I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

Richard tied the cloth pouch shut and tucked it into the side pocket of his bag.

The bag, already holding his textbooks and notebooks, was now quite heavy.

Old Big started to brew tea. "It’s still early," he said. "Let’s have another pot."

Richard’s eyes lit up. ’Whenever Old Big makes tea, it’s the perfect chance to fish for information.’

The tea Old Big brewed today was different. He had added a few dried sage leaves to the black tea.

The aroma of the sage masked the black tea’s natural bitterness.

After the second pot was brewed, he set the teapot in the middle of the table. He then scooted his chair back and sank into it, catching his breath.

Richard waited for him to drink half a cup before speaking.

"Old Big, about that once-in-a-generation genius you mentioned..."

He asked casually, "What happened to them?"

Old Big’s motion froze.

It wasn’t the usual comical pause, like when he was choking on something.

Usually, when that happened, his eyes would bulge, his belly would jiggle, and the whole scene would be a farce.

This time was different.

His cup hovered in mid-air, not lowered to the table nor raised to his lips.

Old Big’s face crumpled.

"Why the sudden interest?"

"You brought it up last week," Richard said, carefully observing his expression. "You never finished the story, and it’s been on my mind."

"If I’m overstepping, just forget I asked."

Old Big set the pewter cup back on the table.

"It’s not forbidden to ask," he finally said. "I just... didn’t tell you the whole story."

"Mm."

Old Big’s gaze shifted from Richard’s face to the surface of the tea in his cup.

"That person... isn’t dead."

Richard was surprised.

When Old Big had first mentioned the story and then trailed off, Richard had automatically pictured some kind of tragic, early death.

That version fit the fate of every prodigy in all the stories he’d ever read.

A candle burning too brightly draws distant eyes, its flame snuffed out by the storm.

It was the standard ending for such stories.

Old Big waved a dismissive hand.

"She broke with our master. Their relationship soured completely."

Richard noted his use of the female pronoun.

"Why?"

Old Big shook his head.

"Our Master never talked about the details."

"I asked. My senior apprentice asked. She wouldn’t answer."

"All we could do was piece things together."

He spun the pewter cup a half-turn on the tabletop.

"What we managed to piece together was this: she refused to stop where Lady Mary was content to stop."

"Our Master only ever said one thing about it, over dinner."

Old Big’s voice dropped lower.

"’What she wants to do, I cannot do. And I will not permit her to do it while under my tutelage.’"

"After that, nothing."

"Our Master never sent anyone after her. My senior apprentice asked once if we should try to find her, but our Master just waved her off."

After finishing his story, Old Big downed the now-cold tea in one gulp.

Richard didn’t press him further.

"Old Big," he said, changing the subject. "This method of brewing with sage—did you come up with it yourself, or is it something passed down from our master?"

"Our Master taught it to me."

Old Big’s shoulders relaxed slightly, visibly grateful that Richard wasn’t prying.

"She said the sage counters the tea’s bitterness and helps your mind settle after training."

"So after training, the brain is in a hypersensitive state?"

"Mm-hm." Old Big nodded.

"You’ve been practicing for a while now. Your nerves are still ’reaching out,’ so to speak. The scent of the sage helps call them back."

"Besides, a coroner smells death all day. My nose has been pickled for years."

The wrinkles on Old Big’s round face smoothed out. "There aren’t many smells I find pleasant anymore."

"And sage is one of them?"

"Sage is one. Roasted chestnuts are the other."

He tapped the tabletop. "Next time you’re passing by Grafton Street, bring me a bag."

"Alright."

"I want the big two-pence bag."

"You don’t hold back, do you?"

"What’s the relationship between us?" Old Big waved his hand dismissively. "Since when do we stand on ceremony?"

Richard couldn’t help but smile.

Old Big saw him to the main entrance of the Branch Office. Snow had begun to drift down outside.

"It’s getting colder. Be careful on your way home."

"I will."

"Keep up your practice this week."

Old Big stomped his feet in the doorway, shaking the snow from his soles.

"You’ve gotten the hang of the Stone Reading Technique. Now you need to solidify your grasp on it."

"Got it."

Richard turned and walked toward the street corner.

After about twenty paces, he glanced back.

Old Big was still standing there under the gas lamp at the Branch Office entrance.

He hadn’t gone inside, nor was he looking at Richard. His gaze was lost somewhere in the distance.

Richard turned back around and quickened his pace.

.........

The bus wasn’t crowded.

Richard found a window seat.

Evening had already fallen over Brighton, and the streetlights slid past the window one by one.

He turned up the collar of his overcoat.

The bus’s heater was only effective near the driver’s seat; the rear of the cabin was nearly as cold as the street outside.

