Chapter 545: The Power of Strong Luck

Rogers had just finished celebrating Christmas and was getting ready to go back to work.

Taking a temporary leave of absence to visit was considered compensatory time off. Before leaving, he stuffed the blueprint for the Roast Suckling Pig Bed back into his son's hands.

"If you ever end up bedridden again..."

Margaret glared at him from the side.

Rogers coughed awkwardly, patted his son on the shoulder, and headed downstairs with his canvas bag.

Rogers was gone, but Margaret's supervision remained strict. She forbade her son from writing for more than four hours a day.

Outside of his three daily meals, Richard now secretly gnawed on a few pieces of scrap material every day.

The metabolic discharge constantly left ash on his forehead. Every time his sister saw it, she would wipe it clean with a handkerchief and lean in to sniff.

"It really smells like coal ash," she would say.

Now that he had plenty of time to write, his bed was piled high with manuscripts.

In the examination room, the administrator had told him to write a continuation, and the topic was naturally his own book.

The fifth and sixth chapters of The Tale of the Wrong Door, along with the second and third installments of The Wolf's Mouth—he had been forced to finish all of them in one breath under that Green Desk Lamp. Now that he was out of the dream, he relied on his [Erudition] memory to transcribe them exactly as they were.

Whenever he had time, he wrote a few other things too.

For example, the first installment of The Legend of the Gallic Heroes. He casually made a complete storyboard script for it, marking all the visuals and dialogue before handing it over to Hugh.

There was also the first volume of The Chronicles of the Temple and a new issue of The Prudent Mr.

The newspapers were recently filled with news of the conscription bill, stating that all single men were going to be drafted.

He mockingly titled this issue Forced Volunteering.

If this got published, he absolutely could not let anyone discover his hidden identity.

Then there was the new issue of Collection of Strange Tales. During wartime, families would leave an empty seat and place a knife and fork at the table for those traveling far from home.

He added a rule to this: leaving a seat is fine, but do not set out plates or bowls;

And if the knife and fork ever change position on their own, quickly remove them the next day.

On the second day of the new year, Clara came to pick up the manuscripts. Following their old rule, she copied them over once to prevent his handwriting from being recognized.

When she entered, she discreetly glanced at the basket of pastries Grey had left by the bed. The senior student smiled faintly.

"Where do you want to go next time?" she asked.

Richard smiled bitterly. "I can't go anywhere now. I can only lie here."

Clara picked up the manuscripts. "Lying down is fine, just don't pretend to be asleep anymore."

Richard awkwardly pulled the blanket over his face, avoiding her gaze.

Hugh came over in the afternoon.

He had already set up a small studio inside Aunt Fischer's photography shop, recruiting a total of three students from the same Academy of Fine Arts.

He complained to Richard that some people at the academy were laughing at them for drawing comic books.

But after they finished laughing, they secretly ran over to ask if they were still short on people.

Collection of Strange Tales was sent to the printing factory in Manchester as usual. The copyright page remained the same as before, listing a long string of names.

He also wanted to get the Northern Literary Review to serialize The Tale of the Wrong Door, The Wolf's Mouth, and The Chronicles of the Temple.

Charlotte's reply letter mentioned that the editor-in-chief wanted to ask just how many books one person could possibly write.

It was clear everyone was very confused. Wouldn't someone serializing so many books at the same time run out of inspiration? Additionally, she mentioned that the bookstore which originally printed The Tale of the Island wanted to publish a standalone volume, and she planned to negotiate it in person once a full volume was compiled.

After dinner, Richard finished writing the final line of volume one of The Chronicles of the Temple in bed.

As soon as he finished, a line of pencil text automatically appeared on the library card on his desk:

"New additions: The Legend of the Gallic Heroes (Installment 1), The Chronicles of the Temple (Volume 1).

Borrowing period extended to April 9, 1916.

The Prudent Mr and Collection of Strange Tales are continuations and compilations, and are temporarily excluded."

