Flower Moon Street

It was a copy of the Imperial Capital Morning Post, folded twice, with a bold, large-lead headline on the front page:

"Third New Continent Expeditionary Force Missing; Colonial Affairs Department Denies Connection to 'Native Anomalies'"

After confirming that the man had indeed gotten off the train, Richard picked up the newspaper and unfolded it.

The article itself was phrased with impeccable restraint:

"After advancing into the central plateau region of the New Continent, the expeditionary force lost contact with the rear more than six weeks ago.

"A spokesperson for the expeditionary force stated that the communication disruption might be related to the region's severe weather and terrain, and that a second relief party was being organized.

"Regarding recent rumors among the public of so-called native anomalies, the spokesperson denied them, stating that no circumstances existed beyond the normal scope."

Richard silently read that passage twice.

"There were no circumstances beyond the normal scope." It echoed the conclusion of that government report from decades ago.

The wording always denied everything without leaving a crack, while explaining nothing just as flawlessly.

He flipped further through the paper.

The third page mixed domestic news and advertisements together, the layout packed tight.

A small advertisement was wedged between the obituaries and medicine ads:

"Medium Lady Mary—the Imperial Capital's most accurate spiritualist"

"Ask anything; even the dead may speak."

"For appointments, visit Flower Moon Street No. 17. Closed Sundays."

Beside the ad was a mimeographed portrait, no larger than an inch square.

The ink had even bled around its edges. Its print quality was no better than the hemorrhoid cream advertisement beside it.

Yet even in such a crude mimeograph, the person in the portrait clearly had exquisite features.

Her jawline was smooth, her nose high and straight, and the artist had deliberately traced the curve of her lips into a faintly lazy yet reserved upward tilt.

For a mimeographed portrait, that face was beautiful to an excessive degree.

Richard stared at the advertisement for a while.

In the seats diagonally opposite, two middle-aged men in gray plaid coats had leaned close together in conversation.

One wore a felt hat and held a hand-rolled cigarette. The ember had nearly burned down to his fingers, yet he had not noticed.

"...That Lady Mary, you know about her, right?"

The man's voice rose and fell amid the noise of the third-class carriage.

Richard's hearing was sharper than most. Even across the aisle, he could catch more than half their words.

"Flower Moon Street puts up a spiritualist sign in the open, but behind the scenes..."

The man in the felt hat tucked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and made a thoroughly lewd gesture with his hand.

His companion chuckled twice, his voice greasy.

"Exactly. Those shops on Flower Moon Street put crystal balls and candlesticks out front, but what goes on in the rooms behind them? Who doesn't know?"

The man in the felt hat shook his head.

"They call that skill. Fortune-telling or secret prostitution, it doesn't matter. If she can keep the big shots of the Imperial Capital completely satisfied and openly place ads in the newspapers without anyone investigating, don't you think someone's protecting her?"

After that, both men lowered their voices further. Richard only caught scattered phrases:

"Some count," "Police Bureau," "that business on Christmas Eve"... They did not form a complete sentence, but the meaning was already clear enough.

Flower Moon Street.

Spiritualists, clandestine prostitutes, a private playground for the powerful, gray-market dealings that never appeared in the books.

Richard committed the name to memory, along with the address and that mimeographed portrait.

Flower Moon Street No. 17, Medium Lady Mary.

A famed beauty of the Imperial Capital, a guest of honor among the powerful, and a spiritualist in public.

Judging from how the Warren family had hired Mrs. McNeil, most mediums preferred to make their fortunes quietly.

This one in the Imperial Capital had gone the opposite way. Not only did she advertise in newspapers, she had even printed her own portrait in the ad.

Either she was a pure fraud using her beauty to attract clients, or she truly had the ability to support such brazen publicity.

"What are you looking at?" His father's eye appeared over the edge of the newspaper.

"News from the Imperial Capital." Richard flipped the paper back to the front page.

His father's gaze swept over the medium's advertisement, and he frowned.

"They're all frauds."

"Mm."

"Flower Moon Street is full of crooked business. Don't wander around there once you get to the Imperial Capital."

"Got it."

Hearing the conversation, his younger sister curiously leaned over.

"Medium Lady Mary... Ask anything; even the dead may speak. This advertisement is ridiculously exaggerated."

She leaned closer to look at the mimeographed portrait.

"Still, the woman in the picture is quite pretty."

"She is."

"Are all the frauds in the Imperial Capital this good-looking? Not one of those old fortune-telling women in Briston is worth looking at."

"Everything costs more in the Imperial Capital. I suppose the standards for frauds are higher too."

Evelyn tilted her head, but quickly lost interest in the newspaper and went back to leaning against the window to watch the scenery.

Outside, the hills grew gentler, while neater hedgerows divided the fields into large farms.

A vague outline of a city began to emerge on the distant horizon.

There were not many chimneys. Instead, the silhouettes of church spires and clock towers formed an undulating skyline.

The Imperial Capital was drawing near.

By the time the train arrived, it was already past noon.

Imperial Central Station was better than Briston's old station by an unimaginable margin.

Its cast-iron dome was absurdly high. Looking up at it made one's neck ache.

There were more than a dozen platforms, with steam locomotives crouched side by side at the ends of the tracks like a herd of black beasts breathing heavily.

Passengers poured from the carriages, merging into dense currents that shoved toward the exits.

Richard's family was carried forward by the crowd.

It was utterly unlike the cramped, dingy feel of Briston Central Station. Everything at the Imperial Capital station was several sizes larger.

The dome was higher, the passageways wider, and even the cast floral patterns on the iron pillars were more elaborate.

The floor was paved with patterned stone slabs, polished bright enough to reflect faces by the hundreds of thousands of shoes that crossed them every day.

Once they passed through the station gates, the streets of the Imperial Capital unfolded before them.

Plane trees lined both sides of the road, their trunks whitewashed and their leaves rustling in the autumn wind.

In the distance, the twin towers of a great cathedral rose above the buildings, the crosses atop them gleaming painfully bright in the afternoon sun.

There were far more carriages than in Briston—four-wheeled, two-wheeled, open-topped, enclosed—flowing through the streets in a constant stream.

Now and then, an automobile would dart out from the carriages, its horn blaring with confidence.

Evelyn stood on the steps outside the station, and her eyes could hardly take it all in.

"It's huge. So much bigger than Briston."

"...Didn't we come here before?"

"We did, but I still can't get enough of it."

As she spoke, her gaze followed a dark-red four-wheeled carriage.

Its lacquered body was polished brightly enough to reflect people's figures, with a family crest traced in gold paint upon the door.

The two black horses pulling it had sleek, glossy coats, and the brass buckles on their harnesses flashed in the sunlight.

The driver sat on the box in uniform, his cap pulled low enough that only his chin showed.

"How much do you think a carriage like that costs?" Evelyn asked a question she knew would have no answer.

"Probably more than our house," Richard replied casually.