I loaded the Mysticism panel.

Chapter 534 The Taste I Want

After mid-December, the fog rises from the Thames, is filtered by the curtain wall of the inner street at the entrance of Flower Moon Street, and only a thin layer flows in along the stone slabs when entering the doorway.

The shop windows that were smashed in May were all replaced with new glass, but the brass plaque of Donner Pawnshop was never replaced.

Richard pushed open the door and went in; Donald, sitting behind the counter, was very unhappy.

"...Hey, you haven't been to work for two months and nine days."

He held a pair of copper pliers in his left hand, with a grain of turquoise between the tips.

"Mr. Donner, I'm going to the Apennines..."

I know you went to the Apennines.

Donald tossed the turquoise into the tin dish.

"You went to Milan, Genoa, Switzerland, and even crossed a snow-capped mountain..."

He put down the tongs, pulled an envelope from under the cabinet, and slammed it onto the table.

"And this, the Genoese mail comes more often than yours. This morning when the postman slipped it in, he asked if the recipient was my skinny son."

"What did you say?"

"I'm telling you, he's just a lazy guy who hasn't come to work for two months."

Donald handed over the envelope: "The postman said that's how young people are these days. His own apprentice just signed up last month, and he can't find him anymore."

Richard tucked the letter into his coat and went to the back room with practiced ease.

Donna turned up the small charcoal stove and grabbed a handful of tea leaves.

"There's a box of new goods in the back; let's look at it while we drink tea."

The tea was made in the old Yazd style, with a pinch of dried rose petals added, and it was brewed to be strong and astringent.

Donner got up and went to the back room. When he came back, he was carrying a wooden crate with iron bars nailed to it. The wooden planks were painted with the quartermaster's black number.

"This came from Basra."

He pried open the box lid, and inside, buried among the shredded straw, were three ceramic bowls.

The bowls were similar to the ones used at home for serving soup, unglazed. Donald put on gloves, took one out, and turned it over to show Richard the center of the bowl, which was covered in incantations.

The database of knowledge automatically opened, and Richard compared it in his mind.

The incantation is in Aramaic, which was once the official language of the Persian Empire but has now been gradually lost.

A human figure was drawn on the bottom of the bowl, with long, disheveled hair, arms tied behind his back, and chains around his ankles.

"This is a cursed bowl," Donald explained.

"Old objects from across the river, from the Sasanian dynasty."

At that time, Jews, Mandalas, and Christians living in Babylon would have someone write this on their names and bury it upside down on the threshold or in the corner of the wall; some even buried it under the bed of the dead.

"Why bury it?"

"Stop the dirty stuff." Donald tapped the rim of the bowl, signaling him to pay attention to what was inside.

"Imagine closing the bowl upside down; it's like closing a mouth."

If there is anything unclean, it will burrow up from the soil into the bowl.

They circled around the incantations, until they reached the innermost part where the bound woman pinned them down. Donner sat down beside the box.

"Last winter, the Imperial troops occupied Basra and pushed north to Gurnay, where they dug out artillery positions."

They pried open the mud brick floor and found seven or eight cursed bowls neatly placed inside.

Those soldiers were really bold; they actually dared to use that weird contraption as a shaving basin.

The short man was somewhat speechless at this point.

"Later, the foam they produced always turned black, and they would sometimes use the razor to shave their own necks."

The quartermaster then realized something was wrong, packed the box, sent it back, and had it disposed of.

Richard recalled the news he had read on the third page of the newspaper that morning: General Townsend's troops had been besieged in Kut for over ten days.

Donna put the bowl back into the straw.

"We'll split the profits 40/60 as usual, but the appraisal report must be clearly stated."

Richard held the bowl up to the lamp, and the still water spread out.

On the third circle in the center of the bowl was the customer's name. Richard pieced it together and frowned. "Mr. Donner, it says Bahram Gushnasp, and his mother is Mihdukh."

"right."

"Why is only the mother's name written?"

Donald picked up his teacup and blew on the rose petals on it.

"No one can guarantee who the father is, but the mother can't escape responsibility."

"My grandfather said that the people there write amulets based on the person my mother recognizes."

The evil creature also recognizes this; it cannot distinguish whose son is whose, but it does recognize whose womb he came from.

Richard recalled that the telegrams delivered to his doorstep were indeed all handed to his mother and wife.

