Beneath the Truth/Chapter 2

Japanese: https://ncode.syosetu.com/n6185ha/3/

Chinese: https://wangyidiwurenge.lofter.com/post/1fce5dfa\_1cc495195

The novelist gave the door a push, however it stayed closed, supposedly locked, or perhaps the he was too jittery during the fire and accidentally closed it too hard.

The novelist gave it no further thought, and turned to ask the butler to open the door for him. The butler, who was replacing the carpet in the cloakroom, informed the novelist that as long as the door was not locked, it should be able to turn easily, however he should use some force as the door is thick and heavy.

Sure enough, it worked. The novelist finds his place next to the potted plant and finds the manuscripts. Picking them up and satisfied, he returned to the sofa. He thought about the interaction with him and the young playwright.

Jonathan, the playwright. The novelist actually knew this name.

The door couldn't be pushed, and the novelist thought that maybe Rogers had locked it, or he accidentally took it with him when he went out. He asked Rogers to help him open the door, and was told that if it was not locked, he only had to turn the handle and push it hard to open it.

After he opened the door, he found the place where he was just now and sat down. The metal buckle of the suitcase was a little black on the fireplace just now-he should have wiped himself with a special cloth just now. The manuscript inside had been checked intact before, and there were no scattered pages, which made him feel relieved and leaned on the window to admire the garden scenery. A few servants were looking after the tulips he saw just now. Someone was pruning the flowers at the gate. Before, he glanced at the place where the carriage was stored. Only then did he have time to see the same gold inlaid on it. The carriage has He is as long as one person, enough for two people inside.

The life of a nobleman--he thought that such a carriage, their top figures would have to consider whether they would buy it enough to pay a dinner tip to the waiter-he could straighten his legs if he sat in it for a long time and rested. When he got out of the car just now, he felt that his kneecap had been sharpened by a gardener or chef.

He didn't see Jonathan, but he thought of what had just happened. He had heard of this name many years ago. The Jonathan family baptized their souls with words and put them out in the name of genius. In the past, he sometimes thought that this family was like a sophisticated machine—whatever it was for, it was like a machine that specialized in producing the kind of assembly line for playwrights.

But now this machine is scrapped. The gambling proprietor brought the money and reputation accumulated within the factory to the gambling table and threw them into the garbage dump. Master Jonathan, who used to be a delicacy as his side business, is now wearing Washing the faded suit, using the last piece of decency to hide the shabbiness behind him, and he thought of the mirror again. When they stood together, they were mirror images of each other. When he raised his head, his gaze hit the "Muse *. The woman still looked at him with a pair of calm eyes, which reminded him of a rumor that the fall of the Jonathan family came from disrespect to the goddess of art, when the goddess opened her up. The inspiration that lingered in their family disappeared from her eyes, and no one could catch a firefly again.*

He had never had time to think about this question before, but now, facing the eyes of the Muse, he looked at the eyes of the goddess of art with a pair of siren eyes, and asked her: "If there is a goddess of art, then, the inspiration of the god's shelter Will it lead to success in the end, or is it easier to corrupt people's hearts?"

He just thought of this scene. He stared at those eyes for a while, then looked back out of the window.

Rogers knocked on the door and entered. The endgame had been cleaned up. He asked the novelist if he had any losses.

"Everything is fine. Is Daisy doing anything? Her uniform was burned out when the fire was put out just now."

"It's fine if you are okay. The new kid doesn't think about the details very much when doing things, which shocks you."

He once again told Rogers that he was fine. During the period, he saw that Rogers didn't look at him, but walked around him and scanned the exhibition hall before exiting. It is understandable that the consequences of losing one of these collections are so serious that all of them will be swept out.

He didn't plan to go out anymore, just using the table and chairs for refreshment, the novelist took out his manuscript again, adding, deleting and revising the previously dissatisfied parts. The few plots that he had been distressed about before had new inspirations, and he carefully opened that page, flattened it, and added it. This exhibition hall is like a huge inspiration box that constantly instills aura into his brain, like holding his brain with hands made of clear water, whispering in his ear what he doesn't understand, but he does not reject this Voice, under the influence of it, his hand flipped on the manuscript, and when he finished writing the last point, there were just two blank pages left-a wise move, which he originally thought was unnecessary.

He glanced at the painting again. Muse, he said the name silently several times. Was it really the goddess who played him just now? Now he was thankful that he hadn't directly confronted him before.

