“Is this… some kind of horror short story?”
I murmured as I put down the newspaper.
It was an utterly absurd tale. Not the kind of content one would expect to read at the beginning of a new year. If anything, it seemed like a nonsensical, implausible horror story. It was as if someone had mistakenly picked up a tale and decided to write about it.
“You could see it that way. It’s set more than ten years ago, after all.”
Liam Moore, who answered, quietly turned his attention back to his column, his eyes scanning each sentence.
“But in reality, back then, grave-robbing was quite frequent. It continued for years. Even when I was in school, there were gruesome rumours.”
“Corpses rising from their graves?”
“Exactly.”
Liam explained that this led people to bury bodies deeper and place coffins upside down.
Yes, a superstition. Unfortunately, in this 19th century, superstition, magic, and legends are alive and breathing. So, dismissing it entirely as superstition is unwise. You never know when a rumour you thought was baseless might suddenly turn out to be true.
“Even if it’s related to events from back then… why publish such an article now?”
I asked.
Honestly, it didn’t make sense. Digging up corpses and stitching them together to bring someone back to life? Reviving a person with electricity?
Of course, in the 21st century, you can restart a heart that has just stopped with an electric shock. But no matter how advanced medical technology is in the 21st century, it can’t revive a corpse that has been dead for a long time. Dead is dead. Even if it were possible, a brain that has died once doesn’t come back easily. We can revive hearts, but brains…
“…It’s not entirely impossible. We’ve experienced it ourselves.”
A tale of magic. I finally understood what Liam Moore was talking about.
“Could this person have done something similar?”
“It’s hard to say, but the probability is high. Otherwise, they might have used a unique method only they knew.”
I suddenly recalled a time when my brother Jonathan mocked a tabloid (which he rightfully did) for publishing a similar article.
‘Corpses Walking in London!’
“It’s strange,” I murmured.
“You think so too.”
“It doesn’t feel right. Philip Peterson is dead too. There shouldn’t be any stories about dead people walking around London. The timing of this article isn’t a coincidence.”
Liam Moore approached me. His fingers naturally brushed my neck and lingered on the chain of the necklace I always wore.
“Don’t take off the necklace for a moment. Always carry a weapon.”
His lips brushed my cheek and whispered.
“If this is indeed within our realm of work, be cautious, Jane. You are a very easy target. Many in London’s sewers wouldn’t hesitate even if Lucita and Plurititas took an interest in you.”
I reached out and ruffled his hair. Liam Moore, kneeling at my feet, looked up at me. The worry in his gaze made my heart flutter.
“Don’t give me that look.”
I complained.
“What look?”
He asked mischievously.
The look that says he wants to kiss me right now. But I kept that answer to myself and tapped his mischievous lips. He wrinkled his nose and laughed.
＊ ＊ ＊
In London, there was only one place where people could gather regardless of status, gender, or age. Although clubs were typically the domain of gentlemen, this place was different. I had been active as a member for a long time, and the connections I made here often helped me navigate life in this foreign city (London).
The Leximion Association.
Commonly shortened to Leximion or AL, this was our gathering. To be honest, the names varied. Just as Liam calls Greenwich a club, some people call it an association, while others call it a union.
While our essence was a reading group, there was one thing all participants had in common: they were single. There were people who were single, divorced, or widowed. But they were all ‘currently single’ individuals who gathered to read and discuss books.
Books were purchased with voluntary membership fees. A few wealthy members often contributed money to buy books for those who couldn’t afford them. I remember occasionally pitching in with my extra money.
At Leximion Association, we read classics that stood still in the rapidly changing tides of the times.
Classics are the preserved language and proof of a bygone era. Sentences written by someone in the past remain for future generations, becoming eternal with the moment. That’s the power of words—to lead to eternity.
People sometimes want to live forever, but the characters in books can achieve that. Whether they live forever or meet an eternal end. The phrase ‘lived happily ever after’ in stories actually represents human desire. The impossible desire to ‘live happily forever’ is immortalised in writing, lasting through centuries.
So, past writings are outside the flow of time. We, book lovers, or in other words, lovers of the preserved past and the embalmed eternity, cherished them.
For some time, I had been very busy and had become a ghost member.
Honestly, how many times have I truly rested in the past few months? From the cult uproar at Old Paradise to the tragedy at Stranden Manor, the auction train with its mysterious host, Dahlia and Greenwich, and the kidnapping by an escaped convict… I had barely any time to rest.
It felt like someone was deliberately working me to the bone.
In any case, I hadn’t attended a Leximion Association meeting for nearly half a year. I hadn’t been active enough for the group to assume I would rarely show up anymore.
So when I showed up in my outing clothes, hat in hand, it caused quite a stir among the members.
“Who is this! Jane!”
“Jane? Jane Osmond?”
“Miss Osmond is here?”
I smiled brightly. It was a grand reception. They surrounded me, delighted to see me in good health.
At that moment, my friend, having heard the news, came running from inside. My memory provided his name and detailed memories.
Clara Barnum.
“Jane!”
“Clara, my goodness! You cut your hair!”
Clara, with a bob cut just below her ears, burst into laughter. She was wearing very wide trousers that swayed like a skirt when she moved.
Clara was a rare visionary in this 19th century. I recalled a passionate voice from a past memory discussing ‘maritime trade.’ She always had suitors, but Clara gave up on the marriage market and declared herself single. She soon established a significant shipping company in London.
Clara, her hair bouncing, smiled at me.
“Isn’t it cool? I decided to change my style.”
“Wow, I thought a princess was walking out.”
“Oh, you!”
Clara laughed and pulled me along. After a brief commotion, we all sat down for a reading session.
We began lightly with Hamlet.
“To be or not to be, that is the question…”
The famous lines of Shakespeare were softly spoken, accompanied by the quiet rustling of pages. At this moment, everyone focused on the book. Conversations outside the book were allowed only through written notes.
Just then, Clara handed me a small note. I unfolded the neatly folded paper to see her tidy handwriting.
[I have a boyfriend.]
I quickly took out my fountain pen and scribbled a reply.
[What’s he like? Does he treat you well?]
[He’s really kind. His slightly tanned skin is also very sexy.]
‘Goodness.’
What should I do with this bold girl? I never imagined a 19th-century lady would use the word ‘sexy.’ I struggled to contain my laughter, my ears burning.
[Can you introduce him to me next time?]
[Of course. It would be a betrayal not to show my best friend my boyfriend.]
I felt a bit emotional. Normally, friends who don’t see each other often grow distant, but Clara still considered me her closest friend. I should have made time to visit earlier.
[Jane, would you like to have lunch together on Thursday? He’s coming.]
[Can I come too?]
[Of course!]
I drew a small heart and a hand-blown kiss in the corner. Clara then dramatically stamped the note with her lips, leaving a red lipstick mark on the paper.