He continued working as usual for the next hour.

The spouts of the copper kettles in the cabinet were covered with a ring of green rust. He took a soft cloth, dipped in vinegar and salt, and wiped them clean little by little.

The axis of an Ottoman-era brass astrolabe was stiff, so he dripped two drops of bone oil into it and fiddled with the scale rings back and forth until it started spinning silently.

There was also a pair of ivory dice, a silver-plated spice box, and a hand mirror inlaid with a half-circle of pearls. Each antique only stayed in his hands for a short while.

Wipe, oil, put back in its place, and let your fingertips linger on them for a moment.

Available points: 3.07...3.15...3.19...3.23.

Donald looked at the ledgers behind the counter, occasionally glancing up at him.

"The way you clean things is more attentive than my old partner who's been doing it for over ten years."

"Where's the old buddy?"

"He died last year." Donald turned the page.

"He always hums songs while wiping things, and they're all off-key hymns."

You didn't utter a sound, you just stood there staring blankly after you finished cleaning, as if the antique was going to say something to you after you finished.

Richard put the astrolabe back on the shelf without responding to that remark.

After finishing work, he took a stone out of his inner bag and put it on the counter.

This was the stone that Donald had taken from the brazier beside the pillar of the Zoroastrian temple to help him guard the windows and doors. Now the stone had turned black, and upon seeing this, the smile on Donald's face vanished instantly.

He put down the account book, picked up the stone, and examined it: "How long has it been on the window?"

"It was put up in July," Richard replied.

"Do you bring it with you when you go out?"

"No, I've been in my dorm the whole time."

Donner put the stone back on the handkerchief and slowly folded it.

He got up and went to the back room, and when he came back, he handed over a new stone.

"My grandfather brought a bag of stones from home, and I still have eleven left."

You took one last time, and you're taking another one this time, so you have nine left.

"That's so little, then I..."

"Take it!" Donald said, not giving him a chance to refuse.

"You're attracting more and more filth around you now, and your situation is more dangerous than mine." Just then, someone pushed open the door from outside.

An elderly woman wrapped in a mink shawl walked in, wanting to change the setting of her granddaughter's engagement ring.

Donald immediately put on a smile and went to greet him, turning back to wave at Richard as they walked, meaning he should go do whatever he was doing.

Richard tactfully left, but he stood by the door and first opened the letter from Genoa.

Mr. Williams's opinion:

Following your advice, business has increased significantly compared to the same period last year.

The owner of the insurance company across the street came to ask me for my secret, and I told him to attend more chamber of commerce meetings.

He went twice and came back saying that the meeting was more tiring than a lawsuit, so he avoided me whenever he saw me after that.

The queue for the Crown Medal is still long. Last month, there were 204 people ahead of me, but this month there are 191 people left.

Rome's efficiency is truly impressive. I reckon when it's my turn, my grandson will be able to accept the award on my behalf.

Another piece of news you might be interested in: the eldest lady has left Genoa on the Duke of Abruzzi and gone to Boston.

Before she left, she visited me, but didn't drink my coffee, probably because she thought the beans weren't good enough. There's something else I must tell you: the old man in the ditch of Rome asked me to pass on a message to you: Passing by without looking at the monument, is it because you think it's too old?

I relayed it exactly as it was, without daring to change a single word.

Here, the experts' dissatisfaction usually manifests itself in the weather.

Last week, the rain in Genoa was exceptionally heavy, and there wasn't a breath of wind over the port. An old sailor said he had never seen such weather in his sixty years of life.

My personal suggestion is that next time you pass through the Apennines, even if you only stop at any of the city gates it recognizes, just to say hello.

"—Your faithfulness."

Richard folded the letter and on his way back, he noticed that the fog was thicker than when he arrived.

That night, he placed the cursed bowl on his desk, with the rim facing upwards.

He looked at it for a while, then turned it over, with the rim facing down.

This looks much better.

Richard was halfway through writing the report when he heard a soft scraping sound coming from the window.

He looked up and saw a copper beetle crouching outside the window. It was using its two hind legs to push a copper ball, which was larger than its body, into the window crack little by little, like a pile of dung.

The beetle stopped, turned its head, and looked at the people in the room with its two compound eyes.

Richard pushed open the window, and the copper ball rolled in. The beetle followed and jumped onto the window, then jumped from the window onto the table.

