Chapter 212 - 181: Inflammatory Publication

Back home, Richard took out the fountain pen that best suited his hand.

He dipped the nib lightly.

The black mass in the bottle actively rose to meet it, cradling the nib.

Richard lifted the pen to test the feel. It was incredibly smooth, with no risk of the awkwardness of using too much ink and having it drip all over the desk.

He had also experienced plenty of times when the ink would suddenly run out mid-sentence, forcing him to get up and re-dip the pen, only to find his train of thought broken upon returning.

That wouldn’t happen anymore.

He pulled the manuscript from the drawer and spread it out in the center of his desk.

He reread the first draft. After finishing, he still felt something wasn’t quite right.

Under his pen, Burns was becoming more and more like a flyer nailed to a notice board.

He wrote about Burns coughing up blood, being afraid to go to the hospital, and hauling coal for thirty-one years.

But the Burns he’d written this way was just a simple "representative figure of an exploited worker."

The exploitation was real, but the figure was hollow.

Richard crumpled the third draft into a ball, tossed it into the wastebasket, and spread out a fresh sheet of paper.

This time, he started by writing about the neighbors.

"During the coldest week of winter, the widower Burns failed to show up for the morning roll call at the Pier.

This was discovered by Mrs. Rosaline, the washerwoman."

......

After dinner, Evelyn was called over by her brother.

She came in still holding the small perfume bottle, turning it over and over in her hands.

"Are you planning to wear that on your head?"

"Of course not." Evelyn placed the bottle on a corner of Richard’s desk. "Clara said to dab it behind the ears. Just a little is enough."

Richard leaned in and took a sniff.

It was very faint. The layer of violet was barely there, with a hint of the crisp scent of an early spring pear underneath.

"Richard, you said you wanted to show me your manuscript?"

Richard handed her the stack of manuscript paper.

Evelyn sat on the edge of the bed, curled her knees up, and spread the papers across her lap.

She read slowly, not like their aunt, who could spot the key sentence of a paragraph at a glance.

She moved from line to line, pausing whenever she came across a word she didn’t know.

Richard sat at his desk and waited for a while. When he heard the rustling of pages stop, he turned his head.

Evelyn was frowning.

"Richard, Mr. Burns... is he dead?"

"What do you think?"

"You wrote ’another name was added to the card index,’ doesn’t that mean he’s dead?"

She flipped back through the pages.

"But then you wrote that the door opened by itself the next day. So is he dead or not?"

She frowned and flipped back and forth once more before looking at Richard.

"The parts don’t match up."

Richard smiled.

"He’s dead."

"Then why did you write that the door opened?"

"If you can’t see it, then never mind." He put his pencil down. "What do you think of it?"

Evelyn looked at him for a moment and didn’t press the issue.

She turned back to that section, her brow slowly furrowing.

"The part where the old lady knocked three times but not a fourth... when I read that, my heart felt heavy."

"The old man who could write came out and slipped a note into the door seam... I get that part. That’s how it is around here."

"But what does the ’politeness’ later on mean?"

She looked up. "Why is not looking at the body considered polite? I don’t really get it."

Evelyn flipped through the manuscript from beginning to end one more time, finally closing it and hugging it to her chest.

"Richard, I don’t understand it."

She said it bluntly.

"I want to show it to Mom."

"You can."

"I’m not saying it’s badly written."

She quickly added, afraid her brother would misunderstand:

"I just think Mom would probably understand this kind of thing better than I do."

......

At the other end of the sofa, Margaret was looking at an old art book.

Rogers had given her that art book when they were dating. It was filled with landscape sketches from all over Albion.

Evelyn walked over and placed the manuscript on her mother’s lap.

"Mom, it’s Richard’s manuscript."

Her mother closed the art book.

"What has he written?"

Richard also walked over to the sofa just then.

His mother didn’t say anything and took the manuscript.

Their father poked his head out from the kitchen. "What’s your mother looking at?"

"Something Richard wrote."

"When did he start writing?"

"He’s always been writing."

"Oh?" Their father started to come closer, but then he noticed his son was also standing by the sofa, blocking his view.

"Go back to your dinner," their mother said without looking up.

Their father took the hint and retreated to the kitchen.

Their mother finished reading quickly. Before giving her assessment, she first sent her daughter away.

"Evelyn, your father’s finished eating. Go wash his bowl."

Evelyn obediently hopped off the sofa and went to the kitchen.

Once her daughter was out of earshot, she turned to her son, who had been standing by her side the whole time.

"Richard, are you planning to get this published?"

"Yes."

"In that case, I have two suggestions."

When she was serious, her presence was even more imposing than her own sister’s.

"First, the name Burns has to be changed."

"Why?"

"Because the Mr. Burns in your manuscript is currently alive and well in the third house on the east end of Waste Rock Lane."

"..."

Richard instantly realized his mistake.

"I saw him go out just the day before yesterday," his mother continued. "He was coughing terribly, but he’s still alive."

"If he reads this, he’ll think you’re putting a Curse on him!"

His mother pushed the manuscript toward him.

"I can also count the washerwomen in Waste Rock Lane.

If any one of them were to read this, they would think the ’Mrs. Rosaline’ inside is an allusion to them."

Richard took the manuscript back.

"I’ll change it. I won’t let real people feel like it’s alluding to them."

"The other point is... the whole piece is written too explicitly."

His mother spread open the last page of the manuscript.

Her finger hovered vaguely over the line, "At ten o’clock that morning, another name was added to the parish register."