Rogers stood on the steps, surveying the street with his lips pressed into a thin line.
The Ashford family estate was in the Western Imperial City District, about four miles (6.5 km) in a straight line from the station.
On foot, it would take over an hour.
He glanced at his family’s attire: his and his son’s three-piece suits, Margaret’s dress, and his daughter’s pinching little leather shoes.
Walking four miles... Not to mention whether his wife and daughter could even manage such a distance, they would all be drenched in sweat by the time they arrived.
Their leather shoes would be covered in a layer of dust, their clothes would be stuck to their backs, and they would be showing up to a dinner party with sweat-beaded brows.
’So much for making a respectable impression.’
After observing for a moment, his father raised a hand to hail a carriage.
It was a small Hansom cab with two facing seats, a black-lacquered body, and brass handles.
Much plainer than a luxurious four-wheeled carriage, but it would at least shield them from the wind and dust.
A tall, thin, middle-aged man sat in the driver’s seat, which was perched high at the rear of the roof, looking down at them.
"Where to?"
"The West District. 13 Cheer Road," his father replied with the address.
"Cheer Road?" The driver tipped the brim of his hat. "Two shillings."
His father fumbled in his pocket. "How about one shilling and six pence?"
"Sir, it’s a fair distance. For one and six, I won’t even make back the cost of my horse’s feed."
"One shilling and eight pence?"
The driver eyed the family of four’s clothing, then glanced at the old suitcase placed by their feet.
"Alright, one and eight it is. Hop in."
The small carriage carrying the family of four merged into the flow of traffic in the Imperial Capital.
The streetscape outside the window was constantly changing.
They drove out of the commercial district near the station, passed through several busy intersections where the clatter of hooves mixed with the cries of street vendors.
Further west, the density of buildings noticeably decreased. The spaces between them widened, and trees became more numerous.
Row shops gave way to detached manors, and occasionally, they could see stone fountains and gravel driveways.
"It would be so nice to live in a place like this someday." Evelyn was pressed against the window, her nose almost touching the glass.
Richard looked up from his shorthand notebook. "What, you want to live in the Imperial Capital too?"
"Of course I do. Who wouldn’t? But it’s just a thought." The girl pulled back, being very practical.
"Dad’s salary is enough for us in Brighton, but if we moved to the Imperial Capital, we probably couldn’t even afford rent."
She said this in a very low voice, afraid her parents in the front would hear.
"Evelyn, have you ever thought about what you want to do in the future?" Richard asked.
"Hm?"
"After you graduate."
Evelyn tilted her head and thought for a moment. "You know my grades are just average. I’m not very good at Latin or the sciences."
She didn’t sound discouraged when she said she was "not very good."
"But I’m decent at home economics. My teacher says I have a bit of a talent for baking bread and making pastries."
"So you want to be a baker in the future?"
"Not ’be a baker.’ I want to open my own bakery," she corrected him, her expression turning serious.
"Selling bread, scones, cookies, fruit tarts... the kind that’s fresh out of the oven every morning."
As she mentioned "fruit tarts," she unconsciously licked the corner of her mouth.
"The storefront doesn’t have to be big, just a little corner shop would be enough. The display window would be full of all kinds of pastries, and people walking by could smell the aroma."
"Then Mom wouldn’t have to pinch pennies in the kitchen every day."
Her voice softened considerably on this last sentence.
"She could cut the butter as thick as she wants and add as many eggs as she likes."
Richard watched his sister’s expression as she spoke and felt that she probably didn’t love baking as much as she claimed.
The focus of the bakery Evelyn described wasn’t on the baking at all.
The butter, cream, eggs, and various afternoon tea pastries she listed—every single one was a scarce commodity in their home, something that had to be carefully rationed.
Evelyn had seen this her entire life, for over a decade.
Her so-called dream of "opening a bakery" was less a career aspiration and more a simple, fundamental desire: she just wanted to eat whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.
Richard didn’t burst her bubble.
"That’s nice," he said.
"You don’t think it’s unrealistic?"
"Why would it be unrealistic?"
"Because it would take a lot of money." In the end, the young girl realized the problem herself.
"We can worry about the money later. Focus on mastering your craft first."
Richard closed his shorthand notebook and expanded on the topic. "But have you ever thought about something grander?"
"Grander?"
"Yes, like being the head chef of a starred restaurant."
Evelyn turned her head, her braid swinging over her shoulder. "What?"
"Those high-end restaurants in the big cities. You’ve definitely seen them in magazines." Richard rested his hand on the edge of the window.
"The head chef gets to use whatever ingredients they want, they set the menu themselves, and they work with steak, lobster, and foie gras all day long."
"And after the guests finish eating, they stand up and applaud, saying, ’Please tell the chef this dish was magnificent!’"
He was, of course, completely making this up.
But his sister’s eyes instantly lit up, clearly picturing that wonderful scene in her mind.
However, she quickly pulled herself back to reality.
The girl leaned back hard against the seat, crossed her arms over her chest, and put on an indifferent expression.
"Brother, do you take me for a fool? The head chefs at high-end restaurants, those people are trained from a young age."
"I didn’t say you had to be one right now."
"Besides, lobster is so expensive. I’ve never even seen a live one."
"Just tell me if you want to or not."
Evelyn’s lips moved, as if she were wrestling with herself.
After a moment of silence, she finally whispered, "...I do want to."
Then she immediately added, "But it’s pointless to think about impossible things. I’m not you, with your brain all opened up, able to learn anything."
"So you’re finally admitting your brain isn’t opened up?"
"You..." Evelyn reached out to pinch his arm, but Richard dodged.
She pinched at empty air, then turned her face back to the window in a huff, muttering,
"If you can just become a head chef by wanting it, then I might as well say I want to be prime minister."
Richard smiled but didn’t reply.
He reopened his shorthand notebook, his gaze falling on the page, but his mind was not on Latin at all.
His sister wanted to open a bakery just so she could eat any pastry she liked;
His Mother, before every meal, subconsciously calculated the remaining amount of butter;
And just now, his father haggling with the cab driver over two pence.
For the past month, he had thrown almost all of his focus into the world behind the Curtain.
Breathing Technique, classical Scholarship, deciphering secret codes, observing the Seal, acquiring Points... every step pointed toward a deeper, more distant supernatural realm. The general direction was not wrong.
The Strength behind the Curtain was something he had to pursue, of course; it was the very foundation of his security and existence.
But his Mother’s illness, his sister’s aspirations, his father working overtime to the point of not being able to come home just to accompany them on this trip to the Imperial Capital...
The various events of the past few days, big and small, had made him realize one thing over and over: he was not Walking this path alone.
The carriage turned onto a quiet street, and the driver above called out, "WHOA!"
"We’re here."

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