Evelyn lingered by his bed until eleven o'clock before their mother led her away, taking the plate of pastries with her when she left.

As soon as she was gone, the smell of wet dog hair mixed with the musty stench of a cellar continuously wafted over.

Richard reached out and pulled out the Mask of Hermes, then summoned the Caduceus, the Flying Shoes, and that limp dog-skin hat one by one.

A return slip drifted over, reading: [Examination completed, cheating tools returned.]

On the panel, the list of Divinely Crafted Armament, which had been grayed out for days, lit up.

[Hermes: Caduceus: Returned]

[Hermes: Flying Shoes: Returned]

[Hermes: Borrowed Helm of Hades: Returned]

Still feeling lingering fear, Richard flipped the return slip over and read it several times.

Seeing that it didn't say "Welcome Back" or "Makeup Exam Notice," he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

He searched everywhere around the bed and under his pillow, but the other party didn't seem to have returned his deposited Smoking Mirror, Soul-Devouring Beast Tooth Needle, and that Light-Storing Pocket Watch.

He vaguely remembered that on the day he handed in his exam and left, a new slip was pasted on the cabinet holding his lost items, which read: [Miscellaneous items have been transferred to the Peak of Ten Thousand Scrolls for registration and claiming.]

"He who sits at the Peak of Ten Thousand Scrolls, as ancient as the inscriptions."

Wasn't that the Virtuoso of the Classics tradition who had been invited by the old professor when they traded true names with the lord of the hunt back in February last year?

On the third day of the new year, Richard finally sat in a wheelchair.

The senior student had asked her cousin-uncle to build him a Mechanical Wheelchair. It was equipped with cranks, allowing him to move on his own once he turned them.

Clara stood by the wheelchair and introduced it.

"Uncle said you should move it yourself. If you rely on others to push you all the time, you'll get lazy."

Richard was helped into the wheelchair and noticed a note tucked into the armrest. Sophia snatched it first and read it aloud:

"Do not find anyone to randomly modify this wheelchair. If it breaks from modifications, don't come looking for me. Also, absolutely do not wash the internal gears with water."

"...Finally, I still do not agree to that matter."

The living room quieted down for a moment.

Sophia let out a long "Oh."

"What does Uncle mean by that last sentence?"

Blushing, Clara tried to snatch the note.

Sophia raised her arm high and hopped backward.

"What does 'still do not agree' mean? What is there to agree to? Who is Uncle arguing with now?"

"Give it to me!" Clara was completely red in the face.

"First, tell me what Uncle meant!"

In the past, being half a head shorter than Sophia, she wouldn't have been able to do anything about it.

But now, with a quick sidestep, Clara snatched the note away. Since her advancement, her physical attributes were much better than before, and she effortlessly pushed Sophia, along with her book, down onto the sofa.

She carefully folded the note and tucked it into her sleeve.

"Uncle is getting old. Sometimes he just writes nonsense," she said.

Her ears were bright red.

Richard looked down and touched the cranks on the wheelchair.

"Thank him for me."

"He doesn't want anyone's thanks." Clara tucked her hair behind her ear and bent down to adjust the height of the footrests, doing so more carefully than anyone else.

Sophia rolled over on the sofa, resting her chin on a cushion as she watched her back with a grinning face.

Evelyn crouched on the other side of the wheelchair, turning the crank alongside her brother.

"Brother, how fast can this go?"

"I don't know."

"Then should we try it?" The little girl was very excited to see a novel gadget.

"Evelyn, come here and help!" Margaret called out from the kitchen doorway.

"I just wanted to try it," Evelyn mumbled.

At noon, Richard was leaning against the headboard. His sister had just finished feeding him half a bowl of oatmeal when Grey appeared at the door holding a second bowl. The two of them began arguing over whether the next bowl should have honey or salt added to it.

Halfway through their argument, Mortimer entered, leaning on his cane.

With half a shortbread cookie still hanging from his mouth, he got straight to the point.

"You still owe the old president a visit."

"A debt I incurred while lying in bed?" Richard asked.

