I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 181 Incendiary Publications

Back home, Richard pulled out the fountain pen that he was most comfortable using.

He lightly dipped the tip of his pen.

The black mass in the bottle reached out and supported the pen tip.

Richard picked up the pen and tested its feel; it was incredibly smooth, and there was no embarrassing ink spillage all over the table.

He has also experienced many things like running out of ink while writing, having to get up to re-dip the ink, and then having his train of thought broken when he came back...

That won't happen anymore.

He pulled that manuscript out of the drawer and laid it out in the center of the table.

He reread the first draft, but still felt something was off.

Burns' writing increasingly resembled a flyer pinned to a bulletin board.

He wrote about Burns coughing up blood, being afraid to go to the hospital, and carrying coal for thirty-one years.

However, Burns, as portrayed in this way, is simply a "representative of the exploited worker".

The exploitation is real, but the image is fabricated.

Richard crumpled the third draft into a ball, threw it into the wastepaper basket, and laid out a new sheet of paper.

This time, he wrote about his neighbor first.

"During the coldest week of winter, widower Burns did not go to the dock for the early morning roll call on time."

It was the laundress, Mrs. Rosalyn, who discovered this.

………………

After dinner, Evelyn was called over by her brother.

When she came in, she was still carrying that small bottle of perfume, turning it over and over to look at it.

"You're planning to wear that thing on your head?"

"No, not at all." Evelyn placed the bottle on the corner of Richard's desk. "Sister Clara said to put just a little bit behind the ear."

Richard leaned closer and took a sniff.

It's really faint, with a barely perceptible layer of violet, and underneath it, a hint of the fresh, astringent scent of early spring pears.

"Brother, you said you were going to show me the manuscript?"

Richard handed over the stack of manuscript papers.

Evelyn sat down on the edge of the bed, bent her knees, and spread the manuscript paper on her lap.

She reads slowly, unlike her aunt who can jump to the key sentences of a paragraph at a glance.

Move down line by line, pausing whenever you encounter an unfamiliar word.

Richard sat at his desk for a while, and when he heard the sound of pages turning stop, he turned around.

Evelyn was frowning.

"Brother, Mr. Burns... is he dead?"

What do you think?

"If you write 'a new name has been added to the card book,' doesn't that mean the person is dead?"

She turned the manuscript back:

"But you also wrote that the door opened by itself the next day. So, is he dead or not?"

She frowned and flipped through the pages again, looking at Richard.

"It doesn't make sense."

Richard smiled.

"He's dead."

"Then why did you write 'the door is open'?"

"If you can't tell, then forget it." He put down his pencil. "What do you think?"

Evelyn looked at him for a while, then didn't ask any more questions.

She flipped back to that section, her brows slowly furrowing.

"When I read that the old lady in front knocked three times but not a fourth time, I felt a lump in my throat."

"The old man who could write came out and slipped a note under the door... I understand, that's how it is here."

"But what does the word 'politeness' mean?"

She looked up: "Why is it considered polite not to look at the corpse? I don't quite understand."

Evelyn flipped through the manuscript again from beginning to end, then closed it and hugged it to her chest.

"Brother, I don't understand."

She said it very decisively.

"I want to show it to my mom."

"Can."

"I'm not saying your writing is bad."

She quickly added, afraid her brother might overthink it:

"I just feel like Mom probably knows more about this kind of thing than I do."

………………

Margaret was looking at an old picture book at the other end of the sofa.

That sketchbook was a gift from Rogers when they were dating; it contained sketches of landscapes from various parts of Albion.

Evelyn went over and placed the manuscript on her mother's lap.

"Mom, this is the manuscript my brother wrote."

The mother closed the picture book.

"What did he write?"

Richard then walked over to the sofa.

The mother didn't say anything, and took the manuscript paper from him.

The father poked his head out from the kitchen: "What's your mother looking at?"

"What my brother wrote."

"When did he start writing?"

"I've been writing."