He replayed the information he had just gathered in his mind.

’Among Lady Mary’s apprentices, there was a once-in-a-generation genius.’

’She could correctly distinguish twenty items at once, and even rank them by relative strength.’

’A level of inspiration with no parallel in any of the materials I’ve ever read.’

’Old Big’s "once-in-a-generation" was the highest praise he could offer.’

’She broke with her master, but Lady Mary never sent anyone after her.’

’What she wants to do, I cannot do. And I will not permit her to do it while under my tutelage.’

’Those three words, "I cannot do," revealed a massive gap in ability.’

’Lady Mary is at the Grand Mastery Tier. Something even she cannot do...’

The bus braked at an intersection, waiting for pedestrians to cross.

Richard’s body lurched forward with the bus’s momentum, his gaze shifting from the window to his own knees.

’He’d said, "cannot do, and will not permit her to do it." Why not permit it?’

’If it were simply something Lady Mary herself couldn’t achieve, she could have just let her apprentice go.’

’But "will not permit her to do it while under my tutelage" implies that what the apprentice wanted to do would have implicated her entire school.’

’A simple attempt to break through to a new Tier, whether successful or not, is a personal affair. The master’s school wouldn’t be implicated.’

’The kind of thing that *would* implicate the school... is something far more dangerous.’

The bus started moving again.

Richard’s fingertips, which had been tapping his knee, went still.

’The profile of Hecate fit perfectly into the blank space left by Old Big’s story.’

’A missing genius, one Lady Mary herself admitted could do things she couldn’t;’

’Someone who abandoned her tutelage to strike out on her own;’

’Someone who uses the Triple Goddess as a codename—the Maiden for her past, the Mother representing Lady Mary, and the Crone as the position she aims to reach...’

’All the clues stacked up, pointing to the same conclusion.’

The bus turned off Central Avenue and onto the branch road for Waste Rock Lane, slowing down.

Richard wouldn’t write this deduction in his notebook.

He wasn’t leaving it out because it was unimportant. Quite the opposite: it was *too* important.

’If I were Hecate,’ he thought, ’I wouldn’t tolerate anyone exposing my true identity either.’

’Some things were best kept to oneself.’

The bus stopped at the mouth of Waste Rock Lane.

The driver opened the doors, and a blast of cold wind flooded the cabin.

Richard pulled his collar up tighter and rose from his seat.

A figure was standing at the entrance to Waste Rock Lane, waving at him.

"Brother!"

Evelyn came running from the corner.

The girl wore a woolen hat, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She had clearly been waiting for a while.

Richard glanced at his sister’s red nose. "Were you out having fun today?"

She seemed to have completely forgotten about the argument she’d had with their father a couple of days ago.

"I was! Here, I’ve got something for you."

Evelyn pulled a wax paper parcel from her coat pocket.

"What’s this?"

"Cinnamon rolls," Evelyn said, holding the parcel up to him, her eyes curving into happy crescents. "The cook at Betty’s house made them."

"Didn’t Mom tell you not to mooch off your friends?"

"I didn’t." Evelyn shook her head, then nodded.

"Alright, I did go, but her mother invited me! It’s not like I just showed up."

She peeked out from her scarf and poked the parcel with a finger.

"Betty’s house was having afternoon tea today, so I stopped by.

I had two cups of hot cocoa, and they made tons of cinnamon rolls, so I brought three back with me."

"Three?"

"Yeah, I ate one on the way here," she said, a little sheepishly. "It’s cold when you’re walking, so you need something sweet."

"Fair enough."

"We can eat the other two when we get home."

"You’ve already exceeded your snack allowance for the night. What if you’re too full for dinner?" Richard shot his sister a look.

"I’ll definitely be able to finish dinner," Evelyn declared, raising her woolen-gloved right hand. "I swear in the name of Tacitus."

"...Where did you learn an oath like that?"

"History class. Tacitus was a historian, so if you swear by his name, you can’t lie. Because historians write everything down."

Richard had to laugh at his sister’s absurd logic.

The two of them walked home together.

The snow was still falling, but the wind was lighter in the lane, and the flakes drifted down slowly.

Evelyn walked on his left, occasionally adding a little skip to her step, making the small pom-pom on her woolen hat bounce.

When they got home, their mother’s voice called out from the kitchen. "You’re back?"

"We’re back."

"Dinner will be ready in a minute."

Richard went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of hot tea.

There was no sage in it. ’Sage isn’t what home should smell like.’

’Home,’ he thought, ’should smell like something else.’

’Cinnamon, caramel, onions, breadcrumbs... and the faint scent of flour that always clung to his mother.’