Upon landing, all six legs buckled simultaneously, and with a crack, the creature collapsed into a flat, lifeless sheet of copper.

This is Prometheus's messenger; I spoke to him before, and the bronze ball he sent had a spiral pattern at the seam.

He unscrewed it and found four fist-sized copper-cased grenades wrapped in felt inside, engraved with the numbers 03, 04, 05, and 06 in sequence.

A line of small characters is engraved on the ring: Turn three times, then pull.

Prometheus's letter was pressed under the felt.

Hermes:

The four finished products were delivered as agreed. However, there was a problem with the two Hercules samples.

It exploded prematurely when he threw it. I've already changed the fuse and replaced the wax seal with a copper foil wick. It won't get wet even after soaking for a week.

The locking ring is a safety feature; it won't make a sound if you pull it out before turning it three notches. As per our agreement, the disposal of research samples requires the signatures of both parties.

I have already signed it. Please put the attached page back into the copper ball after you have signed it. The beetle will wake up by itself before dawn.

Also, my mentor said if you come to Neuchâtel, he would like to invite you for a cup of coffee; his business card is attached.

—p.

Richard picked up his pen to sign, but then stopped, the pen tip hovering over the paper.

He switched to another pencil on the table and signed a period on the line on the right.

After thinking for a moment, he added a small double serpent staff symbol at the end.

All that's left is to process the final business cards.

The business card was exquisitely made, with an copperplate print on the front.

The painting depicts a child-like doll sitting at a small desk, holding a quill pen in its hand.

Richard recognized the doll.

In the 1770s, Neuchâtel watchmaker Pierre Jaquet-Droz created three automata: "Writer," "Painter," and "Musician." Jaquet-Droz later became one of the world's most famous watch brands.

The back of the business card has a line of text printed on it:

"Neschartel, Lakeside Street, coffee anytime. —A watchmaker."

Richard held the business card, thinking that Prometheus's master had only been promoted to Grand Master last year, so it couldn't be this clockmaker Jaquet Droz from over a hundred years ago.

Could they be students?

But his students were all highly proficient, and if he himself had lived to this day, he would at least be highly proficient or even an expert.

Richard put down the business card and realized that he had unknowingly gone through four levels from beginner to master, and that he already had collaborators he knew.

………………

Gunter's Bakery in Berkeley Square has been open since 1757, and its ice cream and wedding cakes are famous in Beijing.

If an upper-class family marries off their daughter and the cake isn't from the Gaunt family, the next day's newspaper social section will have an extra mention of it.

But this winter, three of the Gaunt family's apprentices went to the army, and then their sugar ration was cut in half.

Ten days before the wedding, the shop sent a very polite letter canceling the order. The Countess read the letter and her face turned grim.

Phillips wasn't in a hurry at all; he had already entrusted Evelyn and Grey with the task when the afternoon tea ended that day.

The Countess, however, said, "What kind of talk will it make if word gets out that two female students are making the wedding cake?"

"I ate four of the scones they made by myself," Constance insisted.

The count coughed from behind the newspaper, and the matter was settled.

Speaking of cakes, we have to start with that seed in July.

It was sent by Demeter after the City of Seven Hills, with a note attached: Bury it down, pour in some clean ether, and think about what you want.

When Richard buried it, he thought: "Let something grow that will make my sister happy, preferably vanilla pods."

August passed, September passed, and not a single blade of grass sprouted at the base of the wall.

He once suspected that Demeter's seeds were shy and only grew in her own field.

In early November, the gardener knocked on the study door, looking very unhappy.

"Sir, something's growing in the glass room." Gerald followed him to see, and a vine, bright green, had crawled into the glass room from the base of the wall.

"It's climbing too fast," the gardener said, his voice trembling slightly.

"I came to water it on Monday, and it was on the iron frame on the east side. When I came again on Wednesday, it had climbed up to the one on the west side."

Gerrard stood under the vine for a while to make sure there were no problems.

"Let it be, don't cut it down, and don't move it."

By mid-December, pods had formed on the vines, and as soon as the glass door was opened, a sweet fragrance would waft towards people's faces.

On the afternoon of December 17th, Evelyn reached out and picked one first.

Grey took it and brought it to her nose to smell.

"This isn't from Madagascar. Madagascar's pods are sweet with a hint of smokiness, and the pods are thicker."

