke hit him the moment he stepped outside.

It tickled his nose at first, but he got used to it after a while.

Richard walked home along Slag Alley, exchanging greetings with a few neighbors.

”The Williams boy is back?”

An old woman leaned halfway out of her doorway, still clutching the gray cloth she used to wipe her coal scale.

”Yes, Mrs. Weir.”

”You’ve lost weight.” The old woman narrowed her eyes, looking him up and down. ”You look much more spirited, though.”

”The food in the Imperial Capital wasn’t too bad, but there was a lot of walking.”

”What university did your mother say you got into?”

”Imperial Capital University.”

The old woman’s grip tightened on her gray cloth.

”Good, good.”

She said it was good, but her expression suggested she didn’t quite believe him.

Richard smiled and politely excused himself, saying he needed to hurry home.

The seventh house on the east end of Slag Alley. Richard stood at the door for a moment.

He gently set his luggage down and took a deep breath.

He pushed the door open, and a familiar scent rushed out to greet him.

The everyday smell of soap powder, the aroma of the tea his mother had brewed, and the sweet scent of Evelyn melting butter.

There was movement in the kitchen.

”Mom, we’re out of flour. We need to buy more tomorrow... And that bucket of raisins, was it under your sewing basket?”

Richard stood silently in the entryway.

”Don’t hide them so deep, all right? I’m baking, not stealing...”

Evelyn poked her head out from the kitchen doorway.

The girl’s hands were covered in flour, and there was a white smudge across her cheek.

She spotted him standing in the entryway.

”...Brother?”

Richard took a few quick steps forward and held the pudding jar right up to her eyes.

This time, he didn’t really feel like teasing his sister.

Evelyn’s gaze landed first on the jar, then shifted to the griffin crest.

She forgot to blink.

”You... you couldn’t have?!”

”Madagascar vanilla bean caramel pudding. Just like you asked.” Richard shook the jar.

Her brain was spinning too fast for her mouth to keep up.

”I...”

She reached out to grab it, then jerked her hand back, looking at her flour-coated fingers.

”I need to wash my hands. No, no, no, there’s still stuff in the oven, I need to check the oven first... Oh my god, oh my god...”

She spun around and bolted back into the kitchen, knocking over the broom by the door.

Pots and pans clattered loudly in the kitchen.

His mother came down from the top of the stairs.

”You’re back?”

”I’m back, Mom.”

Margaret reached out and touched her son’s face, as if confirming something.

”How was it in the Imperial Capital?”

Richard pulled the acceptance letter from his satchel and handed it over.

”I passed. Second place.”

Margaret took the paper, holding it carefully in her hands.

She stared at it for a long while, her eyes turning slightly misty.

”I’ll make your favorite tonight.”

”Okay.”

...

Dinner was honey and thyme roasted lamb chops, mashed potatoes, and baked sweet potatoes.

A plate of warm bread sprinkled with coarse salt and rosemary sat on the table, along with half a bottle of ale left over from the last holiday.

Rogers stood by the dining table, unmoving.

”This is...”

”Your son got accepted into Imperial Capital University.”

Margaret handed him the acceptance letter.

Rogers took it and lowered his head, staring at it for a long time.

”Second place.”

He didn’t look up.

”Yeah.”

He handed the paper back to his wife.

Richard watched his father from the other end of the table.

Fresh little scrapes dotted his knuckles, and his back was slightly hunched—the result of long years bent over a desk.

His breathing was also shallower than when Richard had left home.

Briston’s coal smoke showed no mercy to those who lived there.

His mother brought the soup out from the kitchen.

”Sit down, the soup’s getting cold.”

The four of them took their seats.

Evelyn carried the glass jar out and placed it dead center on the dining table.

Her cheeks were flushed, and her hands were still trembling.

”Dad! Look!”

”Look at what?”

Rogers Williams lifted his gaze from his spoon.

”The Royal Grand Hotel! The Royal Grand Hotel!”

Evelyn pointed at the griffin crest on the jar. ”By royal appointment!”

”Oh?” Her father narrowed his eyes to inspect the jar, then looked at Richard.

”You ate at the Royal Grand Hotel this morning?”

”I bought it to bring back.”

Rogers finished the soup in his bowl and reached out to serve himself another half bowl.

”How much did this cost?”

”A serving of pudding isn’t expensive,” Richard replied.

”And the jar?”

”...More expensive than the pudding.”

”Dad, this jar will last a lifetime,” Evelyn spoke up in her brother’s defense.

Her father nodded. ”A lifetime. It’s worth it, then.”

Evelyn insisted on dividing the pudding so everyone could have a taste.

Their mother smiled and said it was just for her.

”No!” The little girl cradled the jar like it was her own baby.

”Everyone gets a bite! My brother carried this all the way back from the Imperial Capital. He didn’t just buy it for me.”

”I did buy it for you,” Richard said.

