Chapter 173 - 155: Card Formation: Crossing Bridge

Mrs. MacNeil sat at the table, the space before her empty.

But she still sat there, one hand hovering over the deck of cards, unmoving.

She was using her inspiration for one last conversation with the deck.

Back in his room, Richard sat on the edge of his bed.

[Perception Level 1] Progress: 93%.

He was less than seven percentage points away from Level 2.

Practical work of all kinds in the Secret Direction was rapidly advancing his [Perception] progress.

[Scholarship Lv.2] Progress: 81%.

The personal instruction from a Spirit Medium of the Minor Mastery Level was far more beneficial than a month spent poring over books alone.

Richard blew out the Oil Lamp and began Nurturing the Sphinx Lamp.

He could feel the lamp gradually starting to recognize him, actively matching the rhythm of his breathing.

With every exhale, the body of the lamp absorbed a wisp.

With every inhale, it returned a tiny bit of something purer to him.

’A two-way channel.’ He recalled a line from *On the Ascent in the Veil*.

However, his two-way channel was still only at the level of a "Marvel" and had not yet entered the level of a "tradition."

He wrapped the lamp in the old piece of flannel and put it away.

He blew out the Oil Lamp and closed his eyes.

[Sleep] activated, and his consciousness sank as if to the bottom of a body of water.

Outside, it had started to snow again.

...

On the last day of the year, the third-floor office of the Brighton Branch Office had been turned into a tavern.

Eight glasses were set on the table—four large and four small.

The large glasses held malt whiskey, while the small ones contained ginger tea mixed with hot water.

The older men couldn’t be chugging hard liquor, so the ginger tea was there to pace themselves.

In the center of the table was a deck of playing cards and a pewter tray piled with chips of various colors.

"Old Big, your turn."

The speaker was Winterworth, the Branch Office’s inspector team leader.

He sat across from Old Big, holding a hand of cards fanned out.

The liquor had brought some color to the man’s gaunt, skeletal face tonight.

"Hold on, I’m still looking." Old Big slowly brought the cards closer to his face.

"You’ve been looking for two minutes."

"This is how slow I look at my cards," Old Big said without looking up. "If you’re in a hurry, you can just forfeit."

Two other men were sitting around the table.

One was Brent, an assistant from the coroner’s office, and the other was Feldon, the old man in charge of archives at the Branch Office.

Brent was the youngest, in his early thirties, and had already downed two glasses tonight.

"Old Big, you play the same way at this table every year."

Brent grinned. "Three minutes to look at your cards, two minutes to play them. Takes half an hour to finish one round."

"If you’re in a hurry, just forfeit." Old Big finally laid his cards on the table.

He turned over three cards—three eights.

Winterworth looked at his own two pair and sighed.

"...You old dog. I don’t know where you steal your luck from."

"I’ve used up more than a decade’s worth of luck at this table."

Old Big raked his pile of chips from the pewter tray toward himself. "It doesn’t work anywhere else."

"Ain’t that the truth," Feldon said, sipping his ginger tea. "If your teacher hadn’t pulled some strings for you, you never would have landed this cushy job."

"Don’t you laugh at me." Old Big pried the copper penny from his hand. "You’re an old man, but your handwriting is still as crooked as a first-grader’s. How about you work on straightening it out this year?"

"I’m already sixty. It doesn’t matter if my handwriting is straight or not anymore."

A wave of laughter went around the table.

"On a more serious note," Winterworth said, downing his glass of whiskey and setting it back on the table.

"Old Big, how’s that student you took on this year?"

"What student?" Old Big picked up his ginger tea, looking at him with a puzzled expression.

"The one who came in second at the Cicero Cup. Mr. Gerald’s grandson."

"...He didn’t become my disciple," Old Big said, a little defeated at the mention of Richard. "I’m teaching him, but he hasn’t formally joined our school."

"Why not? Isn’t there a lot of overlap between the Scholar and Secret Directions?"

"He wants to focus on the academic system and doesn’t want to get too distracted."

"I see." Winterworth wasn’t surprised. "The academic system is indeed a cut above the folk Guilds."

"It’s a shame," Old Big said, taking a sip of ginger tea. "That boy’s inspiration is the second-best I’ve seen in decades."

By unspoken agreement, no one asked who the best was.