"Yes. I went to the institute to beg him, asking him to check with that administrator on my behalf about exactly how long you would be bedridden."

Mortimer shot him a slightly displeased glance.

"And as a result, right after setting up an appointment for a week later, you woke up on your own."

"Thank you," Richard could only say.

"Thank me for what? It was completely useless." The old professor leaned his cane against the headboard.

Richard went on to tell him that three of his items had been transferred by the administrator to the old president as collateral.

"Then it's even more troublesome. It seems this visit is absolutely unavoidable," Mortimer said, counting on his fingers.

"Among those three items of yours... First is the Smoking Mirror. Do you remember what I said that morning in Genoa?"

Richard certainly remembered.

Back when they were eating breakfast at the inn, he had asked the old professor to seal the Smoking Mirror for the time being.

At the time, Mortimer had said, "If you don't come to collect it in half a year, I'll donate it to the Royal Anthropological Institute."

Mortimer coughed dryly. "I was just joking around when I said that, but once the words were out, they became a pact. Now that the item is in their hands, you have to acknowledge this debt."

"There are also the other two items. You know their origins well—half paid by you, and half reimbursed through the public account. But the person who handled it died in the line of duty."

Mortimer tapped his cane hard against the floor.

"Since it went through the public account and the person who helped you process it passed away, this kind of situation is the most troublesome.

Anyway, you should rest first. They'll probably send a letter."

Before Richard could receive any letter, he began to feel that things around him were acting strangely.

Feeling that he must be bored lying in bed, Sophia dragged Evelyn over to play whist with him. Richard and his sister formed a team, and from the afternoon until nightfall, they won a total of eleven games.

After the eleventh game finished, Sophia slammed her cards directly onto the blanket.

She lifted the corner of the blanket and reached her hand under Richard's body.

"You must be secretly hiding cards in the bed," she accused.

Evelyn protected her brother. "He can't even turn over without help. How could he hide cards?"

"Then you hid them for him."

"Even if I hid them, I'd use them myself! Why would I give them to him?"

Later, a maid came in to sweep under the bed and ended up sweeping out a tin box.

Isabella, who had just come to visit him, snatched it away. Opening it, she found that the pastries and candies inside were all perfectly intact.

She clutched the box to her chest and simply stared at her nephew. "When did you steal this?"

"Aren't I bedridden? How could I steal your things, Aunt?" Richard felt extremely wronged.

"What about before that?"

"Before that, wasn't I in the Alps?"

Isabella thought about it for a long time but still couldn't figure out how this pastry box had made its way from her office to under her nephew's bed at home.

Ultimately deciding not to dwell on it, she unwrapped a candy and popped it into her mouth.

Another day passed, and Evelyn was practicing making soufflés in the kitchen.

For the Culinary College's entrance exam in the spring, this was a core test subject.

She made three batches, and they all collapsed.

She took the fourth batch upstairs to show her brother, carrying it tremblingly the whole way.

The little girl stared cautiously at the cake, and to her surprise, the moment she walked through the door, its shape actually rose back up.

Cheering, Evelyn tried to carry it back to the kitchen to show Grey, but the moment she reached the staircase, it collapsed with a poof.

She carried the cake back to the bedside and found that it puffed up a little again.

Evelyn puffed her cheeks in anger, looking just like the soufflé. "...Brother, it's only willing to stand in front of you."

Richard had slowly begun to realize what was going on.

[Luck: Credited - Ashford (Strong)]

A Virtuoso's unwillingness—one breath was worth ten thousand.

Now, this strong luck worth ten thousand breaths was continuously bubbling out from him.

Every little thing went his way: playing cards, finding the lost candy, and the soufflé in front of him.

At first, he found it quite amusing, but now, seeing the soufflé in Evelyn's hands deflate and then puff back up, he felt a bit creeped out.

Things had been going far too smoothly for him lately.

The old professor had once said that when a person is praised and elevated by others, that is when they are worth the most.

Now, even Luck had started elevating him.