”You don’t get a say!” Evelyn insisted. ”One bite each!”

She twisted the lid off.

”Mhm...” she murmured, inhaling the scent.

The four of them each took a spoonful.

Their mother tasted it first, lifting a small spoonful to her mouth and swallowing slowly.

”It truly is good.”

Their father took a bite and smacked his lips.

”...Tastes about the same as your mother’s.”

”Dad!”

”It really is about the same.” Rogers set his spoon down.

”Your mother’s custard doesn’t have this touch of liquor mixed in. This dash of alcohol masks the other flavors. It’s actually a lazy trick.”

Their mother kicked her husband under the table.

”Once I’ve mastered baking!” Evelyn raised her empty spoon and announced, ”I’ll definitely make something better than this!”

”How so?”

”I won’t mix in liquor!”

”Good.” Her father nodded. ”I’ll be waiting.”

Everyone at the table laughed.

Evelyn insisted her brother eat the very last spoonful of pudding.

Unable to refuse, Richard ate it.

After dinner, the siblings washed the dishes together.

His sister stood by the sink washing, while Richard stood beside her, drying them with a cloth.

”Brother,” Evelyn asked quietly as she scrubbed a plate.

”That pudding from the Royal Grand Hotel... does it really cost a whole gold coin?”

”It’s not that expensive.”

”But it’s the Royal Grand Hotel.”

”Like I just said, it’s not the pudding that’s expensive, it’s the jar.”

”Mhm...” Evelyn held the jar under the tap and rinsed it out with great care.

”I’m keeping it,” the little girl said solemnly. ”When I make good things in the future, I’ll use this jar to hold them, too.”

”Okay.”

Their mother spoke casually as she cleared the dining table.

”Your aunt sent a letter.”

Richard’s hand paused as he dried a plate.

”When did it arrive?”

”A week ago.”

”What did she say?”

”She said the situation out there might be changing, and that our family shouldn’t travel far anytime soon.”

His mother wiped the last dish and stacked it in the cupboard.

She turned to glance at Richard.

”It’s good that you’re back. It’s safest when our family is together.”

...

The auditorium at Greenwood was built in 1837, the year of the coronation.

Hanging from the domed ceiling was the Greenwood school crest: an open book.

Richard sat in the third seat of the front row.

Sitting beside him were several classmates from his year who had been accepted into other institutions of higher learning—six of them in total.

The auditorium was packed. The parents were all dressed in their best clothes.

Principal Fletcher stepped up to the podium.

Resting his hands on the edge of the podium, he slowly read the opening remarks.

”...This academic year, three hundred and seventeen students at Greenwood have completed their studies.”

”Among them...”

The principal flipped a page.

”Forty-two have achieved honors in various subjects.”

Applause.

”Eleven have received commendations from the school board.”

More applause.

”Six have received acceptance letters from external institutions of higher education.”

A low buzz swept through the auditorium.

Six students. For a school like Greenwood in a northern industrial city, that was an exceptionally good result.

”And one of them...”

The principal looked up.

”...has been accepted into the Department of Classics at Imperial Capital University.”

The auditorium went dead silent for a moment.

To these parents in Briston, Imperial Capital University was just a name in the newspapers, a place where only the children of the wealthy went.

It required hiring private tutors from the age of twelve, attending boarding schools, and having a deep family fortune.

In the sixty years since Greenwood’s founding, this had never happened before.

Principal Fletcher pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

”Richard Williams.”

Applause erupted from the parents’ section in the back, sweeping forward row by row.

As the applause reached the front row, Warren stood in the center aisle, shooting Richard a thumbs-up.

In the back rows, his mother did not clap.

She simply sat there, hands resting on her lap, a faint smile on her lips.

The applause lasted a long time.

Principal Fletcher yielded his spot to a board member.

The board member who had come today was a gray-haired industrialist named Hamilton.

He owned two ironworks in the western suburbs of Briston, and an autonomous canal dock further north.

”Ladies and gentlemen.”

Mr. Hamilton began.

”In accordance with the charter of the Greenwood school board, there will be three school board scholarships awarded this year.”

The parents’ section quieted down. A few parents of the lower-grade students craned their necks.

”The first.”

Mr. Hamilton held up an envelope.

”Is awarded to the runner-up of the National Cicero Cup Latin Speech Competition, who has also been admitted to the Department of Classics at Imperial Capital University—Richard Williams.”

”The scholarship amount: fifty pounds per academic year, for a term of two years.”

Richard froze.

He had never heard of this scholarship.

Fifty pounds a year for two years... that was a hundred pounds.

”What’s going on?” a classmate beside him asked in a hushed voice.

”Aren’t the school board scholarships always given to existing scholarship students? I remember the charter...”

”Nonsense,” another student behind them chimed in.

”The charter says it’s ’awarded to a Greenwood student who has achieved notable success in their graduation year’.