He wrote until dark. At night, the light of the Baccarat crystal lamp robbed him of his attention. The whole room was bathed in a daytime atmosphere. When he saw the light refracted from the crystal, he seemed to have entered a crystal mine—a thing that children only believe in. , But he is also fascinated by such things now. This is a classic dance party space at night. Except for the showcase wall, ladies in cake skirts chat on the side, the pianist plays silently, and there are men and women dancing in the middle of the dance floor. The sound of music continued for two hours or more, and when the movement was over, everyone got on the carriage and went home to bed.

Mr. Rogers arrived on time at seven forty, and the novelist saw him holding a bunch of keys and decided to put the suitcase here. He closed one half of the window easily and watched Rogers close the other half tightly. The viewing place is south of the building. The novelist goes first, and Rogers goes to other rooms to inform other guests. Along the way, he noticed that lily of the valley was planted on the fence next to the flowerbed. Thinking of someone saying that the water used to store the cut lily of the valley cannot be touched by hand, he just stopped and looked at it for a while, and then walked forward. Daisy was in her new uniform and was busy putting up the dinner plate and refreshments. He didn't know the other person. Just as he was about to speak, the other person rushed to meet him and patted him on the shoulder.

"You are the novelist mentioned by the earl. Fortunately, I am Richard. I work in auctions. I arrived at the manor a few days before you."

It's too heavy, isn't the auction hammer he used is as heavy as half a house? The novelist's right shoulder, which was originally painful when he lifted a heavy object, could not withstand this toss. He tried to break away, and the other party simply stuck it directly to hook his neck.

"I heard that the earl allows you to visit the exhibition hall? You are really good! I have such a deep friendship with the earl, and I haven't been in a few times-if you didn't touch anything, there is anything there, just one, just sold You can't afford it either."

He laughed dryly. The auctioneer's reminder was correct, but he couldn't flatter him for such a way of speaking. Is this person really a friend of the earl? Of course he dare not say it directly. He can only let the other party pull himself to talk about the gossip of the upper class, and give him a few more backs by the way-God, when can this person be quiet, if this continues, his waist will not support the moment the fireworks begin.

Richard stopped photographing him. When the other two people arrived—Jonathan and Ruth—he felt a hidden fire spread between the two men. Only Ruth's eyes were red, and she held her hands tightly. Arm restrained himself from choking. Richard moved his hand from the novelist's back and hugged him in front of him. He tilted his head and looked at the two for a few seconds, then squeezed a smile from the corner of his mouth, as if the audience was performing a clown burlesque.

The playwright is young and writes everything on his face. The novelist almost wanted to put his hand on his fist to keep him from getting excited, he didn't have to think about knowing that if there was no him here, the next second would become a fight. Ruth didn't look up, but stood stiff, bypassing the auctioneer and standing beside them. The novelist made a note of a noble love story in his heart. This kind of thinking is not ethical, but he does want to take a step back and enjoy the ready-made novels that are performed before his eyes.

Jonathan didn't do anything. He raised his neck and stared at Richard, then walked directly to the novelist and said, "I remind you, stay away from this kind of person."

The novelist was still in a daze, and the auctioneer’s mockery followed: "Speaking of bad things to your face, the people of the Jonathan family are nurtured by this?" He bent down a little to look directly at Jonathan’s eyes, his face still admiring the clown. The smile of the show. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot, you turned out that that famous family has been in decline for a long time."

Jonathan's eyes widened, and the novelist took a step back. When the opponent was about to punch, his fist was blocked by a hand.

"Joe, Mr. Jonathan," Daisy stared at him with her eyes wide open. She pursed her mouth and was silent for a few seconds and then said, "Please calm down, Lord Earl is coming soon."

Jonathan snorted, Daisy sighed hard behind him, and then poured tea into the empty teacup, but stopped looking up, and even Rogers came over to ask what happened, she just lowered her head and told him softly that she was here. Busy, let him go to his own business.

Don't interrupt, the novelist sees the whole process in his eyes. These materials are better used in places where other people quarrel, love novels, he swallowed and swallowed the words back. Jonathan is not wrong, Richard is the kind of person who should stand away from him. The novelist even doubted the authenticity that he and the earl were close friends. If so, he only felt that Richard was putting the earl’s reputation in shame. He hoped that Richard would not do anything that would damage the earl's reputation.

"Master, all the guests are here."

"Everyone has been waiting for a long time."

