Chapter 469: A Complete Journey

He arrived in Manchester the following afternoon.

While waiting for his transfer train, Richard found time to visit the northern suburbs.

The rollers at the Duckworth Printing Factory were still turning. The boss poked his head out from behind a pile of paper, and upon seeing his visitor, nearly dropped the paper knife he was holding.

"Mr. Williams!"

"Pardon the intrusion."

"Not at all, not at all," the boss said, wiping his hands on his apron as he hurried around the pile.

"Why did you come in person? You could have just sent a note."

"I was passing by."

The boss ushered him inside, but stopped halfway.

"Sir, it's... it's been stopped."

"What has?"

"The Alleyway Compilation."

Richard halted beside a stack of paper.

"The last batch from last month made it to the seventh issue. The eighth is typeset, but hasn't been printed."

The boss rubbed his hands together. "Their address isn't accepting mail anymore, either."

"Why?"

The boss's face twisted into a complicated expression—partly satisfied, but also carrying an indescribable sense of dread.

"A colleague of mine told me there was an insurance clerk named Wade."

"He went to the corner police station and reported the seventeen households in his alleyway, one by one."

The boss swallowed hard.

"Finally, he reported himself. By then, a crowd had already gathered outside the station."

The roller in the printing factory kept turning, clattering away.

"Last week, they sold off their warehouse stock as scrap paper. Three pounds for a penny."

Richard stood there in silence.

"Sir?" The boss leaned in.

"It's nothing." Richard shifted his canvas bag to his other shoulder.

"I came today to speak with you about the next issue."

"What changes are we making?"

"We're adding editors."

The boss froze for a moment.

Richard spoke the words he had prepared on the train.

"I plan to invite a few people to co-edit. From now on, we'll list a row of names on every issue."

"A row of names? Wouldn't that mean splitting the credit?"

"It's better to split it."

Richard stared at the spinning roller.

"If a booklet is written by just one person, crushing it only requires crushing one person."

"If a row of people write it together, crushing it becomes a lot more work."

The boss stood there thinking for a long time before suddenly slapping his thigh.

"Then I need to add a line of my own."

"What will you put?"

"'Printed by Duckworth Printing Factory, Northern Suburbs of Manchester'." The boss puffed out his chest.

"If anyone asks later, I'll tell them I added this line myself."

Richard smiled.

As Richard was leaving, the boss chased after him and shoved a package into his hands.

"Take this with you."

Richard opened it and took a look. Inside were twenty bound sample booklets, their edges trimmed perfectly straight.

"What do I need so many for?"

"Give them away." The boss wiped his hands on his apron.

"Last month, I mailed two copies to my nephew serving in the army down south."

"He wrote back saying they're passing them around the whole company."

At seven-forty, the train pulled into Briston Central Station.

The moment the doors opened, that familiar smell surged in.

Richard had spent the better part of a year in the Imperial Capital and grown accustomed to the scent of sycamore and lilac.

As this scent washed over his face, he realized he actually missed it a little.

Exiting the station and heading north, he passed by Grafton Street.

The door to Clement Antique Shop was closed. A handwritten notice stated that the owner was recovering from an illness, his nephew was temporarily managing the place, and they were still purchasing goods as usual.

Richard stood at the door for a moment but didn't knock.

Further north in Slag Alley, every window was tightly shuttered. A new district ordinance passed last month mandated a two-shilling fine for failing to cover them completely.

He walked into the entrance of the alley, and right then, his panel suddenly lit up.

[walking lv.3, progress 100%.]

[walking lv.3 → lv.4.]

The [walking] skill was easily his slowest to level, as there were no events that could drastically boost it.

Only through jogging, climbing stairs, taking long detours, and finally relying on the extra weight of moving with Levitation had it entered the fast lane.

After rushing around so many places these past few days, he had finally maxed it out.

The change arrived in complete silence. Richard carefully sensed it.

The items in his canvas bag were much heavier than when he had first set out, especially that stone bowl.

He had spent over half an hour walking here from Central Avenue, and the bag had even made him a little breathless.

But standing here now, his calves felt comfortably warm, and his breathing was as steady as if he were sitting down.

On the night of the twenty-first, after heading back from a heavy dinner before his departure, he had originally intended to perform his routine divination.

But Madam Marie forbade him from inquiring about external matters, instructing him to only let the mirror reflect himself.

He had drawn just one card to read himself, and it turned out to be [The World; Upright].

That night, he had stared at the card for a long time without understanding it.

Nothing he had on hand was finished. The seed hung there awaiting its conditions, the [Ten of Swords] on the gathering table foretold a group battle, and across the sea, the Black Earth River Master was still searching for whoever had delivered those three syllables.

But standing here at the entrance to Slag Alley, he realized that he had set out from his home at the end of October last year, traveled a massive circle, and finally walked back to his own front door. This, perhaps, was the complete journey represented by [The World].

The sound of a jump rope echoed from the middle of the alley.

"No answer at one, no answer at two, at three she knocks on a different door."