She took another sniff, and her brows furrowed.

"It's not Mexican either. Mexican ones are stronger and have a spicy flavor."

"Where is that?" Evelyn asked. Grey brought the pod to her nose for the third time, this time closing her eyes.

After a long while, she said, "...This is the taste of 'wanting'."

Evelyn was taken aback, snatched the pod and smelled it herself, her expression slowly changing.

"When I was a child, this was the smell I could smell when I stood outside the candy store window at Christmas."

She held the pod up to Grey's face and waved it: "Grey, what do you smell?"

Grey's eyes glanced at Richard, then quickly returned to the tips of her shoes.

"...I also smelled a candy store."

She didn't look up when she said this, but the tips of her ears gradually turned red.

That night, after the two girls had gone back to their rooms, Richard went back to the glass room alone, picked a pod, and placed it on the scales.

The paperweight written on the paper was: Edible.

The bronze scales sank to the other side, and the result was a single word: bestowed.

After the scale came to a stop, it wobbled slightly again, as if it had weighed out something else. Richard leaned closer to look, and all that remained on the scale was a very faint sweet scent.

The next morning, Ashford's kitchen was taken over by the two girls.

Evelyn politely invited the cook to the laundry room next door.

The butler peeked out from the doorway as he passed by, then silently withdrew his head.

Evelyn was the commander-in-chief, Grey was the adjutant, and Richard was a conscript who was dragged in.

"You're strong, you can beat the egg whites." Evelyn shoved the copper basin into his arms.

"Keep hitting it until it won't fall when turned upside down."

"Upside down?"

"It won't fall off even if it's put upside down on your head."

Richard sat down at a corner of the long table, holding a copper basin, the whisk making a loud clattering sound at the bottom of the basin.

Evelyn threw another apron at her.

Richard wrapped the ribbon around his back, groping as he tied a rather unsightly knot. A soft laugh came from the other end of the long table.

Grey put down the knife in her hand and wiped her hands on her apron: "Turn around."

Richard turned around and felt two fingers behind him pinching the ribbon and tying it into a bow.

"alright."

The girl moved in front of him, smoothed out his apron, and her fingertips touched something hard in his shirt pocket.

"What is this?"

Richard's heart skipped a beat: "...pencil."

"You're wearing an apron and carrying a pen?" Grey couldn't help but laugh.

"No wonder Evelyn said you sleep with a book in your arms."

As she spoke, she withdrew her hand.

Richard lowered his head and whisked the egg mixture in the bowl even faster.

Grey sat back down at the other end of the long table and began splitting vanilla pods. She hesitated for a moment after splitting the third pod, then beckoned this way.

"Richard, come here."

She immediately added, "...Evelyn said you have a steady hand."

Richard put down the copper basin, walked over, took the knife, and imitated her by using the back of the knife to scrape the seeds.

The black seeds stuck to the back of a knife; scraping them off halfway removed the rest, leaving the rest stuck to the pod skin.

"That's not how it works."

Grey reached out and pressed his fingers down:

"Use the back of the knife at an angle to push against the pod skin, don't press it down."

Her fingers, coated in flour, pressed warmly against his knuckles.

She pressed it for two seconds before she seemed to realize what she had pressed, and she froze.

Then she casually withdrew her hand and rubbed it on her apron several times.

"If you scrape or peel too hard, the oil inside the pod will come down with it, and it will taste bitter." She finished speaking in one breath and bent down to cut open the fourth pod.

As a result, the knife went astray, and half of the pod rolled off the cutting board and onto the floor.

The two of them bent down to pick it up at the same time, and their heads almost collided.

Grey recoiled abruptly, clutching her forehead as if she had really been hit.

"We're running out of honey!" Evelyn suddenly announced loudly.

"I'll go to the cellar to get it."

She walked to the door, then suddenly turned back and blinked hard at her brother, so hard that Richard was afraid her eyelids would twitch.

The door closed, and the kitchen suddenly became quiet.

Grey bent down and carefully opened the pod.

After a long pause, she finally spoke, her voice very soft: "Was the food in Milan... good?"

"Delicious, saffron rice and fried veal ribs." Richard thought for a moment.

"It's better than the flange bread; the flange bread is so hard you could hammer nails into it." "Then..."

Grey paused, and somehow the second half of her sentence popped out: "How about mine?"

