I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 163 Automatic Book Doll

When Richard woke up, sunlight streamed in through the east window; it was already noon.

The aching, dull feeling seeping from my bones hasn't completely subsided, but it's much better than when I stumbled upstairs last night.

[Breathing Healing] It silently completed its work overnight.

My throat is no longer tight, the scabs on my fingers have dried up, and the frostbite on my skin caused by outdoor work has almost healed.

He turned over and sat up.

On the table was a white porcelain dish with an envelope pressed down on it.

A small blue butterfly was drawn next to the recipient's name.

Richard, who was initially in a bad mood because of last night's dream, gradually calmed down.

These round letters must be my younger sister's handwriting.

He pulled the envelope out from under the plate, and thoughtfully placed a letter opener next to it.

The letter must have been delivered by the postman this morning. The landlady saw that he was sleeping soundly, so she left the letter on the table and left.

He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the letter.

Four sheets of paper fell out of the envelope, and all four sheets of paper were about food.

How much icing sugar did Mother sprinkle on the apple?

The father secretly ate a few canned cherries but stubbornly refused to admit it.

Why wasn't the first batch of red bean pie she made sweet...?

There is a yellowish stain in the center of the third page, next to which is a smiling rabbit.

The rabbit's ears are uneven, one longer than the other, and below them is a line of small print:

"I drew myself, bro, don't laugh."

Richard didn't laugh. He blinked hard twice and rubbed the yellowed blotting paper stain with his fingertip.

The red bean paste flavor had long since dissipated, but a hint of sweetness seemed to linger in the paper fibers.

On the second half of the fourth page, Evelyn suddenly changed her penmanship.

The writing was no longer densely packed small characters, but large, meticulously crafted characters, like a child tracing calligraphy:

"Happy New Year, brother!"

"When you come back, I'll make you a red bean pie."

In her letter, his sister didn't urge him to come back soon at all, but it seemed that every word she wrote expressed her longing for his return.

Richard folded the four sheets of paper back along the original creases and put them back in the envelope.

He then placed the envelope under the white porcelain dish, and put the dish back on the corner of the table.

The sunlight outside shone on the edge of the plate, reflecting a slightly muted white glaze.

When I went downstairs, only the proprietress was wiping the tables in the lobby.

"Awake?" The landlady looked up at him.

"Um."

"The porridge is keeping warm in the pot; serve yourself."

Richard walked to the kitchen door and ladled a bowl of oatmeal porridge from the iron pot on the stove.

It's cooked until very thick; a spoon inserted into it can stand upright.

He carried the bowl back to the hall and sat down at the table next to the fireplace.

Halfway through the meal, footsteps came from the stairs.

Theodore came downstairs, three tufts of hair sticking up, his eyes not fully open yet.

"...What time is it?"

"It's 12:30." Richard glanced at the clock above the bar.

"12:30!" The boy from the horse farm was startled.

"I've never slept past 12:30!"

"You fell asleep in the carriage last night," Richard reminded him.

"...Really?" Theodore scratched his head.

"You slept with your head on Maggie's shoulder."

The boy's face flushed red.

"She...she didn't hit me, did she?"

"no."

"That's good." Theodore breathed a sigh of relief and ran to the kitchen to get some porridge.

He returned with the bowl and sat down opposite Richard.

The two ate in silence for a while.

"By the way, your hand last night..."

"Um?"

"Has the silver ink been washed off?"

Richard showed him his right hand, where the silver marks between his fingers were still visible.

Theodore leaned over and took a look.

"What did you use to wash it?"

"Soap."

"Soap won't do," Maggie's voice came from the direction of the stairs.

She came down wrapped in an oversized wool cloak, her red braids were re-braided, and the freckles on her face were clearly visible in the sunlight.

"Use turpentine." The girl walked to Richard's table and glanced down at his fingers.

"The silver ink has seeped into the stratum corneum; soap can only clean the surface."

"How did you know?" Theodore asked.

“My uncle is a pharmacist,” Maggie said matter-of-factly.

"I knew how to deal with silver ink, mercury ink, and lead powder when they got on my hands when I was eight years old."

She turned and went to the kitchen to rummage around, finding a small brown bottle in the cabinet under the stove.

"Turpentine." She handed the bottle to Richard.

"Pour a little onto the cloth and rub it between your fingers."

Richard did as instructed.

Turpentine has a strong, pungent smell, like someone has stuffed a whole pine tree into his nostrils.

But the effect was okay; the silver ink started to dissolve after wiping.

"it works."

"Of course it works." Maggie sat down opposite him and snatched a mouthful of porridge from Theodore's bowl.

"Hello!"

"You still have half a bowl left, don't be stingy."