How they define ’notable success’ is entirely up to the board.”

”Fifty pounds for two years...”

”He got second place for Imperial Capital University this time. Greenwood hasn’t even had anyone place in the top twenty all these years.”

”...Fair enough.”

Richard walked up to the podium.

Mr. Hamilton shook his hand.

”Young man, I hope the Briston of the future will be proud of you.”

”...Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Holland sat in the teachers’ section, beaming as he spoke excitedly to Ms. Grant beside him.

Mr. West sat on Holland’s other side, his arms crossed over his chest, muttering something under his breath.

Mr. Hutton wasn’t present; he never attended these sorts of events.

But the industrialists on the school board were usually completely clueless about academics.

The old gentleman had been rooted in Briston for decades, and plenty of people on the board knew his name.

Richard knew perfectly well why he had received this scholarship.

After the awards ceremony came tea time.

The refreshments were laid out on the lawn outside the auditorium.

The tables were laden with sandwiches, scones, and several pots of black tea.

The younger students ran around, while their parents pulled them back and told them not to eat too much.

The parents swarmed around Richard.

”Young man.” A mother grabbed his arm.

”My son is fourteen this year, and he studies quite hard, too.

Can you tell me how you started reading Latin back then?”

”The textbooks were from...”

”Just tell us how you managed to absorb it all.”

Richard was surrounded, unable to slip away.

A father with his child was observing his attire, probably calculating how much the fabric of his clothes was worth.

Briston was an industrial city; northerners valued practicality.

As Richard politely dealt with the crowd, he looked around.

Warren struggled through the throng for quite a while before finally poking his head in.

”Richard!” He grabbed Richard’s sleeve. ”You’re trapped by these parents, huh?”

”Warren...”

”I knew you could do it!” Warren was also dressed in a brand-new suit.

”Come on, come on, my dad told me to drag you over. He wants a word with you...”

Richard followed Warren, squeezing his way out of the crowd.

A few parents were still calling out questions behind them.

Warren’s father, Old Crowley, stood on the other side of the lawn.

He held a cup of tea and raised it toward Richard from afar.

”Richard.”

”Mr. Crowley.”

”Congratulations.” Old Crowley had a gruff voice.

”He’s been bragging to his mother for a month at home, talking about how his classmate got into Imperial Capital University.

Now, whenever his mother sees someone else’s kid, she has to ask, ’Do you know my son’s classmate?’”

Richard exchanged pleasantries for a while before bidding the Crowley father and son farewell.

Warren reached out to shake his hand.

”...Take care.”

”You too.”

Richard turned and walked toward the auditorium.

Warren stared at his back for a moment.

”Dad.”

”Yeah?”

”With Richard going to the Imperial Capital, I’m afraid I’ll be seeing less and less of him from now on.”

”Yeah.”

”He’s definitely going to go far in life.”

Old Crowley said nothing. He raised his teacup and drained the rest of his black tea.

”You have to walk your own path,” he told his son. ”He’ll walk his, and you’ll walk yours.”

Mr. Holland came out of the auditorium and found Richard.

”Williams.”

”Sir.”

Mr. Holland pulled out a thick sketchbook.

”Hugh Jean Mason brought this over. He went back to the countryside with his family for the summer.”

”The Chicken Leg Sketchbook.”

”Yes.” Mr. Holland smiled wryly.

”I’ve never understood why he’s so obsessed with drawing chicken legs.”

”He said he likes observing the anatomical structure of fully cooked chicken legs.”

”...He told you that himself?”

”Yes.”

Mr. Holland shook his head.

Richard accepted the sketchbook.

A few words were written in Latin on the cover: De Cruribus Gallinaceis (On Chicken Legs).

One look and it was obvious he had asked Mr. Holland to help him translate it.

He flipped to the very last page of the sketchbook.

On it was a perfectly golden-roasted chicken leg, with a tiny little smiley face drawn beneath it.

Richard closed the sketchbook and tucked it into his satchel.

His mother was nowhere in the crowd.

Richard looked around and found her standing beneath an old oak tree.

”Mom.”

”Yes.”

”I’ll save this scholarship money when I get home. It’ll be for Evelyn to use when she goes to the Imperial Capital later.”

His mother said nothing.

After a moment, she reached out and lightly tapped her son on the head.

”Worry about yourself first.”

Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the oak tree, falling in dappled patches over the two of them.

Richard brushed a few specks of grass off his mother’s skirt.

”Mom, let’s go home.”

His middle school days ended right here.

Ahead lay the Imperial Capital, the clock tower of the Department of Classics, Debate Week, and the spokesmen;

...the Inner World behind the Wall, and that eternal blank expanse on the map of the New Continent;

...and a war that had yet to ignite, though the scent of gunpowder was already in the air.

But right now, he only wanted to return to that home on the east end of Slag Alley.

Tonight’s dinner shouldn’t be oatmeal anymore.