"Oh?" The father tried to come closer, but then noticed that his son was also standing by the sofa, blocking his view.

"Go eat your food." The mother said without looking up.

The father wisely retreated to the kitchen.

The mother finished reading quickly, and before making her judgment, she sent her daughter away.

"Evelyn, your dad's finished eating. Go wash the dishes for him."

Evelyn obediently jumped off the sofa and headed to the kitchen.

After her daughter had walked away, the mother turned to her son, who had been standing beside her.

"Richard, do you want to publish this one?"

"Yes."

"In that case, I have two suggestions."

When she's serious, her aura is even stronger than her younger sister's.

"First of all, the name Burns must be changed."

Why?

"Because Mr. Burns in your manuscript is still alive and well at the third house at the east end of the slag heap."

"..."

Richard immediately realized his problem.

"I saw him go out the day before yesterday," the mother continued. "He was coughing terribly, but he's still alive."

"If he sees this, he'll think you're cursing him!"

His mother pushed the manuscript paper toward him.

"I can count the number of washerwomen in the slag heap alley."

If any of them were to read this, they would assume that "Mrs. Rosalyn" is a veiled reference to them.

Richard took the manuscript back.

"I will change it, and I won't let people in real life feel like I'm alluding to them."

"Another point is... the whole piece was written too explicitly."

The mother unfolded the last page of the manuscript.

He gestured lightly above the line that read, "At ten o'clock that morning, a new name appeared on the parish register."

"I want that kind of thorn." Richard frowned.

"I know you want that kind of thorn." The mother didn't argue. "You want the reader to feel the pain."

"But you can't let them think you're accusing a specific person or department."

"That's not how the article is written. As long as you accuse a specific person or department, they will turn their anger on you."

"Aiming at me?"

"Don't underestimate the impact of an article."

The mother picked up the water glass and took a small sip.

"You wrote very well, and precisely because it's so well written, if this piece is published, someone will definitely read it."

"Among those who read it, some will love it, and some will hate it."

"Those who love it will cut it out and put it in their diary."

"Those who hate it will go to the magazine that published it and ask the editorial staff where the writer came from."

"..."

"Your name will be remembered, but being remembered isn't necessarily a good thing."

Richard's gaze fell on his knees.

My mother's advice was indeed very insightful.

"Write about social issues and make people think... You should stop here."

"Do not make appeals, do not propose improvement plans."

"If you bring it up, they'll have an excuse to accuse you of 'inciting public opinion,' 'spreading discontent,' and 'inciting class conflict.'"

When Margaret uttered this string of words, she seemed to know it all by heart.

That's Article 34 of the Albion Publications Act, which provides a specific definition of "seditious publications."

She hadn't touched this thing for over a decade, yet she remembered it perfectly.

This is Ashford's daughter.

"Just write the story and let the story speak for itself."

What thoughts it sparks in the readers is their own business.

"Um."

Richard nodded; he had indeed considered writing a call to action at the end.

He wrote, "This country needs a better system of poverty relief," "We need to decouple 'unemployment' from 'job seeking,'" and "We need to make poverty no longer a permanent label."

Looking back now, I realize I was being too naive.

………………

By the first day of school, the snow had mostly melted, and the snow piled up on the roadside into dirty little hills.

Richard woke up at six o'clock, and as soon as he opened his eyes, his mind was already clear.

As usual, he ran a few laps in the slag alley. There was a thin layer of ice on the section of road along the river. He tried stepping on it and his shoes gripped the ice without slipping.

When Evelyn got home, she was coming downstairs with her little booklet.

"elder brother."

"Um?"

"On the first day of school, you have to bring a cookie for your teacher."

"I've never heard of such a rule before."

"Now you've heard it." Evelyn stuffed three small packets wrapped in oil paper into his hands:

"Inside are my vanilla cookies, one for Holland, one for Mr. Hutton, and one for the headmaster."

Richard reached into his pocket and touched the small bag; it was still warm, indicating it had just been baked that morning.

"What time did you get up to bake it?"