Theodore moved the bowl closer to himself, guarding his food like a hunting dog puppy whose bone had been stolen.

Maggie didn't even look at him; she went to the kitchen and got a bowl of food herself.

After the meal, the proprietress came in through the back door carrying a stack of washed tablecloths and paused as she passed their table.

"Young sir," she said to Richard, "Mrs. McNeil is in the small lounge in the back room. Please come over when it's convenient for you."

"Okay, thank you, boss lady."

Richard took the bowl to the kitchen and walked towards the small lounge at the far end of the first floor.

The door was ajar, and he pushed it open and went inside.

Mrs. McNeil is already inside.

The lounge is small, with a two-seater sofa, two armchairs, and a small fireplace.

Mrs. McNeill sat in an armchair opposite the fireplace, holding an iron fire poker in her hand.

She used a poker to loosen the firewood in the stove, and the flames leaped up a bit.

"sit."

Richard sat down in another armchair.

"I know you must be wondering why I'm taking you newcomers into such a dangerous sealing ritual."

Mrs. McNeil put the fire poker back on the iron rack and turned to face him.

"Actually, last night's ceremony seemed precarious, but it wasn't really precarious at all."

Richard looked up: "I guessed it. When you summoned the seventh one, you didn't say the name out loud."

"You noticed it?"

"Yes."

Mrs. McNeil raised her left hand, rolled up her sleeve, and revealed the bone bracelet on her wrist.

"The spirit of my teacher sits inside the bone bracelet."

"...Mrs. Mary?"

"This bracelet was given to me by my teacher when I graduated from my apprenticeship."

Mrs. McNeil pulled her cuffs back to cover the bracelet:

"She sealed a wisp of her spirit in the bracelet, and when I was doing fieldwork, this wisp of spirit followed me."

"What can a wisp of spirit do?"

"Behind the veil, the spirit of a great master of secrets is like a temporary city wall."

"If the sealing field really collapses, she will take action."

"To what extent did they intervene?"

"Make a move to extract every last drop of value from this bracelet."

Mrs. McNeill said calmly, "Enough to make her stand under that curtain for three minutes."

"In three minutes, she would tear all eight of us off the floor of that hall and throw us back into the material world."

"……Throw."

"Throw them." Mrs. McNeil chuckled. "She doesn't care if we get hurt, as long as we survive."

Richard recalled his experience last night.

The seventh arm emerged from the bone bracelet and was able to pinch the crack underfoot back up from both sides.

If that arm came from Lady Mary's strength, then it makes sense.

"Captain Field also has a backup plan."

Mrs. McNeil continued, "The authorities provided them with something called a 'veil-breaking cone'."

"Used only once, at the cost of a shortened lifespan, it can tear an escape route from beneath the curtain."

"How much should we burn?"

Five years.

Richard was somewhat surprised.

"The captain has been burning for two years since last night."

"So he didn't use the veil-breaking cone, otherwise he really would have been close to death." Mrs. McNeil shook her head.

She explained it very clearly:

"This ceremony has two safeguards in place."

"Following standard procedures, the seal was completely repaired, the mother returned to her resting place, and the entire team was safely returned."

"The situation is critical. I've used the bone bracelet to release my spirit, which will last for three minutes."

"If even the teacher's spirit can't hold out, the captain will take this opportunity to use the 'Broken Veil Cone' to tear a hole so that the eight of us can escape back. The teacher's main body will come from the material world to finish things off."

"In other words... the worst outcome for us is failure, and no one will die there."

Richard looked at the medium in front of him.

"So yesterday was really just an internship?"

"Of course," Mrs. McNeil nodded. "Mr. Hutton can handle the forging and the judgment all by himself."

"The four of you going down there is to let you experience a complete field mission."

"But to be honest, what you showed last night far exceeded everyone's expectations for a newcomer."

She didn't press too hard when she got to this point.

"I know you won't tell me how to stabilize the shadow and the spell that helped the captain, so I'll just keep quiet."

"But in terms of academic work, you have saved Mr. Hutton at least a third of his time."

Richard's knuckles twitched slightly, but he still asked, half-jokingly:

"So, I was the best performer during this internship?"

"You could say that," Mrs. McNeil replied with a smile. "After I reported the entire sealing incident to the teacher last night, she said she admired you."

Richard was not happy.

Although I had considered getting in touch with Mrs. Mary, thinking it would be good to have a powerful backer.

But now that it's been brought up, it feels like being scrutinized and looked up and down, a strange and uncomfortable feeling.

"What exactly are your and your teacher's thoughts?" he asked tentatively.

Mrs. McNeil raised an eyebrow and got to the point.

Have you heard of "automatic bookkeeping"?

Richard racked his brains: "No."

Mrs. McNeil nodded, unsurprised.