He thought about it for a long time but couldn't figure it out. Finally, he stopped thinking about it and went back to writing his manuscripts.

A bedridden person had nothing but time.

After finishing his overdue manuscripts, Richard began writing poems for Matthew.

Since he had to hand them in once every two months anyway, he figured he would write the future ones in advance.

After all, lying in bed with nothing to do, his mind couldn't stay idle. Once he finished writing, he took the leaf Matthew had given him out of his notebook and pressed it to his palm.

"Mr. Matthew, the poems we agreed on are ready," he said.

The wardrobe door creaked open slightly on its own, and the smell of river mud and burnt fish drifted out.

Matthew's voice seeped through from inside:

"You're quite diligent even while sick. Alright, I'll come over at eight-thirty the morning after next."

After saying that, the wardrobe door closed on its own.

Richard tucked the leaf back into his notebook and lay back down.

Trading a few poems for a Virtuoso's good mood was definitely a profitable deal.

On the morning of January 4th, Ashford House first received a letter stamped with the wax seal of the Royal Anthropological Institute.

The butler brought the letter upstairs while Mortimer happened to be visiting.

The old professor had been dropping by every day recently whenever he had nothing to do, claiming he was there to check on his student.

Every time he came in, he would first take a stroll through the kitchen to see what new gadgets Grey and Evelyn had tinkered with that day. Richard tore open the letter and read it from beginning to end:

"Collection Notice.

Three items deposited by Your Excellency are currently in the custody of this institute.

Please come in person to the counter at the President's Office of this institute on January 5, 1916, at 3:00 PM to claim them.

Sincerely."

January 5th. Richard looked at the date, his heart skipping a beat.

Wasn't that tomorrow? Matthew had also said he would come tomorrow.

"What a coincidence," he muttered.

"What's a coincidence?" Mortimer looked at him.

Richard tucked the notice into his notebook. "Nothing. It's just that I also have other things to do tomorrow morning."

At eight-thirty on the morning of January 5th, he was the only one left in the house.

Evelyn had dragged her Sister Grey out the door before dawn. Today was the twelfth night, and she wanted to go to Covent Garden to buy almonds and dried fruits to make something. She acted completely secretive and refused to say what it was.

Margaret was also packing her luggage.

Seeing that her son's condition was gradually stabilizing, she planned to return to Briston next week to accompany her husband.

Otherwise, it would be quite pitiful for Rogers to spend the new year all alone.

Gerard had gone to the gentleman's club to catch up with old friends and maintain connections, saying he wouldn't be back until dinner.

Richard had the butler help him into his wheelchair, then locked himself in his room.

At eight thirty-one, the wardrobe door opened.

The few coats hanging inside automatically parted to the sides, revealing a misty, gray riverbank behind them.

A skeletal dog poked its head out from between the coats, sniffed around, glanced at Richard, and then shrank back.

A man with hair like dry weeds squeezed out, casually brushing a coat sleeve away from his face.

"This wardrobe of yours is quite deep," he noted.

Matthew came to the center of the room and looked him up and down.

"Little brother." He sighed, his expression deeply sympathetic.

"You're so sick, yet you still kept writing poems for me on your mind... I really feel bad about it."

Just as he finished speaking, the man plopped down heavily onto the bed.

On the nightstand sat cardamom shortbread cookies and freshly brewed tea.

Grey had specially prepared these in advance after hearing that Richard would be seeing a guest in his room this morning.

Matthew wasn't polite about it either; he simply picked up a shortbread cookie and shoved it into his mouth, chewing heartily.

Chewing on the cookie, he mumbled indistinctly, "Just say your piece, don't mind me."

Richard had been preparing to have a proper discussion with Matthew.

"I've written four poems. Since it's one every two months, I'll recite one today, and the rest..."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "Who said I'm collecting one from you every two months?"

He picked up a second cookie. "Recite all four of them. I'm listening."

Richard opened his mouth but wisely chose not to argue. He cleared his throat and told the stories of the nine hundred and ninety-nine soldiers who returned home from the expedition.

