"Richard?"
Charlotte was standing in the aisle between two bookshelves, a few books cradled in her arms.
She looked with some surprise at the young man who had suddenly emerged from behind a shelf.
"Miss Charlotte."
"You’re back in Brighton? I thought you were still interning up north."
"I just got back yesterday."
Charlotte sized him up but didn’t press for details.
"By the way, since we’ve run into each other, about that submission for the *Northern Literature Review* I mentioned before..."
The polite smile on Richard’s face froze.
"How’s it coming along?"
His gaze drifted away.
"Well..."
"Haven’t started yet?" Charlotte finished for him.
"Yeah," Richard admitted honestly. "I’ve been swamped with the internship, barely had a moment to breathe.
I haven’t even had a chance to look at the reference publications you gave me."
Seeing his rather awkward expression, Charlotte seemed to have expected his reaction all along.
"I figured as much." She smiled, her tone softening. "Don’t take it to heart."
"The editor-in-chief’s deadline is February fifteenth, but it’s not a hard deadline."
"If you have time, give it a shot. If not, don’t worry about it."
"..."
Her saying that actually made Richard feel even more embarrassed.
If Charlotte had put on a stern face, hurried him, and pressured him, he might have been able to push it to the back of his mind with a clear conscience.
"Miss Charlotte was kind enough to offer me this submission opportunity. Of course I’ll write something."
Charlotte raised an eyebrow.
"Alright then. You can show it to me when you come over to our house for tutoring sessions after the term starts."
After she spoke, her gaze fell on the two books tucked under Richard’s arm.
"Gaelic Language?" She read the words on the spine, then glanced at him again. "You’re planning to check these out?"
"Yes, I wanted to borrow them to read at my own pace."
"Then I’m afraid you’re out of luck," Charlotte said with a frown.
"Books in categories like language and religion can only be read inside the library here. They can’t be checked out.
Even city residents with a library card can only borrow regular books."
Richard froze for a moment.
"Not for loan?"
"To take a reference book out, you need the administrator’s approval."
Charlotte tucked the books from her arms under her own.
Richard quickly mulled it over.
’Those twelve sets of inscriptions on the Boundary Stone... just comparing them word by word with the Gaelic Language alphabet, not to mention the annotations and translations that follow, is definitely not a job that can be finished in a day or two sitting in the library.’
’Coming here every day isn’t practical either.’
A troubled expression must have shown on his face.
Charlotte looked at him, then at the books under his arm, and suddenly turned to walk downstairs.
"Follow me. I know the administrator."
The female administrator behind the checkout desk was noticeably warmer when she saw Charlotte.
"Miss Dawn."
"Mrs. Harriet."
Charlotte placed the two books in her hand on the counter to return them, then said casually, "My friend here would like to get a library card. He wants to borrow some language books."
Mrs. Harriet glanced at Richard.
"Reference books can’t be checked out, Miss Dawn. You know that."
"I know, but he’s not just anyone."
She stepped aside, nudging Richard forward slightly.
"He took second place in the Latin speech competition at last fall’s Cicero Cup."
"He’s currently tutoring my brother in Latin. I can vouch for his character.
If he borrows the books and loses or damages them, you can put it on my account."
Mrs. Harriet hummed and pushed up her glasses.
In a place like Brighton, a young man winning an award at a competition in the Imperial Capital was a rare thing.
Besides, Charlotte Dawn was a regular. Not only was her family well-off, but Mrs. Harriet also trusted her.
Mrs. Harriet pulled a registration card from a drawer.
"He can borrow up to three reference books for a two-week period. The overdue fine is one penny per day.
For the language and religion categories, I’ll register it as a ’special loan’."
Richard turned to look at Charlotte.
"Thank you so much, Miss Charlotte."
"It was nothing," Charlotte said with a wave of her hand.
She glanced at the clock on the wall.
"I have to run, I’ve got something to do."
She wrapped her scarf around her neck, then looked back at Richard one last time before leaving.
"About the submission—no rush. But if you do write it, write something of your own."
"Something of my own?"
"Mhm." Charlotte pushed the door open, and a gust of cold air rushed in.
"Don’t write what you think the judges want to see. Write what you truly want to say."
The door closed behind her.
With the card Mrs. Harriet had registered for him, all that was left was to browse.
Richard spent another half an hour and found all the books he needed.
For the Church ritual terminology, he went to the religion section on the east side of the first floor.
This section was even more deserted than the language section, with a thin layer of dust on the shelves.
Most of the books were collections of sermons, biographies of Saints, and parish yearbooks.
But Richard patiently flipped through them one by one and finally pulled out a copy of the *National Church Worship Ceremony Language Compilation* from the bottom shelf.
It was a reference book for Parish Deacons and Divinity School Students.
It listed, item by item, the Latin terms used in various ceremonies like worship, baptism, funerals, and communion, with definitions in the Albion Language.
Richard opened it to the table of contents and scanned it.
"Saint’s Guardian," "Sanctification," "Sacred Rites," "Sacred Object Revelation"...
The entire set of vocabulary that Edmund had described in Whitcomb, which translated to extensions of worship rituals, could mostly be found in this book.
With this book, he now had the key to decipher the layer of ritual Latin annotations left by medieval monks on the Boundary Stone.
Three books—exactly the borrowing limit.
He carried the books to the checkout desk. Mrs. Harriet registered them one by one, carefully writing the titles, checkout dates, and return dates on the card.
Her handwriting was slow, but very neat.
"Two weeks," Mrs. Harriet said, pushing the card back to him. "One penny per day for overdue books."
