Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

As soon as Catherine returned, she would unscrew the tincture of opium and soak it in water.

"Wait!" Richard reached out and grabbed her wrist.

Catherine looked up, her eyes full of confusion: "Mr. Brian?"

"How much are you planning to give him to drink?"

"Fifteen drops, as the doctor said."

"I know," Richard released his grip, "but I ask you, have you seen anyone drink this stuff?"

Catherine paused for a moment, then looked down at the brown bottle in her hand again. "No, sir."

"I've seen it." Richard lied; he had seen 21st-century addicts, but tincture of opium was a legal painkiller in this era. "I've seen people addicted to it, trembling all over if they don't drink it for a day, and eventually losing their jobs and lying in the gutter waiting to die."

Catherine gripped the bottle tightly, her lips parted slightly, unsure of what to say.

"Sean," Richard walked over and knelt down beside his bed, "can you still hold back?"

Sean opened his eyes; his eyeballs were bloodshot, but his vision was still relatively clear.

"Yes," his voice was hoarse, "I'm hard, young master..."

Richard smiled and said, "I'm not going to say nice things to you. If you can't resist, you can drink a little, but not the amount the doctor recommended, that's too much."

Sean gritted his teeth, gripping the blanket with his uninjured hand: "I can endure it."

"Okay." Richard nodded, pulled Catherine aside, and lowered his voice, "Catherine, this medicine isn't unusable, but it can't be used the way the doctor said. Do as I say..."

Catherine nervously turned her head to the side, unsure whether to put the bottle down or hold it.

"At most five or six drops at a time, and he can't drink it every day; he can only drink it for the first three to five days," Richard added. "If he's in pain, we'll soak a cloth in cold water and apply it to the swollen area."

Catherine was skeptical: "But the doctor said..."

“I heard what the doctor said,” Richard said, taking the bottle from her. “The doctor is a good man, he’s following the rules, but he doesn’t see what the patients look like after they recover. You have to believe me.”

Catherine remained silent for a long time before nodding with difficulty.

Then she wrung out a cold cloth, folded it, and applied it to the back of Sean's swollen right hand.

Sean took a breath, and when the cold towel was applied, the muscles in his face contracted slightly before slowly relaxing.

"How are you, brother?" Catherine asked. "Feeling better?"

Sean nodded slightly, his brows relaxing a little.

Richard finally breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Sean was feeling better, and walked into the living room, rubbing his shoulders.

He had been busy all night without sleep, and his scalp felt numb, as if someone was pricking his scalp with tiny needles.

"Mr. Brian," Catherine said, her eyes red-rimmed, as she entered the living room, "thank you for saving my brother."

"You're welcome," Richard waved his hand. "He's an upright man, but upright people have the hardest lives."

Catherine sniffed and rubbed her eye socket with the back of her hand.

"You must be tired, Mr. Brian," Catherine said to him. "If you don't mind, you can sleep here; we have an empty room."

"That's great," Richard yawned. Now they could drive back and it would be dawn soon.

As soon as it gets light, things start happening, and it's hard to get a good night's sleep again.

"Come with me, sir."

Catherine led Richard upstairs and pushed open a door in the corridor.

In the tidy room, a wooden bed stood against the wall, the quilt folded neatly, and a crocheted square towel draped over the pillow, almost in the same style as the tablecloth downstairs.

"The conditions are basic, please make do with them." Catherine stood in the doorway.

"It's already very good." Richard was quite satisfied. Although the room was small, it was clean, the air smelled of soap, the floor was polished to a shine, and there were a few dried lavender stalks stuck in a ceramic pot in the corner.

Catherine nodded and gently closed the door.

Richard took off his coat, draped it over the back of the chair, and collapsed onto the bed.

The bed was hard and the pillow wasn't soft enough, but as soon as his head touched the pillow, his consciousness began to blur. He heard Catherine walking quietly downstairs, and Sean let out a low groan before falling into a deep sleep.

He didn't know how long he had slept.

He was pulled from his deep sleep by a fragrant aroma—the oily scent of fried eggs mixed with the sweet, sticky smell of oatmeal porridge—that rose up through the cracks in the floorboards and entered his nostrils.

Richard opened his eyes, paused for a few seconds before remembering where he was: Sean's house, the guest room Catherine had arranged for him.

He sat up, rubbed his face, his hair was a mess, his shirt was wrinkled, and the collar was open.

"I hope they have coffee." Richard stood up and began to button his shirt.

Suddenly, Catherine's terrified voice came from downstairs: "Sir, this is a private residence, you can't..."

Then came another familiar voice: "Don't be nervous, young lady, I've come to fetch Mr. Brian."

Richard's blood rushed to his head.

Hans.

He quickly put on his shoes, not even having time to button his shirt, grabbed his coat, and rushed downstairs.

"Catherine, it's alright..." he called out, and ran down the stairs in three quick steps. When he reached the corner of the stairs, he saw the scene in the living room.

Catherine stood beside the dining table, holding a frying pan in her left hand and a spatula in her right, her face pale, staring intently at the doorway.

A tall man stood at the door, his dark gray coat collar turned up, obscuring half his face.

He had one foot already across the threshold, the other still outside, like a grizzly bear clinging to the doorframe. His gaze passed over the dining room and landed on the stairs.

"Good morning, Richard." He flicked his hat.

"It's alright, Catherine," Richard said, putting on his coat and starting to button it. "He's a colleague of mine."

"Really?" Hans narrowed his eyes. "I thought we were already friends."

From the other end of the house came Sean's strained voice: "Who is it?"

"It's alright, brother," Catherine put down the spatula, "He's Mr. Brian's colleague."

Richard straightened his clothes and pointed towards the door: "Let's talk outside."

Hans smiled and nodded to Catherine, which made her shrink her shoulders uncomfortably.

The two left Sean's house and came to the main street of Southwark. The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and the gas lamps looked weak and listless in the grayish-white light of the day.

Hans leaned against the wall, tilting his head to look at Richard: "You seem to be having some bad luck lately."

"Are you following me?" Richard asked irritably.

Hans chuckled softly: "Do you know what Stiebel calls you?"

The head of Prussia's intelligence agency knew his name? Richard was somewhat frightened.

"What?"

"Prophet," Hans shrugged, "just like my feeling, the information you provided is completely true, even accurate. You alone are more effective than three thousand spies in Paris."

Richard swallowed hard, starting to worry that he might have written too much.

"In that case," Hans said, "guess what my primary objective in London is?"

Richard's mind raced. The mission in Paris was essentially complete, Eleanor was pushing for British neutrality, and Hans's arrival in London at this time could only have one purpose...

Richard came up with the answer he least wanted to accept.

"I."

Hans nodded, his smile deepening.