"5:30."

"..."

"I'm using the silver tool set my aunt gave me."

The little girl raised her chin: "The finished product is much better than last time. You'll know once you taste it."

On the breakfast table, Richard took out a piece of food.

The edges of the cookies were baked to a golden brown, leaving a milky white ring in the center.

He took a bite, and the aroma of butter hit him first, followed by the scent of vanilla pods.

"tasty."

"Of course."

At 7:58, the school bus swayed and lurched into the open space in front of Greenwood's gate. Richard finished his morning prayers as usual and went into the classroom.

Hugh was already seated in his place.

The boy had a notebook open in front of him and was intently shading the last page with a charcoal pencil.

"Good morning." Richard walked over.

"Richard, you've come at the right time. I have something to show you."

He flipped the notebook to the front and handed it over.

"My 'Chicken Leg Sketch Collection'"

Richard took it and opened it.

The notebook has over forty pages, and every page is filled with drawings of roasted chicken legs in various styles.

"Is this all you drew during winter break?"

"That's not all." Hugh flipped to the last page of his notebook: "I also did experiments."

The last page had a note pasted on it with a dozen or so lines of small writing:

"Bake at 180 degrees Celsius for 30 minutes, then increase the temperature to 230 degrees Celsius and bake for another 10 minutes to set the crust. This is the best way..."

Richard's finger stopped on the last line.

"Did you try every single baking method to draw the chicken leg?"

"A painter cannot only paint what he sees with his own eyes; he must paint what he tastes with his own tongue."

Hugh looked at his expression; he seemed quite smug.

"So, do you think I was busier than you during winter break?"

"……yes."

Grey arrived a little later.

She put her schoolbag away, then took out a new tin box and placed it on her desk.

The tin box was a size larger than the one from last semester, and a line of handwritten words was pressed onto the lid: "Greenwood Christmas Limited Edition · MG".

Grey went to Richard's table, took a gingerbread man from the tin box, and handed it to him.

"I made this myself."

Richard reached out and took the gingerbread.

The gingerbread man was about half the size of his palm, and he was holding a tiny quill pen in his hand.

"...Is this me?"

"Hmm." Grey closed the tin box lid. "I spent all night drawing this quill pen."

"Did you draw for everyone in the class?"

"Everyone draws it differently."

Grey lifted a corner of the tin box to show him:

"Warren is just a soccer player, Hugh is just a waiter, and Lillian is... carrying a plant encyclopedia."

Richard's gaze swept over the tin box.

Each gingerbread man holds something different in his hand, and each face has a different expression drawn with icing.

Warren had a silly grin that stretched to his ears, Hugh's eyes were fixed on the baking tray he was holding, and Lillian's expression was very quiet.

"You're doing this during winter break?"

"It's not just that." Grey closed the tin box again. "My mom made me learn how to manage a household, so I spent most of my winter break looking at the accounts."

"Are you comfortable looking at the ledger?"

"The ledger itself is nothing special; the difficult part is looking at it with my mom."

She sighed with each page she turned, and after each sigh, she asked me, "Have you noticed the problem with this account?"

"Did you figure it out?"

"I noticed it once, but it was wrong; I noticed it twice, but it was wrong again; from the third time onwards, I stopped looking and just waited for her to finish sighing and then explain herself."

Richard couldn't help but laugh.

"Why don't you teach her?"

"Who should we teach?"

"Your mother."

Grey stared at him for a few seconds: "Richard, I'm sixteen, she's forty."

"What I mean is, when you take over later..."

"You really are... don't ruin my good mood on the very first day."

Grey pushed the tin box an inch closer and tapped it with her finger: "Eat."

Richard wrapped the "himself" in oil paper and put it in his pocket.

"You're reluctant to eat it? I can make you another one."

"This one is enough."

In the first history class of the new semester, Mr. Hutton walked into the classroom carrying his briefcase and gave Richard a wink.

Richard understood immediately; this meant he should come to the office as usual after school.