One returned to find his wife had remarried, and her new husband was a better craftsman than he was; he stood at the doorway for a while before leaving.

When the story reached this point, Matthew was still laughing, but very quickly, he couldn't laugh anymore.

Richard continued, saying that one returned to find his mother still hanging his shirt by the door to dry—a shirt she had hung there for four years; another returned and was never willing to enter any place with city gates again, spending his entire life tending a sheep pen in the countryside.

Matthew listened, occasionally interjecting.

"That was Hodges."

"That was little O'Brien."

"The one tending the sheep pen... Oh right, I think he died last year. Before he died, he sent me a postcard with a sheep drawn on it."

As for the source material, Richard had naturally learned it from the book Matthew himself had commissioned someone to publish.

Then there was the final poem.

This one was the shortest, merely describing that every person on the road had made it home, but the road itself remained in place. With no one walking on it, grass began to grow over it.

By the tenth year, the road itself had almost forgotten where it was originally meant to lead.

After Richard finished reciting this final poem, Matthew remained silent for a long time.

He rested his hands on his knees, looking out the window.

"In this one, you wrote about the road," he said.

"No, I wrote about you."

Matthew suddenly chuckled, taking off his hat and spinning it in his hands twice.

"You're underestimating me way too much, kid. Now someone comes to the road every two months to recite poetry; it won't grow any grass at all. Are there more?"

"No more."

"That's it?" Matthew glared at him.

"Then you should stay sick for a little longer. You only write quickly when you're sick."

Richard was speechless.

After saying that, Matthew fished something out of his pocket and tossed it onto the blanket.

It was a Silver Coin. Both sides were worn almost completely smooth, making it impossible to recognize which king was on it, and there was a very deep tooth mark on the surface.

"Here, a tip for you."

Richard's face turned green as he looked at the coin.

"Are you really treating me like a street busker?"

Matthew burst into hearty laughter. "It's the rules. If you don't pay after listening to a tune, not only will the singer suffer bad luck, but the listener will too."

He introduced the Silver Coin. "Don't look down on it. That's an Iberian piece of eight. It's a three-hundred-year-old antique that I pried straight out of a dead man's mouth."

Hearing that it was an antique, Richard stopped talking.

He didn't care if it was pried out of a dead man's mouth; he just pocketed it directly.

Matthew then took an interest in his wheelchair. "The craftsmanship on this chair is quite good."

He tapped it on the left and right, then stood up and said, "Tell you what, I'll push you around for a couple of laps."

Before Richard had time to refuse, Matthew was already pushing him around the room. By the third lap, Matthew was laughing so hard he slapped his thigh, giving the brake lever a hard squeeze.

"The craftsmanship is good, but it's built too honestly. It only knows how to go straight."

Richard's heart tightened. "What are you trying to do?"

Matthew stood up with a grin. "I oiled your wheelchair up a bit, little brother. You gifted me four poems, so I have to return the favor."

"Didn't you already give me something just now?"

Matthew jammed his hat back onto his head. "That was for listening to the tunes. Now this is a gift from a friend. They're two completely separate matters."

After saying that, the man squeezed back into the wardrobe, and the smell of the riverbank began to dissipate.

Just before the door closed, another sentence floated out from inside:

"The oil on it will be gone by nightfall. Have fun playing with it."

Richard's brow furrowed tightly as he shone the water surface of his Mirror Condensation toward the axle of the wheelchair.

On the other side of the veil, a tiny maze had appeared inside the axle.

Richard leaned back against the chair and let out a long breath. ...Well, he only needed to go out once today anyway.

After lunch, Mortimer arrived right on time at one-thirty in the afternoon and had the butler and footman carry the wheelchair, along with the person sitting in it, down the stairs.

Taking advantage of the gap, Richard lowered his voice and spoke to the old professor. "Professor, there might be a slight problem with my wheelchair today."

Mortimer shot him a glance. "What kind of problem could a wheelchair built for you by a Minor Adept craftsman have?"

