Europa Universalis 1867: Start by inheriting an armory

When Richard jumped off the carriage, the sun was not yet past noon, and the dazzling sunlight made the dresses and hats look like props on a stage.

He pushed open the door, and the doorbell rang once.

Millie at the front desk looked up; she was still wearing that dress, her hair tied up tightly.

When she saw Richard, she seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, but her left hand remained tightly gripping her right thumb.

"Mr. Brian." Her voice was strained.

"What about Eleanor?" Richard asked.

Millie didn't answer, her gaze passing over Richard's shoulder and looking behind him.

Richard turned around and found Hans sitting on the sofa, the scar on his face particularly clear in the midday light. His hat was placed to one side, and his hair was combed into an English side part. He was as relaxed as if he were at home.

"Mr. Brian," Hans nodded slightly, "please have a seat."

Richard stood there, the air in the shop was different from usual, there was only the smell of silk and wool, not a trace of lily of the valley.

"Where is Eleanor?" Richard stared at Hans.

Hans raised his hand and waved it in Millie's direction: "Tea."

Millie lowered her head, turned and walked into the back room, her steps so fast they were almost jogging.

"You order her around?"

"She's a shop assistant. It's not unreasonable for me to ask her for a cup of tea, is it?" Hans leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs.

Richard sat down opposite him, so nervous that his shoulder blades were clenched together.

"What do you want to do?"

Hans put the pipe in his mouth and stuffed it with tobacco: "You know that yourself."

“I owe her a favor,” Richard said. “She’s helping me investigate Greenwood. What do you want?”

Hans lit a cigarette, which was clearly of the finest quality, but Richard felt at that moment that he was polluting the air in the shop.

"It's not about what I want, but that you owe Prussia a favor."

"I owe Prussia nothing."

"You owe me." Hans sneered. "You used Prussian channels to investigate Greenwood, and Eleanor was helping you. Did you think this was all for free?"

Richard clenched his fist: "Eleanor is not a tool of Prussia."

“Of course she is,” Hans replied firmly, “we all are.”

Millie came out carrying a tray with two teacups and a pot of tea on it. She walked to the table, bent down, and put the tray down. Then she picked up a teacup and handed it to Richard.

Richard reached out to take it, but although he was clearly on Millie's right hand, she had used her left hand when she handed him the teacup.

He took the teacup, his gaze falling on her right wrist. Her sleeve had slipped down a little, revealing a slender wrist with a ring of bluish-purple bruises on her skin, as if it had been squeezed hard, the finger marks still clearly visible.

Millie quickly withdrew her hand, took a step back, and dared not look at him.

"Millie," Richard called to her.

Her shoulders twitched.

What happened to your wrist?

Millie glanced at Hans, her lips pressed into a thin line, and then quickly walked back to the front desk.

Richard placed the teacup on the coffee table and then turned to question Hans:

"You laid a hand on Millie?"

Hans raised his eyebrows, neither denying nor admitting it.

"What did you do to Eleanor?" Richard took a step forward.

"She's alright, but whether you can see her is up to you." Hans said coldly; Richard had seen him with that expression before when he talked about the dead dog.

"What the hell do you mean?"

"You owe Prussia a favor, and now it's time to pay it back." Hans took a drag on his cigarette. "You have a reputation among the Irish, and now I need them armed. The Fenian Brotherhood needs weapons, and you can help them."

Richard's pupils contracted slightly.

"If you do this for Prussia, Eleanor will come back; otherwise, Berlin will replace her."

"You think I'd agree?"

"You will, believe me. Replacing a spy is easier than you think."

Richard fell silent. The clock ticked away, and with each tick, Richard grew more anxious.

Suddenly, he smiled.

"You're lying," Richard shook his head. "You're not good at this."

Hans still had a poker face, but his hand holding the pipe stopped.

"Eleanor isn't in your hands," Richard said calmly. "If she were, you would bring her to me so I could see her with my own eyes before you make your demands, but you didn't."

Hans took the pipe out of his mouth and tapped it on the table: "What makes you so sure?"

"Perhaps it's really easy to replace a spy," Richard said, putting his hands on his knees, "but you can't replace her reputation and standing in London. She's built it up over so many years. Bismarck would never replace the head of London's spies before the war."

Hans's lips twitched slightly, then he smiled with relief.

"Maybe I'm really not good at this," Hans said. "Eleanor is definitely not in my hands; she's gone out to see her own clients."

"So all that talk about arming the Irish and rebelling against the British was just to scare me?"