"Let’s have a toast," Feldon said, raising his cup of ginger tea. "It’s almost twelve. The year is nearly over."

Four cups clinked together over the table.

"To this past year."

"And to the next."

...

On the last day of the Christmas light festival, the entire central plaza was lit as bright as day by thousands of lamps.

An arcade of fir trees stretched from the plaza’s entrance all the way to the central fountain, and every single fir was decorated differently.

Some were hung with bells, some with paper-mâché stars, and some with little dolls made of spun sugar and candied fruit.

Isabella stood with a student on either side of her.

Sofia was on her left, and a male student named Thomson was on her right.

Another student, a first-year graduate named Clara, couldn’t make it today.

"Mentor, look over there!" Sofia pointed to the end of the arcade.

At the end of the arcade was a small, temporary stage.

On stage, several people in costume were performing a mythological play from the Black Earth River Basin, in which Isis was gathering the pieces of Osiris’s body.

"Is this a new addition to the program this year?" Isabella frowned, glancing at the crudely made body parts.

"Mhm," Sofia said, recalling. "The year before last was Shakespeare’s *A Midsummer Night’s Dream*. Last year it changed to Celtic Mythology, and this year it’s mythology from the Black Earth River."

"The light festival changes every year," Isabella said, tightening her scarf. "When my sister and I came here for the first time as children, they were performing *The Trojan Horse*."

"Your sister, Mentor?" Sofia’s eyes lit up. "Could you tell us about when you used to come to the festival as children?"

It was New Year’s Eve, and for once, Isabella was in the mood to share.

"There’s nothing I can’t tell you."

She led her two students further into the arcade.

The scent of fir mixed with sugar-roasted chestnuts, mulled wine, and baked chestnuts, making the whole plaza smell sweet.

"When my sister and I were little, our father would bring us here for the festival every year."

Isabella tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze distant as she looked at the lights in the distance.

"Father was very strict back then. He rarely let us go out to play, so this was the one time a year we were allowed to stay out late."

"So what did you do?"

"Eat," Isabella laughed. "I had a real sweet tooth when I was little, too."

"Why did you say ’too’?"

"Because my sister says her daughter also has a real sweet tooth. I suppose it runs in the family."

Sofia and Thomson both laughed out loud.

Isabella continued her story.

"Every time I saw the sugar-roasted chestnuts, I’d be rooted to the spot, and my sister would wait for me.

When I was done eating, she would lead me to the next stall."

"Would she buy anything for herself?"

"She didn’t like buying things to eat," Isabella said, shaking her head. "Every year she came to the festival, she would only buy one thing."

"What was it?"

"Dried daisies."

Thomson was a little surprised. "...Daisies?"

"Mhm," Isabella nodded.

"There was a woman on the north side of the plaza who set up a dried flower stall every year.

My sister would buy a bouquet every year. She collected them for many years."

"Is the stall still here?" Sofia asked, glancing around.

"It was here last year," Isabella said, though she wasn’t sure. "I don’t know if it’s here this year."

The three of them walked along the arcade to the north side of the plaza.

The stall was still there. The old woman was a fair bit older than Isabella remembered; she must have been over seventy now.

Dried flowers of all kinds were laid out on the stall, and sure enough, the daisies were displayed in the most prominent spot.

"You’re still here," Isabella said, walking over.

The old woman looked up at her, and it took a moment for recognition to dawn in her cloudy eyes.

"...An Ashford young lady?"

"That’s me," Isabella replied. "My sister and I used to come here every year to buy daisies from you."

"Oh... oh..." The old woman’s face broke into a smile. "How is your sister doing?"

"You still remember my sister?"

"How could I not? Your sister was the child who loved flowers more than anyone else around here."

"I’ll take three bouquets of daisies," Isabella said, taking out her wallet. "One for me, and one for each of my students."

"Of course." The old woman deftly wrapped them up.

As she took the daisies, Sofia noticed her mentor’s subtle movement.

Isabella had just used a wisp of Ether to imbue the bouquet with something.

On the Ether Layer, the daisies would stay fresh for a year.

It was a small trick from the Secret Direction, but she had seen it clearly.

"Mentor..." Sofia said softly.

"Shh," Isabella said, shaking her head. "We’ll talk about it when we get back."

She held the bouquet of daisies in her hand.

"Come on, let’s go get some sugar-roasted chestnuts."