"Deny the wet, deny the cold, deny what's brought inside the home."

At this line, the one jumping inside the rope had to squat.

Squatting too slowly meant a penalty, and the penalty was turning the rope for the next round.

The smallest girl squatted half a beat too late and tripped over the rope, taking a tumble.

An older girl beside her scolded, "I told you not to rush the beat."

"I didn't!"

"You did."

"The tune is just fast!"

"It's not fast, you just have short legs."

The little girl burst into tears on the spot.

Richard continued to the end of the alley. Light spilled from the window of the seventh house. He raised his hand and knocked three times.

As always, it was Evelyn who bustled over to throw open the door.

Wearing a checkered apron, she poked her small face outside the moment the door opened.

"Who is it..."

Her words caught in her throat.

"...Richard?"

"I'm back."

"Why didn't you call ahead!"

Forgetting her hands were covered in flour, his sister slapped them firmly against Richard's overcoat, leaving two white handprints.

"...Hey, Grandpa gave me this coat. It's custom-made."

"Hmph, you really think you're some rich young master now?"

His mother's voice called from the kitchen, "Who is it?"

Evelyn turned her head and shouted loud enough for the whole alley to hear, "Richard is back!"

Margaret hurried out of the kitchen, still holding a bowl in her hands.

She froze in the doorway and slowly set the bowl down on a nearby cabinet.

"...Why are you back?"

"I took a long trip and just happened to be passing by."

"Passing by? Briston is on your way back to the Imperial Capital?"

Richard thought about it. "It's a slight detour."

Margaret didn't ask further. She reached out and touched her son's face.

"You've lost weight."

"I really haven't."

"You have. You just can't see it yourself."

By this time, Evelyn had already slipped behind him and was blindly patting his canvas bag.

"Did you bring anything?"

Richard pretended not to hear and shifted the bag to his other shoulder.

"I asked if you brought anything."

"...I left in a hurry this time," Richard said, looking conflicted.

"I bought some things, but..."

"Richard." Evelyn cut him off.

"You pulled this exact same routine last time you came back from Whitcom. Don't treat me like an idiot."

Richard coughed. "...You have a good memory."

He had no choice but to unbuckle the canvas bag.

"Alright, alright, I give up."

"The sooner you give up, the sooner we eat." Evelyn, looking very smug, stretched both hands out straight. "Hand it over."

The first thing he pulled out was a small square of woolen cloth.

"This is for Mom."

Margaret took it and ran her hand over it.

"This was hand-beaten."

"Right. Eight people beat it for a whole night."

His mother didn't say anything. The woolen cloth in Briston was all machine-made, and machine-made wool felt like a layer of paper.

She folded the square of cloth and tucked it into her apron pocket.

"What should I use it for?"

"The lady said you could use it for anything."

"Then I'll just keep it. It'd be a shame to use it for anything."

The second item was a postcard printed with a stone railway viaduct.

"This is for Dad."

Evelyn leaned over to take a look. "A bridge?"

"From the section north of Queenstown."

Footsteps sounded from upstairs.

Rogers took off his glasses, wiped them on his shirt, set them back on his nose, and took another look.

"You really are back. I thought Evelyn was just yelling nonsense again."

"Dad!"

Rogers ignored her. He walked over, clapped his son on the shoulder, and casually accepted the postcard.

He had only intended to glance at it.

Instead, he stood in the hallway and stared at it for a full half-minute. When he finished, he held it up to the light and turned it over to check the back.

"This arch was built in sections," he said.

"How can you tell?"

His father tapped the card with his fingernail.

"Look at the seam between the third and fourth sections. The color is different."

The third item out was a small cloth bundle, which Evelyn snatched right away.

"Is this mine?"

"Those are oatcakes."

She untied it to find six rock-hard baked discs lying in the old cloth, their edges chipped.

She pinched one and knocked it against the table, producing a solid thud.

"...Richard."

"What?"

"Is this edible?"

"Soak it in hot milk for three minutes."

"Isn't that just our family's oatmeal?"

Richard teased his sister, "It's different. This is the ancestor of oatmeal."

Finally, there was a tiny tin brooch—two hands holding a heart, with a crown resting on top.

Evelyn picked it up and held it to the light.

Richard explained, "I bought it at the Queenstown pier. A penny a piece."

"The people there call it a Claddagh."

"What does it mean?"

"The hands are for friendship, the heart is for love, and the crown is for loyalty."

The tips of Evelyn's ears quietly turned red.

She squeezed the brooch in her palm and said fiercely, "It was only a penny, you didn't have to explain so much."

"I haven't finished explaining."

"Then go on."

"There's a specific way to wear it."

"If the tip of the heart points outward, it means the person is unspoken for. If it points inward, it means their heart is taken."

"So which way do I wear it?"

"You aren't even eighteen yet."

"So what!"

"Outward."

"...Richard, you're so annoying."

Evelyn pushed the six oatcakes aside, grabbed the Claddagh, and ran upstairs.

"Come back."

"Mom!"

"Eat first."