I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

She chose her words carefully.

"Using the slingshot as a bridge was a clever way to shift his focus from what he's good at to what he's not."

"But I have to ask, how long can this method work?

The slingshot analogy works for the first declension, sure, but what about the third? What about verb conjugations? The subjunctive mood?"

'A good question. Just what I'd expect from a university graduate from the Imperial Capital.'

The slingshot analogy did have its limits.

The deeper one went into Latin grammar, the more abstract it became. It would be impossible to use a slingshot to explain everything.

"You're right. The slingshot is just a hook to get him started," Richard said. He stood at the bottom of the steps, almost at eye level with her.

"But that initial hook is the most important part. A boy his age has absolutely no interest in Latin because no one has ever made him feel like it has anything to do with him."

"The slingshot connects the declension tables to him. Once he starts finding the tables themselves interesting, the slingshot can be thrown away."

Charlotte seemed to understand.

"I hope you're right." She extended her right hand.

Richard shook it.

"We'll be expecting you at ten o'clock next Saturday morning."

"Alright."

It was nearly noon by the time he left the Dawn family's house.

He quickened his pace, passing under the railway bridge, through the factory district, and jogging all the way back to the main street.

The butcher at the north end of the street was pounding something with the back of his cleaver, sending bone fragments flying everywhere.

Richard stopped in front of the butcher shop and stared at the various cuts of meat inside: pork shoulder, beef brisket, leg of lamb, and a few racks of ribs.

The ribs were arranged neatly on the bottom tray, the bones still covered with a thin layer of glistening fat.

"What'll it be, young man?" The butcher looked up, his cleaver still dotted with flecks of meat.

"How much for the ribs?"

"Depends on which kind. The spare ribs are cheaper, the loin back ribs are more expensive."

Richard looked at the ribs, his gaze landing on a rack of spare ribs.

It looked to be a little over two pounds, enough for a family of four for one meal.

"That one. The whole rack."

The butcher picked up the ribs and put them on the scale. "Two pounds, two ounces. Call it eight pence for you."

Richard took a shilling from the envelope and handed it over for change.

The butcher took the coin and bit it—a habit from the older generation, even though shillings hadn't been pure silver for a long time.

The ribs were wrapped in two layers of oil paper, tied with a hemp rope, and handed to him.

Richard's steps were a little faster than usual as he walked home, carrying the ribs.

When he pushed open the door to his home, his Mother was in the kitchen washing dishes.

"You're back? How did it go?"

"I got it."

Richard placed the oil-paper package on the dining table.

Margaret wiped her hands on her apron, walked over, and untied the hemp rope.

The paper was unfolded, revealing the particularly enticing layer of fat on the ribs.

"Ribs?" she asked, a little surprised.

"The Dawn family paid for the trial lesson today. Three shillings."

Richard took the remaining two shillings and the change out of the envelope and laid them out neatly on the table.

"From now on, it's one hour each on Saturday and Sunday, three shillings per session.

That's about two and a half pounds a month, with a bonus if the student's grades improve."

Margaret's fingers paused at the edge of the ribs for a moment before she turned to look at him.

"Three shillings a session... that certainly calls for a celebration."

Meanwhile, the smell of the ribs soon lured Evelyn downstairs.

She had been in her room looking at a fashion magazine when her nose suddenly twitched.

Margaret brushed a mixture of honey and salt over the surface of the ribs, then sprinkled on some crushed thyme.

That jar of honey had been sitting on the highest shelf in the kitchen for a long time.

Usually, Margaret guarded it like a hawk, but today she brushed it onto the ribs twice.

Evelyn came down the stairs two or three steps at a time.

She burst into the kitchen and saw the rack of golden-brown ribs.

"What's all this!"

"Your brother found a part-time job," their Mother said, turning the ribs over with a long-handled iron fork.

"The one he mentioned before, tutoring."

"How much does it pay?"

"Two and a half pounds a month."

"Two and a half pounds?!"

Evelyn turned to look at Richard, her eyes as wide as an owl's.

"Where does the family that hired you live?"

"The Dawn family on Helfier Road. They have a twelve-year-old younger brother who needs to pass the entrance exams for public school."

"Helfier Road..." Evelyn murmured the name. It was a rich neighborhood she and her friends passed through when they went shopping.

"So, you're a gentleman tutor for a rich family now?"

"It's just tutoring. It's not as grand as you make it sound."

"Mhm, mhm," Evelyn hummed, but she was already pressed up against the fireplace, her eyes glued to the ribs.

"Can we eat it now?"

"Not yet." Their Mother poked the coals. "Another quarter of an hour. The outside needs to be crispy for the inside to be tender."

Evelyn's hand had already unconsciously reached out, only to be lightly tapped by their Mother with the iron fork.

"Wait."

"But it's sizzling..."

"Sizzling means it's not ready."

"It smells like it's ready."

"Even if it is, we have to wait. We'll eat when your father gets home."

.........