"I'm not trying to scare you, let me put it this way," Hans leaned back on the sofa, "those were tasks, but we two had some... disagreements about how to carry them out."

Richard asked, puzzled, "Why? Why would you do that?"

“You’re British,” Hans said. “You should know better than I do that a general election is coming up.”

Richard's mind went blank for a moment, a string of words flashing through his head.

The 1868 general election, the Irish church question, electoral reforms, and foreign policy—everything was related to the future direction of Britain. Prussia, preparing for war against France, least wanted to see a powerful and energetic Britain stab it in the back.

"You want to influence the election," Richard frowned, "to ensure that a government that doesn't actively interfere in China's affairs comes to power."

Hans bit his pipe between his teeth, seemingly unfazed by Richard's precognitive abilities.

"I'd rather work with Eleanor," Richard stood up, "than be friends with you."

Hans glanced at him, then stood up as well: "Suit yourself, but Eleanor's demands will only be more complicated than mine, and working with her won't be any better."

He picked up his hat, put it on, and walked towards the door, then handed him an address.

"If you change your mind," he said, "you know where to find me."

"Where did Eleanor go?" Richard asked.

Hans's hand was already on the doorknob: "She went to see Countess Harriet, something about summoning spirits or something related to spiritualism, I didn't quite catch it."

He pushed open the door, and the doorbell rang.

"Don't worry too much, she'll be back soon." Hans said this and stepped into the sunlight outside the door.

The door finally closed, and Millie, who was still huddled behind the front desk, breathed a sigh of relief, but her hands were still trembling slightly.

"Mr. Brian..." she turned to Richard, "Thank you."

"Does he come often?" Richard asked.

Millie shook her head: "He's come a few times recently, and each time he makes Mrs. Eleanor unhappy. Today, since she's not here, he... he's just been sitting here, not letting anyone in."

"And the injury on your hand?"

Millie pulled her hands back into her sleeves, her fingertips clutching the loose thread at the cuff.

Richard walked to the front desk and glanced at the door to the work area; the door was still closed.

"Can I go in and wait for her?"

Millie glanced at him and nodded slightly: "Madam said you may go in."

Richard thanked Millie and went into Eleanor's workshop.

This was the first time he had been alone in this room. Every time he and Eleanor were in this room, her presence always filled every inch of the space, and Richard never had a chance to really look at it.

Now he sees it clearly.

Just like the backstage area of ​​any tailor shop on the street, there are fabric samples, color cards and sewing kits piled on the long table, and a mannequin stands in the corner, wearing a half-finished dress.

Richard walked around the workshop twice, glancing occasionally at the design sketches hanging on the wall and the half-finished cup of tea on the table. But on the second walk, he suddenly felt that something was wrong.

This sense of dislocation is physical; with each step his feet touch the floor, his center of gravity shifts slightly, as if he's walking on an invisible slope, so subtle that he wouldn't notice it unless he'd walked around twice.

He stopped and looked down at the wooden floor beneath his feet. The floor was laid perfectly, the joints were seamless, and there was nothing wrong with it. But after taking a few more steps, his center of gravity was still off to one side.

Richard lay down, placed his palm on the floor, ran it along the lines, and pressed his face almost to the ground to look down.

The floor had a sunken angle, tilted towards a certain area of ​​the room, but Richard couldn't pinpoint the exact location.

So he stood up, walked to the long table, took a knitting ball from the sewing box on the table, placed the ball at the starting point of the depression in the floor, and let go.

The ball started rolling on its own, along an unseen ramp, toward a wall with a sketch hanging on it. It hit the kickboard at the corner of the wall, bounced once, and came to a stop.

Richard walked to the wall, squatted down, and carefully examined the gap between the baseboard and the floor. The gap was even and not loose, but when he tapped the wall with his finger, the sound was wrong. It wasn't the dull sound of a solid wall, but rather a metallic echo.

Its weight bent the room's floor.

He stood up, placed his hands on the wall, and pushed forward, but the wall didn't budge. He then pulled to the left.

The wall moved slightly.

It wasn't the entire wall, but a section of it, about the width of a person, running from floor to ceiling, silently sliding a few inches to the left like a door. A chilly, damp, musty air seeped out from the gap.

Richard stood in front of the gap, his hand still on the wall, his heart pounding.

This is a false wall, and behind it is undoubtedly a dark room.

Behind him, the workshop door was still open, and the sound of Millie walking softly could be heard in the corridor. Richard gritted his teeth, pulled open the hidden door, and went inside.