"Got it. Thank you."
After checking out the books, Richard didn’t leave right away.
He remembered the thought he had last night.
’Could the city library also have books with hidden text?’
He walked back between the bookshelves.
Following Mr. Hutton’s line of thinking, a book that truly concealed something wouldn’t be placed in an obvious spot, and its title would be so uninteresting that no one would want to give it a second look.
He focused his search on a few sections: local history, gazetteers, and natural history.
In the farthest corner of the second-floor mezzanine, there was an inconspicuous little bookshelf. The label read "Brighton and Surrounding Area Local Materials."
This shelf of books was probably rarely touched by anyone.
Richard pulled them out one by one and flipped through them.
Most were genuinely local materials: the history of the local parish, the development of the textile industry, the family trees of a few old families.
But when he got to the third row, his hand paused.
It was a thin booklet with a cardboard cover.
The title printed on it was *A Collection of Folk Songs from the Brighton West Suburban Mine*. The author was listed as a local elementary school principal, and the publication year was 1871 of the New Era.
A collection of folk songs—a classic example of a title "so boring no one would want to look at it."
Richard pulled it out and opened it.
The first half was indeed ordinary mine-area folk songs.
Work chants, nursery rhymes, and simple tunes sung at weddings and funerals, all in the local dialect. The compiler had even added phonetic notations and definitions on the side.
But in the last third of the book, he found a set of ballads classified as "Well Forbidden Song" that felt off.
The lyrics of this set of songs were, on the surface, about "things you can’t do down in the mines."
No whistling, no mentioning the names of certain animals, no going down the mine at certain times, staying still if your mine lamp goes out...
The compiler had included them as "miners’ superstitions" and even stated in the preface that this set was "purely folklore, with no practical meaning."
But after Richard began to break them down word by word, he discovered quite a few interesting things.
Hidden within the lyrics of these songs was another layer of meaning.
Certain recurring phrases, like "when the lamp goes out," "the thing behind the wall," "do not answer its voice"...
They were embedded so naturally in the lyrics that, upon reading, one would assume they were just filler words used for rhyming.
But if you took these filler words from each stanza and read them in order...
Richard closed the booklet, not delving any deeper for now.
He glanced at the three books in his arms.
The Gaelic Language book, the corresponding dictionary, the Church ritual terminology guide—he couldn’t part with any of them.
So Richard had no choice but to find a table by the window, sit down, and meticulously copy the entire "Well Forbidden Song" set, including the compiler’s phonetic notes and definitions.
The deciphering work could be done slowly at home.
After he finished copying, he put away his pencil stub and neatly folded the stack of notes.
It was almost noon. Time to go home and eat.
......
After leaving the library, Richard took a detour to a pastry shop on Central Avenue.
He pushed the door open to a warm shop filled with the mixed scents of butter and caramel.
"What can I get for you?" the clerk behind the counter asked.
Richard’s gaze swept over the display case. He remembered his sister’s favorites very clearly.
"Two caramel walnut tarts, and... four of those almond crisps."
He thought for a moment, then added, "And a bag of mints and a small bag of caramel peanuts."
The clerk skillfully wrapped the items in wax paper.
"That’ll be six pence."
Richard paid and took the small bag of pastries in his hand.
The wax paper parcel was still slightly warm.
When he reached his front door, Evelyn was the first to greet him, as usual.
Her eyes immediately landed on the wax paper bag in her brother’s hand.
Her gray eyes darted from the bag to Richard’s face.
"...For me?"
"Here. The proof of sincerity you wanted." Richard handed her the bag.
Evelyn took it and gave it a squeeze, already having a good idea of what was inside from its shape and weight.
She unwrapped the paper.
Caramel walnut tarts, almond crisps, and also caramel peanuts and mints.
They were all her favorites.
The corners of the girl’s mouth turned up uncontrollably.
But she tried hard to keep a straight face, putting on an air of reluctant acceptance.
"Hmph!"
"So you forgive me?" Richard teased her again.
Evelyn picked up an almond crisp and took a bite.
"Well," she deliberately drew out her words, "seeing as you’ve shown a little sincerity..."
"Uh-huh?"
"I’ll think about it."
Richard smiled, not calling her bluff.
Evelyn stepped aside to let him in, chewing on her almond crisp.
"Oh, right," she suddenly remembered something. "You went to the library today. Did you get your books?"
"I did."
"Then..." Evelyn blinked. "Are there any books about pastries at the library?"
"There are a few about traditional desserts."
"Really?" The little girl’s eyes lit up. "Then next time you go, could you borrow one for me too..."
"Go get your own library card."
"Why do I have to get it myself?"
"Because my three-book limit is already full," Richard said, unwrapping his scarf.
"Besides, I only managed to get my card because Miss Charlotte vouched for me. You’ll have to figure out your own way."
"...Miss Charlotte?" Evelyn’s ears perked up. "The older sister from the Dawn family?"
"Mhm."
"Why did she vouch for you?"
"Because I tutor her younger brother, and my character is trustworthy."
Evelyn said, "Oh," and glanced thoughtfully at her brother while nibbling on her almond crisp.
Richard knew her little gears were turning again, but he couldn’t be bothered to deal with it and headed straight upstairs.
"Brother!"
"What is it now?"
"That Miss Charlotte..."
"She’s twenty-two and unmarried."
Richard didn’t even turn around as he rattled off a string of information: "She’s an editorial assistant for the *Northern Literature Review* and a graduate of the Imperial City School of Political Economy."
"I didn’t ask for all that!"
"You would have sooner or later!"

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