"It might take a wrong turn when passing through doors."

Before Mortimer could understand what he meant, the butler pulled the front door open.

The cold wind of the winter afternoon rushed in. A carriage was parked at the bottom of the steps.

Right at the moment the wheels of the wheelchair were about to press onto the threshold, the old professor saw a line of text on the stone threshold of Ashford House, the ink still very fresh:

"Those who cross the threshold, let the journey begin from here."

Mortimer opened his mouth to shout, but it was already too late.

The wheelchair rumbled over the threshold, its wheels scraping right over that line of text.

Outside the door was a familiar office, the air smelling sweet. Sophia had been napping with a book over her face. Hearing the commotion, she took the book down and stared wide-eyed at the old man and the young man, who stared back just as blankly.

Clara had a stack of rubbing assignments spread out in front of her, her head bowed as she wrote evaluations.

She looked up and saw the wheelchair at the doorway, her head equally full of question marks.

Isabella still had a candy in her mouth. Having been exposed for her true nature several times, she had long stopped pretending.

If Aunt Isabella didn't maintain a cold expression, she was practically just a larger version of Evelyn.

She felt the shift in the Ether field inside the office and tilted her head up groggily.

"...How did you guys get in?"

Mortimer glanced back to confirm that outside the door was the hallway of the Petrie Building, with posters from last year's Debate Week hanging on both sides.

"We came in from Chelsea Road," he said.

"...What?" Aunt Isabella mumbled indistinctly around her candy.

"We came out of your front door and ended up here."

Isabella shifted the candy from her left cheek to her right and stared at them.

"Did you two go study some cursed object behind my back again?"

Richard really wanted to explain, but he didn't know where to start.

"Um, Aunt... we have to go. We need to be at the Royal Anthropological Institute by three o'clock."

Isabella was even more confused. "The institute is on Great Russell Street. Why did you run over here?"

"We weren't trying to run over..."

Before Richard could finish explaining, Mortimer had already pushed him forward and pulled open the door to room 314.

He just wanted to leave this room first, so Isabella wouldn't ask any more questions.

"Professor..." Richard tried to stop him, but it was too late.

Outside the door was pitch black, with only a single beam of light shining straight down onto a stage.

In the light, a man with a face painted stark white and lips painted bright red was pantomiming an embrace toward the empty air.

Below the stage were rows of empty seats, with only one person sitting in the third row.

The wheelchair rolled right onto the stage.

The white-faced man on stage, his arms still spread wide, slowly turned his head.

Phillips stared at Richard in the wheelchair, and at the panting old professor leaning on his cane behind it.

"...Best man, your wheelchair is quite trendy?"

The person in the third row stood up—it was Barnaby.

The veteran actor tossed his script onto the seat and crossed his arms, assessing the uninvited guests.

"Brilliant!" he suddenly shouted.

"This scene is brilliant! An old man leaning on a cane pushing a young man in a wheelchair, passing right across the stage through the set door without saying a single word."

He turned to Phillips. "Add it in! We'll use this for the transition in Act Two. The satirical undertones are incredible!"

"We're not here to act," Mortimer said expressionlessly.

"Even better!" Barnaby didn't even look up.

He seemed to have been struck by a burst of Inspiration, scribbling rapidly in his script book.

Mortimer pushed the wheelchair toward the other side of the stage, not wanting to linger for a single second.

Phillips chased after them, shouting, "Professor, that way leads to the prop room..."

The door was pushed open. Outside was a massive cauldron, with a long line of people waiting next to it.

A plump woman wearing a white apron and holding a long-handled ladle glanced at them.

"Get in line! The disabled and the elderly have to queue up too."

Someone in the line recognized Mortimer's decent overcoat and whispered to the person next to them:

"Why is there another one... the deputy minister also came in exactly like this last year."

Standing by the cauldron, Mortimer finally figured it out.

He had clipped over a dozen articles for his joke collection: gentlemen from Whitehall pushing open their office doors only to walk into saunas, into soup kitchens, or onto a stage where a pantomime was being performed.