As soon as she said the words, the knife in her hand stopped, and her face turned red from her chin to her forehead.

"That's not what I meant. I meant craftsmanship, the craftsmanship itself..."

"You did a better job," Richard replied immediately.

Grey opened her mouth, but said nothing, and buried her face even lower.

She raised her hand to tuck her loose hair behind her ear, but the flour on her hand left a white mark on her cheek.

"Your face..." Richard pointed.

"where?"

She used the back of her hand to rub it, rubbing the other side, and as a result, both sides turned white.

Richard couldn't help but laugh out loud, and reached out to wipe the flour off her face with his thumb.

Grey remained motionless, holding her breath. The two were so close that Richard could see a speck of flour clinging to her eyelashes.

Just then, the door suddenly opened, and Evelyn walked in carrying a jar of honey.

"Found it! The cellar light was broken, and I fumbled around in the dark for ages."

The two quickly separated, and Richard glanced at the jar of honey.

He remembers it clearly; it was placed on the kitchen window that morning.

Evelyn glanced at her brother, then at Grey huddled behind the pot, asked nothing, and went to mix the batter while humming a song.

The cake was baked in the evening. The honey was made from the beehive Evelyn chased back in May, and the cardamom was brought from home by Grey.

The Madagascar Vanilla Bean Caramel Pudding that Richard had read to his sister back then.

Evelyn made a wartime version: honey caramel custard sandwiched between unfrosted honey cakes.

She then sculpted a little rabbit, dressed in a tuxedo, a bow tie, and a top hat tilted to the side; it was Professor Rabbit, the best man.

"Your hat is crooked," Grey reminded her sister.

"The best man's hat should be tilted." Evelyn placed Professor Rabbit next to the bride rabbit, stepped back two paces to examine him. "Shouldn't the bridesmaid have one too? Grey, you can make one."

Grey stopped holding the dough.

"The bridesmaid is Miss Constance's cousin..." she whispered.

"I've never seen her before, so I don't know what shape to make her into."

Despite saying that, she still lowered her head and pinched one, making it very small with short ears.

She placed the little rabbit on the very edge of the cake, about half a cake away from Professor Rabbit.

Evelyn reached out and moved the bridesmaid bunny next to Professor Rabbit.

Grey glanced at it, then quietly moved it back.

Evelyn moved over, and Grey moved back.

On the third time, Evelyn finally couldn't hold back and burst into laughter, collapsing onto the table and unable to get up.

After dinner, Grey said she was going to go to the glasshouse to pick a few more pods to save for her sister later.

Evelyn immediately yawned widely, saying she was incredibly sleepy. Before going upstairs, she turned back at the corner of the stairs and winked at her brother one last time.

The housekeeper thought she had a bug in her eye and went to get a handkerchief.

Richard had no choice but to put on his coat and go alone.

Inside the glass enclosure, Grey stood on tiptoe to reach the pod on the highest vine, but missed it twice.

Richard walked behind her and reached out to take it off for her.

Grey took half a step back, her back bumping into his chest.

The girl flinched in fright, turned around, clutching the pod in her hand, and remained silent for a long time.

"Oh, right, this is a gift for you."

Richard pulled a small paper packet from his coat pocket and silently apologized to his sister.

"Brought back from Milan."

Grey opened the paper package; inside was a small tuft of dark red filaments.

Her eyes lit up instantly. She took the gardener's watering glass from the window, pinched a saffron thread, and dropped it in. A golden yellow color seeped out from the thread and slowly spread, turning the entire glass of water yellow, while the thread itself remained red.

"It's real saffron, without any safflower threads mixed in," she said with delight, then looked up at him.

"You weren't scammed in Milan!"

"The boss who sold it to me tried it the same way."

"Of course, it's the simplest and most accurate method."

She looked down at the glass of golden water, her voice gradually softening.

"...Did you think of me when you were buying spices in Milan?"

"Yes, I was thinking of you."

Grey's fingers stopped on the rim of the glass.

"Then why...didn't you write a single letter?"

Richard did not answer; he simply couldn't answer that question.

Without waiting for his reply, Grey continued, "After you left, every Friday night before I went back to my dorm, I would ask if there was any mail for me."

She smiled shyly.

"Later, whenever the old lady saw me, she would shake her head. Before I could even speak, she would shake her head."

After that, I stopped asking, but I just walked a little slower whenever I passed by that place.