The crowd with a small voice just now calmed down. The novelist glanced around and pulled off his tie to make sure that he didn't have any outstanding ugliness. Most people just stood up slightly, the servants put on a welcoming posture, and he stared in the direction of the voice from behind. He had always heard that the earl was in his early thirties, and the voice just now proved it. Then he saw the man's slender figure, walking lightly, without any trace of manual labor. The skin on the earl’s face was also white under the garden lights, his nose was high, and his hair was a bit messy—but it wasn’t untidy and messy, it was a special look. The light haunts his face like a sculptural curve. From his forehead to the lower jaw, the light outlines a halo similar to a god’s envoy. The spectacles cover his eyes and his lips are pursed because of the light. The family couldn't tell if the earl was smiling, but he thought so.

The servants stepped back, the earl walked into the crowd, and the novelist saw Daisy leaning her head to look at the earl more. He laughed in his heart, the earl did show a very charming masculine beauty. From the moment he walked over, he would stretch out his wings, step by step, blowing his wings at the person next to him, exuding his own peace. With a sense of warmth, his whole body and clothes are exuding this kind of temperament.

"Although they are all old acquaintances, I still want to thank everyone for coming to the appointment." The earl walked to the novelist, and the others consciously stepped away. The novelist did not blink until the auctioneer twisted his arm. Looking at the earl with pain, and then at everyone staring at him, he stiffened his neck and nodded. "Your Excellency, I, I am very honored to be invited by you. I am very happy to stand here with you all like this."

There was sparse applause, the novelist rubbed the back of his hand in sweat, and then stretched out his hand. There was a bitter chill from the earl's hand in the summer, as if he was immersing his hand in completely melted ice water. When their eyes were facing each other, the novelist felt an icy cold spreading from the back of his neck. He subconsciously thought of the eyes of a nocturnal carnivore. At this moment, it was staring at him through the lens, waiting for his next move. He held his breath, but then the man withdrew his hand and hid his eyes under the light again.

"Don't be nervous, no one here will eat you."

Everyone burst into laughter, and Richard made another hard hit on his arm, this time he didn't mean to dodge. Jonathan talked with Richard after he left the novelist. The earl talked to Richard and then joined them. Jonathan put down the script he was talking to and talked to the earl. During this period, the earl squinted his eyes and kept smiling, only the occasional tapping of the cane made a slight tapping sound.

A sharp scream represented the beginning of the performance. Everyone looked up and watched one light ball after another ascending into the sky, exploding, and tiny stardust falling quickly along an arc. For the first time, a novelist truly felt his desire for light-a full, visual, illusory light. He longed for these lights and sounds that symbolized short-term honor, even if it was just a moment, he needed it.

"Aren't people supposed to live for certain moments, otherwise they are worthless?"

At first, the novelist thought he had failed and coughed slightly. The earl stood by and watched the fireworks. The novelist saw him pursing his mouth and not speaking, but only raised a shallower smile, and his eyes turned into a cloud of forest lake. The color that is slightly deeper than the sea seems to have been purified by the wind. He looked up, and a ray of smoke floated above his eyelids on the horizon where fireworks occasionally ignited.

The perception just now is an illusion, the novelist no longer thinks about whether he talked a while ago and concentrates on admiring the fireworks.

Someone patted him on the shoulder, and Richard motioned for him to follow Rogers behind him.

"Your urgent."

The novelist opened the envelope, which read "Misfire quickly returns".

He took a few deep breaths and said, "Mr. Rogers, I'm sorry for the loss. My family has something urgent and I have to take a step first. I would also like to ask you to lend me the key and make amends with the Lord Earl." He ran toward him quickly. Exhibition hall. His leather shoes grind his big toe every step of the way, and the coat on his body can't accommodate his swinging arms. Damn it, hurry up. Now, right away, he will get his suitcase in the next second and take the fastest carriage home. It doesn't matter if he stretches his legs enough, as long as he can get to the door as soon as possible. The suitcase was lying at the window, and when he ran to the gate, Rogers' carriage was already waiting there. When he sat down, his uncontrollable bitterness surged up-am I destined to not be appreciated; how was the fire going; whether the landlord’s wife was burned; would the people over there have discovered that I was missing? He didn't want to think about these issues at all. His knock on the car door was silenced by the sound of horseshoes. He just wanted to get home quickly.

Later, he thought, if he was in Mélodis Manor, maybe even on his way home, he could take the time to think about why this happened-obviously there is no logical design for crime, as long as he can sit down. Thinking about what happened, he won't become the protagonist of a crime story.

*(Previous: Chapter 1.) | (Next: Chapter 3.)*