"There is a part-time job available in our industry."

"Scholars act as secretaries, spiritual mediums act as caregivers; the two of them team up to take on jobs."

"What kind of work?"

"dictation."

Mrs. McNeil picked up a teacup from the small table next to her and took a sip.

"The official name is Scriba Automatica (Automatic Book Reporter)."

"There are many colloquial names for it, such as 'doll,' 'transcriber,' and 'medium's pen.'"

She put the teacup back.

"This tradition dates back to the classical period, when the priestesses of Delphi would enter a trance to receive divine pronouncements, with an 'interpreter' recording them."

"The principle of bookkeeping is similar to that, but in the opposite direction."

"The priestess passively receives information, while the scribe actively opens it up."

Richard tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest.

"Open what?"

"Spirit Realm Passage"

Mrs. McNeil's gaze fell on the fire in the fireplace.

"The book reporter took a decoction of herbs, with gray clover as the base, mixed with poppy husks, bay leaves, and lichen."

"After taking it, the writer will enter a trance-like state."

"In that state, he could receive fragmented information from the spirit world channel."

"What happens after we receive it?" Richard pondered that scenario.

"The hand will move on its own."

Mrs. McNeil made a handwriting gesture.

"The writer's hand writes autonomously, and the writer has no control over the handwritten content, only acting as a conduit."

"Most of what's written is garbage," the medium said bluntly.

"More than 90 percent of it is fragmented text, symbols, and doodles, which are completely meaningless."

"Occasionally, fragments of Latin, Ancient Greek, Persian, or even more ancient dead languages ​​will appear, which may be occult knowledge waiting to be deciphered."

"In very rare cases..."

She paused for a moment.

"Complete spells, lost rituals, or prophetic statements will appear."

Richard's back tensed slightly.

"It involves the spirit world, there must be risks, right?" He was somewhat tempted.

Mrs. McNeil did not shy away from the question.

"The spiritual realm occasionally communicates in reverse; certain... gazes will follow the pen tip back to the reporter."

"Information pollution is also a problem. Long-term, high-frequency reading can lead to auditory hallucinations, chronic headaches, and in severe cases, mental illness."

"Therefore, there must be a keen-eyed hermit to protect us; we call him the 'caretaker'."

"The caregiver will monitor the writer's condition and forcibly interrupt the writing if necessary."

"Of course, if the secretary feels he is skilled enough, he can do the work himself, but we generally do not recommend doing so."

She's finished speaking.

Richard pondered for a moment, organizing the information in his mind.

"You want me to try doing this job?" he asked.

Mrs. McNeil nodded, clearly pleased that he had brought it up himself.

"Your knowledge far exceeds your rank, and you possess ample inspiration."

Judging from your performance last night, your spirit hasn't started to wander just because your inspiration is high...

Richard did not deny it.

"Considering all of the above, if you were to become an automated secretary in the future, you would be more stable than a regular secretary."

"Not now?"

After all that, it turned out to be just empty promises... Richard felt a bit uncomfortable with this feeling of having his appetite whetted but not being able to get it.

Mrs. McNeil shook her head.

"The state of semi-out-of-body consciousness is too much for newcomers to handle; forcibly opening it may cause them to sink back down in one go."

Her tone left no room for negotiation.

"And then what happens after you sign your name?"

"Once you sign your name, you become a practitioner. After the signing ceremony, the stability of microcirculation will be improved."

She looked up at him.

"Once you sign your name and become a practitioner, I will arrange for you to take orders."

"I will personally accompany you and take care of you."

Richard's fingers stopped on the armrest.

Mrs. McNeil was quite skilled; she personally took care of the patient, which was no small matter.

What is the base commission per order?

"Around two pounds, and if the interpretation doesn't involve pollution, you can read it yourself, since you wrote it in the first place."

Two pounds, plus possibly some occult knowledge.

Richard was more interested in the latter.

"If you're lucky, you can find something rare and its price can increase dozens of times."

That's tens or even hundreds of pounds! Enough to buy several antiques.

He kept the number to himself and didn't let it show on his face.

"I see."

Mrs. McNeil looked at his expression and a slight smile appeared on her lips.

"By the way, my teacher said she would come to see you in a while."

She suddenly added another comment.

"She has her own way."

My own way?

When Richard heard this word, he suddenly thought of the golden-eyed black cat at number seventeen, Flower Moon Street.

The way the cat looked at itself at that moment was like it was reading a book.

Read from the cover to the title page, and from the title page to the table of contents.

"Is it a cat?"

Mrs. McNeil had already gotten up to leave.

Her hand was on the doorknob; she didn't turn around.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

After the door was opened, the light from the corridor shone in, diluting the dimness in the small lounge.