At noon, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the end of the hallway, spreading warm patches of light across the crimson carpet.
Adeline changed into an ivory-white high-necked wool dress and, followed by Lina, entered the first-floor dining room of the mansion.
It was the first time since her transmigration that she had come to the dining room to eat; usually, Lina brought the food to her room.
The dining room was larger than she had imagined.
A long table that could seat twelve people dominated the center of the room, its surface made from a single slab of dark oak, polished to a mirror shine.
Two portraits hung on the walls, the figures in them dressed in ancient, elaborate clothing, likely ancestors of the Castiya family.
Lina pulled out a chair for her.
After Adeline sat down, she noticed that the butler, Swan, had appeared at some point and was standing at attention beside the dining table.
He wore his usual black formal attire, hands folded in front of him, back ramrod straight.
When he saw Adeline seated, he gave a slight bow.
“Miss Adeline, I am gratified that you have chosen to dine in the dining room today. Moderate activity is beneficial for your recovery.”
“Staying in my room all day is suffocating.”
Adeline replied casually.
The kitchen soon served her meal: cream of asparagus soup, pan-seared foie gras with a slightly charred surface, roast lamb chops with mint sauce, a small dish of butter, a basket of white bread, and finally a neatly cut portion of roast beef.
It was hard to imagine this was lunch for just Adeline alone.
Swan stepped forward, spread a napkin across her lap, adjusted the soup spoon to the proper position, then retreated to his original spot.
Adeline picked up the spoon and sipped the soup.
Her gaze shifted slightly.
Her purpose for coming out today was not to eat.
Swan stood nearby, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the edge of the table—neither staring at the master while she ate, nor making any move to leave.
“Mr. Swan.”
She set down the spoon.
“Father has been gone for nearly three months now. How much longer will he be at the southern trading port?”
Swan gave a slight bow, his tone calm.
“According to Lord Herman’s situation. Optimistically, he may be able to return to Vist by early next month.”
Adeline nodded and casually asked another question.
“What about the properties here in Vist? Who has been overseeing them while Father is away?”
“The family’s holdings in Vist are widespread.”
Swan’s tone was unhurried.
“West City District has the mansion and a few shops. The Chamber of Commerce headquarters in South City District is managed by dedicated staff. The factories and dock warehouses in North City District are also watched by supervisors. Miss need not worry about any of these.”
Then he paused, seeming to remember something.
“As for the Eastern District, the family had some old properties there in the early years, but they were gradually sold off. That area… now called Ash Lane—it’s not very safe.”
‘Ash Lane?’
Adeline’s spoon stopped midair.
She did not press further, merely lowered her head and brought the spoon to her mouth.
The flavor of the asparagus soup spread across her tongue, warm and rich, but she barely tasted it.
Ash Lane was in Vist.
Lein Kelin was in Ash Lane.
The young man she was controlling was in the same city as she was.
She cut a small piece of beef and brought it to her mouth, her gaze casually sweeping over Swan.
“By the way, Mr. Swan.”
Her tone was as casual as if it had just crossed her mind.
“I’ve been feeling much better lately. I wanted to ask the doctor when I might fully recover.”
That doctor who always knew her condition without ever meeting her—that was also something Adeline had been wanting to clarify.
Swan turned slightly, folding his hands in front of him again.
“Miss wishes to see Ms. Fenier?”
“Yes, if it’s convenient. Just wanted to ask about the recovery progress.”
Swan was silent for a few seconds, as if considering.
“I will arrange it. It should be possible tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll leave it to you, Mr. Swan.”
“It is my duty.”
Swan gave a slight bow.
Adeline lowered her head and continued sipping her soup.
Ms. Fenier? A female doctor?
That was rare.
Adeline wasn’t sure whether this ambiguous era was more tolerant of women working, or if this Ms. Fenier was someone special.
In any case, she might find out at the meeting tomorrow.
As for the rest, she hoped to finish lunch quickly and see what Lein was up to.
By evening, the sky above Ash Lane had grown dark, like a dirty cloth draped overhead.
When Lein pushed open the heavy iron door of the night school, the classroom was already half full.
He glanced at the seat by the window in the third row and thought to himself that Tim was probably skipping again.
Lein sat down in his usual spot at the back of the classroom, mentally planning to go check on Tim’s house tomorrow.
Tim’s father was just a maintenance worker on the railway; paying for a full month’s tuition in advance was no small burden for him.
If Tim was just being lazy, that was one thing, but what if something had happened?
Accidents in Ash Lane never played favorites.
Before long, Mr. Slone ambled out of the small back office, slowly walked to the front of the lectern, and began in a pompous tone.
“Good evening, everyone. Today we continue our tale of the glorious era of the Great Expansion.”
Lein wasn’t listening.
His thoughts lingered on Heber Rost’s diary, and on that description of the ritual hidden between the lines of the text.
After class ended, the students drifted out in twos and threes.
Lein stayed behind to tidy up the classroom.
Mr. Slone sat at the lectern, leisurely filling his pipe with tobacco.
When the last figure disappeared beyond the iron door, Lein finally spoke to Mr. Slone.
“Mr. Slone.”
“What is it?”
“A couple of days ago, I found a book at a secondhand bookstall.”
Lein tried to make his tone sound casual.
“It looked like something quite old. The content was… well, strange? Like some kind of survey notes, recording local customs and legends from various places.”
Mr. Slone’s fingers paused slightly on the stem of his pipe.
“So what? Those bookstalls have all sorts of junk.”
“The book mentioned a place called Moerlaike.”
Lein continued.
“The author visited it several times, just to figure out a belief the locals held. He eventually uncovered a set of… procedures, but it was written very vaguely. I’m not sure what it means.”
He pulled a folded piece of rough paper from the inside pocket of his clothes, unfolded it, and handed it over.
On it was the ritual description he had copied from memory.
Mr. Slone took the paper, glanced down at it.
Then his expression shifted slightly—barely perceptible, but Lein, who had been watching him closely, noticed it.
‘This old man definitely knows something.’
After a few seconds, Mr. Slone tossed the paper onto the table.
“Where did you copy this from?”
His voice was flat, but more taut than before.
“From a book I bought at the secondhand stall. I couldn’t make sense of that part. What is it, some kind of weird cult ritual?”
Mr. Slone tapped his pipe against the table leg and was silent for several seconds.
“This isn’t a ritual.”
He finally spoke, his voice very low.
“This is a path. A path to somewhere. That thing you scraped off a secondhand bookstall—some fragmented passage that drifted from who knows where—what do you take it for? A folk remedy?”
Lein did not answer.
Mr. Slone stood up, walked over to Lein, and jabbed the mouthpiece of his pipe against his chest.
“Kid, some things aren’t for you to touch. You’re smart, I admit it. But the most common mistake smart people make is thinking they can handle everything. There are too many things in this world that can’t be handled with just brains.”
“Go home, get a good night’s sleep, and stop messing around with nonsense.”
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