The stories in the newspapers had sounded utterly absurd. He had laughed when he clipped them, but now, he himself had become a character in the joke.

"...Was it that gentleman who walked out of the wall?" he asked, looking down at Richard.

"Yes, he came by this morning and said this was a return gift for me."

The old professor closed his eyes.

"Listen to me, the old president has already nailed a penalty ticket to the doors you absolutely must cross today.

"I saw the threshold on Chelsea Road. There are definitely more ahead: your family's carriage, the streets you're supposed to take, the entrance to the institute... Every door is waiting for you."

"But that gentleman added a maze to your wheelchair, making it impossible for you to take your original required route."

Richard froze for a good while. "...So, we've accidentally managed to avoid the old president's punishment by a twist of fate?"

"Yes. The mysteries of two Virtuosos collided."

Mortimer reached out and pointed toward the cauldron.

"And that's not all. Think about it. Originally, you might have ended up at the bottom of the River Thames, a boiler room, an 1832 cholera ward, some random sewer grate, or a women's bathhouse... but instead, you only landed in your Aunt's office, your friend's stage, and a relief shelter."

He looked at Richard. "That mass of Luck on you made you avoid the absolute worst out of all the bad options."

Richard's eyes widened.

The old professor took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. Two-ten.

"In that case, we won't go through doors."

The soup kitchen was built out of tarpaulin and was open on all four sides. He pushed the wheelchair and squeezed out between two support poles without the slightest hindrance.

Outside was Whitechapel High Street, the cold wind blowing directly into their faces.

Richard shrank his neck back and glanced down the street.

A coal-delivery cart was parked by the roadside. The driver was crouching in front of a nearby chestnut stand, haggling with the vendor.

The cart, of course, had no doors whatsoever. It merely held a load of coal, a few empty gunny sacks, and a dozing black horse.

'Such good luck,' Richard thought.

The moment that thought surfaced, he suddenly snapped to awareness.

Mortimer had already walked over.

"Hey, we need to go to Great Russell Street. Give us a ride."

The old professor slapped a pound straight into the driver's hand. "We have to be there before three o'clock."

The driver looked at the gold coin, then at this old man in a decent overcoat, and stuffed his half-peeled chestnut into his pocket.

"Get on."

The wheelchair and its occupant were hoisted onto the cart together by the driver and two passing dockworkers, then tied to the side panels with hemp rope.

Richard sat in the wheelchair, tied down like a piece of furniture being shipped to the docks.

The black horse snorted, and the cart began to move.

The coal cart passed through Whitechapel and Aldgate, heading steadily west.

On the street, newsboys held up extra editions and screamed at the top of their lungs: "Prime Minister proposes conscription bill in the House of Commons today! All single men to be drafted!"

Someone ran after the coal cart for a few steps wanting to say something, but upon seeing the old man and the wheelchair on the cart, quickly stopped in his tracks.

Mortimer stared straight ahead expressionlessly.

"Professor..." Richard said softly. "If you feel embarrassed..."

"...I have lived in this city for over a hundred years. I got over such things a long time ago."

Watching the streets recede on both sides, Richard suddenly had a strong urge to laugh.

Along the way, everything around him was yielding the right of way to him.

At two fifty-eight, the coal cart stopped on Great Russell Street. The narrow building of the institute was diagonally across from the museum, and the brass plaque at the door was polished bright: Members Only.

The driver and the dockworkers helped untie the wheelchair and carry it up the steps.

Before leaving, the driver took another look at that brass plaque, shook his head at the old man and young man, and drove the cart away.

Mortimer stood at the door but didn't push it open immediately.

"This should be the final checkpoint," he said.

"This door only guides members. If I push the door open, it will send me to where I want to go.

"If you go in sitting in that wheelchair, it might send you to the third basement level, the boiler room, a broom closet, or whatever. In short, it will make you wander in circles until after three o'clock."

"What do we do then?"