「On Sunday afternoon, Richard went to the shooting range again.」

This time, he didn't tell his sister where he was going before he left, only that he had to run an errand.

Evelyn casually straightened his cuffs and asked, "More Latin?"

He nodded, and his sister went back inside with a sigh.

When he arrived at the range and pushed the door open, there was a different person behind the duty desk. This man was older than the one from last week, with completely white hair.

Richard showed his letter of appointment, but the old man didn't even bother to read it. He just glanced at the administrative seal and waved him through.

"Someone's using the range," the old man added.

Richard nodded and headed down the concrete stairs to the basement.

He heard gunshots before he even reached the bottom.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The shots were evenly spaced, the rhythm as steady as a metronome.

Entering the shooting range, he saw Old Big standing at the second firing position, shooting.

After the gunshots stopped, he turned from his position and saw Richard.

"Yo, you're here."

His tone was just as casual as when they'd parted last weekend, as if Richard had just stepped out to use the restroom and come back.

"You said last week you'd be back this week. I didn't really take you seriously." Old Big opened the Bullet Nest and ejected the empty casings.

"Young people usually only follow through on less than thirty percent of what they say."

"I'm in that thirty percent."

"I can see that."

Old Big set his gun down on the partition and clapped the gunpowder residue from his hands.

"Want to practice for a bit? I'll take another look for you."

Richard retrieved the practice Webley he had used last week from the iron locker, signed the logbook, and picked up a box of twenty-four rounds from the ammunition counter.

His loading movements were much more practiced than last week.

He didn't have a gun to handle at home, but every night before bed, he would mentally rehearse the entire process in his room: loading, raising the gun, aiming, and pulling the trigger.

The first shot went off.

The impact point was within the torso area of the paper target, off to the left, but the grouping was a good deal better than last week's.

"Not bad," Old Big observed from the side. "Your wrist is steady. You're absorbing the recoil now."

"It's still off-center."

"It's normal to be off. How many rounds have you even fired?

Twenty-four last week plus one today, that's twenty-five total. To get to my level of accuracy, you'll need at least a few hundred, maybe a thousand rounds."

Richard adjusted his Breathing rhythm, his index finger squeezing the trigger back.

BANG!

The second shot. Upper right of the chest.

BANG!

The third shot. It finally landed near the centerline of the chest.

"Good." Old Big nodded.

"You have an advantage. Your Breathing Technique is well-practiced. You fire halfway through an exhale, making you as steady as a post."

After firing all twenty-four rounds, Richard put down the gun and flexed his wrist.

Old Big glanced at the paper target, grunted noncommittally, and turned to pull his copper flask from his tool bag.

The two of them sat down on an ammo box, in the exact same way as last week.

Old Big poured himself a cup of rum-laced black tea and pulled two sandwiches from a paper bag—ham and mustard this time.

Old Big was the type who couldn't stay quiet. After less than ten seconds of silence, he started looking for something to talk about.

"What were you up to yesterday?"

"Tutoring."

"Tutoring? What subject?"

"Latin."

"Who're you teaching?"

"A family on Helfier Road. They have a twelve-year-old kid who needs to pass the public school exams."

"Helfier Road, huh..." Old Big whistled. "That's the most expensive street in the North District."

"Indeed. The pay per session is very good."

"Playing the esteemed tutor for a rich family so young."

He tutted twice, sounding impressed.

Richard thought for a moment, then asked tentatively, "Old Big, how many years have you been in Brighton?"

"Almost fifteen years." The man counted on his fingers.

"I hadn't even gotten fat yet when I was transferred from the Imperial Capital. My waist was only two-thirds of what it is now."

"You were assigned here from the Imperial Capital?"

"Not exactly assigned. I requested it myself."

Old Big took a sip of tea.

"The Imperial Capital is great and all, but the competition is too fierce. A half-baked guy like me couldn't even get a sip of the soup there. The North Branch Office was short-staffed, so I volunteered for a transfer."

He smacked his lips. "Brighton... the air's a bit worse, the winters are a bit colder, but its greatest advantage is that it's quiet.

In the North District, you barely get any cases all year that require getting serious. Most of the time, it's just routine autopsies and writing reports."

"Coming to the range on the weekend to fire a few rounds is my idea of entertainment."

He placed his tin cup on the ammo box and asked, seemingly nonchalantly,

"You go to school at Greenwood?"

"Yes."

"Greenwood Middle School, the one in the North District?"

"That's the one."

Old Big's expression changed subtly.

"Greenwood..." He rolled the word around in his mouth.

"A little while ago, a senior of mine mentioned it."

"Mrs. MacNeil. Have you heard of her?"

Richard's heart skipped half a beat, but his expression remained unchanged.

'Mrs. MacNeil... the Spirit Medium the Warren Family invites to their home every year around the time of the exorcism rite.'

"I haven't had any direct dealings with her," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But I've heard classmates mention the name."

Old Big glanced at him.

The small eyes embedded in the folds of his round face narrowed, making him look like a completely different person from his usual cheerful self.

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