"During the two months you were abroad, I came here every Saturday to bake pastries."

Roast it for Evelyn, roast it for your grandfather, roast it for the butler, roast it for the gardener and the servants.

Later, they all said they couldn't eat anymore, but I was still grilling.

She lowered her head and slowly twirled the vanilla pod between her fingers.

"I don't even know who I'm baking it for."

After a while, her voice became even softer, almost drowned out by the sound of the wind outside the glass.

"...Actually, I know."

Richard felt the pencil in his breast pocket pressed against his shirt. And the girl in front of him was also waiting for him.

"Grey, I..."

"Don't say anything yet."

Grey quickly interrupted him.

Evelyn said, "You should think long and hard before you speak."

You took too long to consider that.

She bit her lip: "I'm afraid I'm not ready yet."

Richard looked at her and shook his head.

"Grey, I have to tell you now."

"When I was in Switzerland, I did have some things happen with another girl."

Because of this, I still haven't figured out the answer, so I don't want to lie to you before I've thought it through myself.

Grey's expression immediately darkened. After a long while, she gently sniffed.

"...Then tell me when you've thought it through."

"Um."

"Don't drag this out too long."

"After the winter solstice," Richard promised.

"I will definitely give you an answer after the winter solstice."

Grey reached out and turned up the collar of his coat for him:

Miss Constance said that her cousin was the most outstanding of her generation.

When your bridesmaid takes your arm as you walk away, don't...

"What do you mean?"

She opened her mouth, but finally managed to stammer out, "...Don't wear your hat crooked."

Richard couldn't help but laugh. Grey glared at him, her face turning even redder.

Her gaze drifted to the top of his head, and she suddenly said, "There's a leaf in your hair."

"where?"

"Lower your height."

Richard lowered his head.

"Lower it a little more."

He lowered himself a little further.

The next moment, something soft and warm touched his cheek.

It happened so fast that before he could even react, that warmth had already left.

Richard stood there, stunned, and looked up.

Grey had already turned and run away, running to the doorway where she slammed her head against the doorframe with a loud thud.

"I'm sorry!" she apologized to the door frame. Then, lifting her skirt, she dashed into the house, the hem rustling as it brushed against the stone pavement.

Richard stood in the glass room and raised his hand to touch his face.

It was still warm there, with a hint of vanilla and cardamom.

He stood in a room filled with a sweet fragrance and sighed inwardly.

Now, a choice must be made.

………………

Monday, December 20th.

At seven o'clock in the morning, newsboys were calling out from the street corner of the square.

"Breaking News! Breaking News! Sir Haig takes command of the expeditionary force! Sir French returns home!"

Richard bought one.

The front page was mostly filled with photos of Sir Douglas Haig, dressed in a crisp uniform, with a neatly trimmed beard, his eyes gazing far beyond the frame.

Below, Sir John French's farewell address was printed, two sizes smaller, squeezed into a corner by a frostbite ointment. More than half the men in the square had armbands wrapped around their arms.

Richard folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm.

He was wearing a morning suit with a long coat over it.

The suit was altered by a tailor at my grandfather's last minute. It was originally intended for Vincent, but even after altering the sleeves and trousers, the shoulders were still a bit too wide.

The wedding started at 9:30.

He arrived early, and several early guests were already standing on the porch, mostly distant relatives of the Blackburn and Phillips families.

These wealthy people, all wrapped in mink and camel fur, huddled together talking, their breaths mingling into a continuous cloud.

A woman stepped out of the crowd and walked straight toward him.

"young people."

Richard stopped in his tracks.

His wife looked him up and down and noticed that he didn't have an armband on his arm.

"How old are you?" "Eighteen."

"Eighteen years old." The lady nodded.

"My youngest son also turned eighteen last year, and he's in Iple now."

She opened her handbag and pulled out a white feather.

"My husband works as a staff officer in the Army Department, and he calculates every day how many more people are needed at the front."

The lady held the feather up and brought it close to his chest.

"A young person like you, standing at the church entrance attending a wedding, and dressed so elegantly..."

Several guests around turned to look.

Richard planned to say that he was a wartime research scholar and could be exempted from registration on the MI6's roster.

But the tip of the feather was almost touching the lapel of his coat.

Richard frowned and was about to move aside when a loud engine roar came from the east side of the square.