I Loaded the Mysticism Panel

The week’s schedule was completely packed.

On Friday, as Mr. Holland saw him out of the classroom, he mentioned in passing:

"The holiday break is starting soon. Next week will be our last private tutoring session of the semester, so you should prepare any questions you have beforehand."

Richard nodded.

His Latin tutoring for the semester had continued uninterrupted since before the Cicero Cup, transitioning from competition prep to a broader study of rhetoric.

Mr. Holland’s recent lessons no longer focused on classic orations like *Defense of Murena* or *Against Catiline*.

The material had gradually advanced to Tacitus’s *Chronicles* and Suetonius’s *Lives of the Twelve Caesars*.

The focus shifted from rhetoric to historiography, and the difficulty increased in turn.

This weekend also marked his last tutoring session. After classes ended next week, the Christmas holiday would begin.

Tom recited the eight case endings of the second declension three times in a row without a single hesitation.

As Richard closed the textbook, the boy couldn’t hide a smile, his eyes darting to the honeycomb-shaped cookie on the desk.

"Correct." Richard pushed the cookie toward the boy.

Tom snatched it, stuffed it into his mouth, and after a couple of chews, mumbled with his mouth full, "Thank you, Mr. Williams."

Charlotte was standing by the doorframe with her arms crossed, her gaze shifting from her brother’s stuffed cheeks to Richard’s face.

She stepped aside. "Mr. Williams, may I have a word with you?"

Richard followed her to a small study at the end of the hallway.

The study was small, with three walls lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, every shelf packed tight with books.

Charlotte took an envelope from a drawer, closed with a wax seal.

"This is the final payment for this semester’s tutoring."

She handed him the envelope.

"After today’s lesson, Mother insisted on packing you an extra Christmas pudding. It’s in the basket by the door."

"It was Mother’s idea. She made three large ones—two for the family and one for you."

"Please thank Lady Dawn for me."

Richard tucked the envelope into the inner pocket of his coat.

Charlotte then pulled a business card from underneath a stack of galley proofs.

The card was made of matte cardstock, with a single line printed in a serif font right in the center:

Charlotte Dawn, Assistant Editor, *Northern Literature Review*.

Below it were the review’s address and a phone number.

Richard held the card. "You work for a literary review?"

"My mentor recommended me for the position after graduation. I’ve been there for a year and a half."

There was a cheerful lightness in Charlotte’s voice.

"Our review isn’t large. Our circulation is mainly in a few industrial cities in the North, plus some lecturers and veteran professors in the Imperial Capital’s classics circles who are long-time subscribers."

"We don’t sell a huge number of copies, but every issue gets read from cover to cover."

She placed her hand on the topmost stack of proofs.

"We have a section called ’Young Pens,’ dedicated to giving writers between the ages of fourteen and twenty-two a chance to be published."

Richard raised an eyebrow slightly. "For students to get published?"

"For anyone in that age group."

Charlotte corrected.

"Factory apprentices, first-year preparatory students, children from farming families... as long as the writing is good enough, we’ll print it."

"The pay isn’t high. For a prose piece, it’s about eight shillings to two pounds. Poetry is paid by the line."

She gave the proofs a light tap.

"But if you publish with us, your name will be noticed by the admissions offices of several High-level Academies in the Imperial Capital."

Her gaze shifted from the business card to Richard’s face.

"During the selection process for preparatory programs, the head examiner’s desk is often piled with dozens, even hundreds, of candidate files."

"They have to select a dozen or so for interviews, and besides transcripts, their criteria often include a ’list of published works.’"

"A short essay in a literary review makes your name more memorable than a letter of recommendation."

Richard tucked the business card into the last page of his notebook.

"To be honest, I’m not sure what I’d even be able to write."

Charlotte turned and pulled a thin, bound booklet from a desk drawer.

The booklet’s cover was light gray, stamped with silver foil lettering: *Northern Literature Review · Annual Anthology*.

"Look through it when you get home."

She handed him the booklet.

"The articles in the anthology vary in style, but they all have one thing in common: they’re written with authenticity."

"Authenticity?"

"Writing about what one has truly experienced and truly thought about."

"Our editor-in-chief has a saying: ’The youth of the North have no shortage of authenticity. They’re born beneath the smokestacks of mines and factories; they breathe authenticity in through their very nostrils every day.’"

Richard took the booklet, weighing it in his hand.

The booklet wasn’t very thick, and its cover carried the distinct smell of ink from a proofing room.

"I mentioned your speech from the Cicero Cup to our editor-in-chief."

Charlotte added.

"After reading it, he agreed. If you’re willing to write something, he’s willing to give you the chance to be published. Around one to two thousand words. An essay or a short review would be fine."

Richard stood there, thinking for a moment.

"How much time would I have?"

"The deadline for the first spring issue is March fifteenth."

Charlotte took a pencil and wrote a date on the booklet’s cover.

"If you feel confident, send the manuscript to me by the end of February."

"I’ll take a look at it for you first. If it needs any revisions, I’ll let you know ahead of time."

Richard nodded.

"Thank you, Miss Dawn."

"Please, call me Charlotte."

She placed the pencil back on the proofs.

"You’ve been tutoring for long enough; I think we can be less formal."

.........

By the time Richard left the Dawn residence with the basket in hand, the afternoon light was already beginning to wash over the brick walls.

After dropping his things off at home, he took a twenty-minute bus ride and got off at the freight yard.

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