Chapter 40: Evelyn's Dream

Rogers stood on the steps and scanned the street, his lips pressed tight.

The straight-line distance from the station to the western district of the Imperial Capital, where the Ashford House residence was located, was about four miles (6.5 km).

Walking there would take over an hour.

He took another look at the family's attire: the three-piece suits he and his son wore, Margaret's dress, and his daughter's tight little leather shoes.

If they walked four miles, setting aside whether his wife and daughter could even make it that far, everyone would be drenched in sweat by the time they arrived.

Their leather shoes would be coated in dust and their clothes glued to their backs, leaving them covered in sweat for the formal dinner.

Any thought of looking presentable would be completely out of the question.

After taking stock for a moment, his father hailed a carriage.

The carriage was a small hansom cab with two facing seats, a black-painted body, and brass handles.

It was far plainer than a luxurious four-wheeled carriage, but it would at least shield them from the wind and dust.

A tall, thin, middle-aged coachman sat in the driver's box perched high at the rear of the cab's roof, looking down at them.

"Where to?"

"Western district, 13 Chelsea Road," his father replied.

"Chelsea Road?" The coachman tipped the brim of his hat. "Two shillings."

His father felt in his pocket. "How about one shilling and sixpence?"

"Sir, it's quite a distance. At one shilling and sixpence, I wouldn't even earn back my horse's feed."

"What about one shilling and eightpence?"

The coachman looked at the family of four and their clothes, then down at the old suitcase resting by their feet.

"Alright, one shilling and eightpence it is. Hop in."

The small carriage carried the family of four into the traffic of the Imperial Capital.

The street scenery outside the window shifted constantly.

Driving out of the commercial district near the station, they passed through several busy intersections where the clatter of hooves mingled with the cries of street vendors.

As they headed further west, the building density noticeably decreased, the space between structures widened, and trees grew more abundant.

Terraced storefronts gave way to detached mansions. Occasional carved stone fountains and gravel driveways came into view.

"It would be wonderful if we could live in a place like this someday." Evelyn leaned against the carriage window, her nose almost pressed to the glass.

Richard looked up from his shorthand notebook. "What, you want to live in the Imperial Capital too?"

"Of course I do. Who wouldn't? But just dreaming about it is enough." The girl shrank back, ever practical.

"Dad's salary is enough in Briston, but if we moved to the Imperial Capital, we probably couldn't even afford rent."

She kept her voice very low when she said this, afraid their parents sitting across from them would hear.

"Evelyn, have you ever thought about what you want to do in the future?" Richard asked.

"Hmm?"

"After graduation."

Evelyn tilted her head and thought for a moment. "You know my grades are just average. I'm not very good at Latin or those science subjects."

She didn't sound discouraged as she said it.

"But my home economics class is alright. My teacher says I have a bit of a talent for baking bread and pastries."

"So you want to bake?"

"It's not that I 'want to bake.' I want to open my own bakery." She corrected his wording, her tone turning serious.

"Selling bread, scones, cookies, fruit tarts... the kind freshly baked every morning."

When she mentioned fruit tarts, she unconsciously licked her lips.

"The storefront wouldn't need to be very big. A little corner shop would be enough, with all sorts of pastries displayed in the window so people passing by could smell them."

"Then Mom wouldn't have to pinch pennies in the kitchen every day."

Her voice softened considerably on that last sentence.

"She could cut the butter as thick as she wanted and add as many eggs as she pleased."

Watching his sister's expression as she spoke, Richard suspected she didn't actually love baking all that much.

The focus of the bakery Evelyn described wasn't on the baking itself.

The butter, cream, eggs, and assorted afternoon tea pastries she listed—every single one was a scarce commodity in their household, requiring careful budgeting.

Evelyn had watched this for over a decade as she grew up.

The idea of opening a bakery was less a career aspiration and more the simplest of desires: she just wanted to eat whatever she liked.

Richard didn't burst her bubble.

"That sounds nice," he said.

"You don't think it's unrealistic?"

"Why would it be unrealistic?"

"Because it takes a lot of money." The little girl had realized this problem on her own.

"We can worry about the money later. For now, just perfect your craft."

Richard closed his shorthand notebook, extending the topic. "But have you ever thought about something grander?"

"Grander?"

"Yeah, like being the head chef of a star-rated restaurant."

Evelyn turned her head, her braids swaying against her shoulder. "What?"

"Those high-end restaurants in the big cities. You've definitely seen them in magazines." Richard rested his arm on the edge of the carriage window.

"The head chef uses whatever ingredients they want and sets the menu themselves, dealing with steak, lobster, and foie gras all day long."

"After the guests finish eating, they stand up and applaud, saying, 'Please tell the head chef that this dish was absolutely wonderful.'"

He was purely making it up as he went.

Yet his sister's eyes immediately lit up, clearly painting that beautiful picture in her mind.

But she quickly pulled herself back to reality.

The girl leaned back hard against her seat and crossed her arms, adopting a dismissive expression.

"Brother, do you think I'm an idiot? The head chefs at high-end restaurants have been training since they were little."

"I didn't say right now."

"Plus, lobsters are so expensive. I've never even seen a live one."

"Just tell me if you want it or not."

Evelyn's lips moved, as if she were battling herself.

After a moment of silence, she murmured, "...I do want it."

Right after saying that, she immediately added, "But there's no point in dreaming about the impossible. I'm not like you, where something suddenly clicked in your head and you can learn anything."

"So you're finally admitting you're a bit slow on the uptake?"

"You..." Evelyn reached out to pinch his arm, but Richard dodged it.

Pinching empty air, she huffed and turned her face back toward the window, muttering:

"If you want to be a head chef, then be one. I might as well say I want to be the Prime Minister."

Richard smiled and didn't respond.

He flipped his shorthand notebook open again, his eyes falling on the page, but his mind wasn't on Latin at all.

His sister wanted to open a bakery just so she could freely eat the pastries she loved;

His mother subconsciously calculated the remaining butter before every meal;

And just a moment ago, his father had haggled with the coachman over two pence.

Over the past month, he had devoted almost all his attention to the world behind the veil.

The breathing method, classical learning, deciphering codes, observing seals, acquiring points... every step pointed toward the deeper, further reaches of the supernatural realm. His general direction wasn't wrong.

The power behind the veil naturally had to be pursued; it was the foundation of his survival.

But his mother's illness, his sister's yearnings, his father working so much overtime he couldn't even come home just to accompany them to the Imperial Capital...

The various matters over the past few days, big and small, repeatedly reminded him that he wasn't walking alone.

The carriage turned onto a quiet street, and the coachman up top called out, "Whoa."

"We're here."