I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Rogers stood on the steps, scanning the street with his lips tightly pressed together.

The straight-line distance from the station to the Ashford family home in the western part of the capital is approximately four miles (6.5 km).

It would take at least an hour to walk there.

Then look at the whole family's outfits: his and his son's three-piece suits, Margaret's dress, and his daughter's tight little leather shoes.

Walking four miles there, not to mention whether my wife and daughter could keep going that far, everyone would probably be drenched in sweat by the time we got there.

My leather shoes were covered in dust, my clothes were stuck to my back, and I was sweating profusely as I went to the dinner party.

Forget about maintaining a decent appearance.

After observing for a while, the father reached out and hailed a horse-drawn carriage.

The carriage was a small hantham with two seats facing each other, a black painted body, and brass handles.

It was much simpler than those luxurious four-wheeled carriages, but at least it could keep out the wind and dust.

A tall, thin middle-aged man sat in the driver's seat, while the driver's seat was high up on the back of the roof, looking down at them from above.

"Where are we going?"

"13 Chelsea Road, West End," the father gave an address.

"Chelsea Road?" The coachman adjusted his hat brim. "Two shillings."

The father reached into his pocket: "How about one shilling and sixpence?"

"Sir, the distance is right here. I can't even earn back the horse's fodder for one shilling and sixpence."

"What about one shilling and eightpence?"

The driver glanced at the family of four's clothes, then at the old suitcase placed at their feet.

"Alright, I'll give you one shilling and eightpence. Get in the car."

The horse-drawn carriage carrying the family of four merged into the traffic of the capital.

The street scene outside the window is constantly changing.

As we drove out of the commercial area near the station, passing several busy intersections, the sounds of horses' hooves and vendors' cries mingled together.

Further west, the building density decreases significantly, the distance between buildings widens, and there are more trees.

Row shops have given way to detached houses, and occasionally you can see stone fountains and gravel driveways.

"I wish I could live in a place like this someday." Evelyn leaned against the car window, her nose almost touching the glass.

Richard looked up from his shorthand notebook: "What, you want to live in the capital too?"

"Of course I want to, who wouldn't? But just thinking about it is enough." The girl shrank back, very pragmatic:

"Dad's salary is enough in Briston, but if we move to Beijing, he probably won't even be able to afford rent."

She spoke very softly, as if afraid that her parents in front of her would hear her.

"Evelyn, have you thought about what you want to do in the future?" Richard asked.

"Um?"

"After graduation."

Evelyn tilted her head and thought for a while: "You know my grades are just average, I'm not very good at Latin and those science subjects."

She wasn't discouraged when she said "it's not quite right":

"But my home economics class is alright. The teacher said I have some talent for baking bread and making pastries."

"So you want to do baking in the future?"

"It's not 'wanting to do baking,' it's wanting to open my own bakery." She corrected her wording, becoming serious.

"We sell bread, scones, cookies, fruit tarts... the kind that's freshly baked every morning."

She unconsciously licked the corner of her mouth when she mentioned "fruit tart".

"The storefront doesn't need to be too big; a small corner shop is enough. Display various snacks in the window so that passersby can smell the aroma."

"Mom won't have to be so frugal in the kitchen every day anymore."

Her voice softened considerably for that last sentence:

"Cut the butter as thick as you like, and add as many eggs as you want."

Richard, observing his sister's expression as she spoke, felt that she might not actually love baking that much.

Evelyn's description of the bakery workshop didn't focus on baking at all.

The butter, cream, eggs, and various afternoon tea snacks she listed were all rare items that required careful budgeting in their household.

Evelyn has watched him grow up, for over a decade.

The idea of ​​"opening a bakery" is less of a career dream and more of a simple desire: she just wants to be able to eat whatever she wants.

Richard did not expose it.

"That's good," he said.

"Don't you think that's unrealistic?"

Why would it be unrealistic?

"Because it costs a lot of money." The little girl finally realized the problem herself.

"We'll talk about money later; let's hone our skills first."

Richard closed his notebook and extended the conversation: "But have you thought about anything bigger?"

"Something even bigger?"

"Yes, for example, becoming the head chef of a Michelin-starred restaurant."

Evelyn turned her head, her braid dangling over her shoulder: "What?"

"You've definitely seen those upscale restaurants in big cities in magazines." Richard rested his hand on the car window.

"The chef can use whatever ingredients he wants, and he sets the menu himself. He deals with steak, lobster, and foie gras all day long."

"After finishing their meal, guests would stand up, applaud, and say, 'Please tell the chef that this dish was fantastic.'"

He said that was pure fabrication.

But her eyes lit up immediately, clearly imagining that beautiful scene in her mind.

But she quickly pulled herself back to reality.

The girl leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and adopted an indifferent expression.

"Brother, do you think I'm stupid? The head chefs at high-end restaurants are all trained from a young age."

"I didn't say now."

"Besides, lobsters are 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 struggling with herself.

After a moment of silence, she whispered, "...I do want to."

After saying that, he immediately added, "But thinking about things that are impossible is pointless. I'm not like you, who can learn anything once you're smart enough."

"So you're finally admitting you're not very bright?"

"You..." Evelyn reached out to pinch his arm, but Richard dodged her.

She missed her target, turned her face back to the window in a huff, and muttered to herself:

"If you want to be a chef, then be a chef. I could say I want to be prime minister."

Richard smiled but didn't reply.

He reopened his shorthand notebook, his gaze falling on the paper, but his mind was not on Latin at all.

My sister wants to open a bakery, just so she can eat the desserts she likes whenever she wants.

Before each meal, my mother would subconsciously calculate the amount of butter left.

And those two pennies that my father was haggling with the driver over earlier.

For the past month, he has devoted almost all his attention to the world behind the curtain.

Breathing techniques, classical knowledge, deciphering codes, observing seals, acquiring points... every step points to a more distant and deeper realm of the extraordinary, and the general direction is correct.

The power behind the curtain is something to be pursued, for it is the foundation of one's livelihood.

But her mother's illness, her younger sister's aspirations, and her father's inability to return home after working overtime to accompany them to the capital...

These past few days, with all sorts of events, have made him realize repeatedly that he is not walking alone.

The carriage turned down a quiet street, and the driver let out a "whoosh."

"arrive."