Chapter 26: Seize and Plunder

Chapter 26: Forcible Seizure

Reading sensational fiction from this era for the first time, Elena felt a slight sense of shame. She made sure the door was locked and no one would suddenly disturb her before unwrapping the paper covering the books. Her heart raced and hands trembled with anticipation as she first reached for *The Index of Banned Books*.

Unfortunately, her bedroom lacked a proper desk for reading. The only surface available was a small dressing table already cluttered with an array of cosmetics and potions. Having already washed up and changed into her nightgown, Elena half-reclined on the soft bed, wrapped herself in a down comforter, and turned to the first page by the light of the bedside lamp.

The preface stated that the book was written by an enthusiast of risqué literature, filled with lengthy analyses, summaries, and critiques, attempting to mask its scandalous content under an academic tone. It boldly criticized works with wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing titles, such as *Lady Bountiful’s Revelry* and *Confessions of a Ballet Girl*, claiming they were entirely respectable novels and warning readers not to be fooled by their suggestive names.

As she read on, Elena noticed certain coded terms. Perhaps due to the writers' excessive restraint, direct words were replaced with obscure euphemisms. When she encountered phrases like *"his John Thomas kissed her glory"* or *"his middle leg rested upon her thigh,"* she was utterly baffled. Only later did it dawn on her that *"John Thomas"* and *"middle leg"* were euphemisms for male anatomy, while *"glory"* referred to its female counterpart.

*How unfortunate for anyone actually named John Thomas.*

Once she uncovered this secret, she noticed more such terms—*"Johnson,"* *"Peter,"* *"Mickey"*—leaving Elena scratching her head like the 'Confused Nick Young' meme. Why use such common names as substitutes? Was it to enhance relatability? Even more absurd was the inclusion of *"rooster"* and *"needle,"* which, by modern standards, were hardly flattering terms.

Once these bizarre euphemisms caught her attention, the atmosphere was completely ruined, leaving only amusement in its wake.

Elena quickly grew bored. Far from stirring excitement, these novels bored rather than aroused her. Compared to modern works, they paled in comparison and held no appeal.

She decided to switch gears and pulled out the shopkeeper’s prized possession—*Landiana: A Tale of Passion*.

This rare manuscript, limited to 150 copies and hand-copied and circulated, lived up to its reputation. Beyond the text, it contained explicit illustrations and descriptions that would shock and enlighten modern readers, offering a whole new perspective. In comparison, the novels listed in *The Index of Banned Books* seemed laughable. Its prose was well-proportioned, though still far from the specialized literature found on certain modern websites.

As for the accompanying illustrated books, lacking context and merely depicting indescribable scenes, they failed to arouse anything but amusement. In this regard, they paled in comparison to certain manhwa.

After flipping through these books, Elena gained a clearer understanding of the era’s sensational fiction, which bolstered her confidence.

The next day, she secretly brought her writing desk to the writing parlor. To avoid suspicion, she also carried a decoy manuscript—should Vera or Grace suddenly appear, she’d have an excuse. After all, the dressing table in her bedroom was far too cramped, and writing in bed strained her back.

However, when it came to choosing a theme, she found herself paralyzed by indecision. Modern sensational fiction offered such a wealth of genres that she hardly knew where to begin.

Currently, protagonists in this genre were almost exclusively dashing noblemen and fallen courtesans, narrated in a quasi-autobiographical tone. This made sense, given society’s general disdain for such behavior.

Even 21st-century internet restrictions paled in comparison to the moral constraints of present-day Lunden. Here, people upheld ascetic purity, viewing intimacy solely as a means of procreation—indulgence in pleasure was a path to damnation.

Of course, not everyone adhered to such beliefs—otherwise, the bookshops of Holywell Street wouldn’t be so crowded.

Thus, Elena decided to take a bold step: her protagonist would be an ordinary middle-class woman. She also considered writing from a male perspective, given that men were the primary consumers of such literature. But since she wasn’t a man herself, she found it difficult to authentically capture that voice, especially for a genre so deeply tied to gendered experiences.

To justify her protagonist’s transgressive desires, she borrowed a trendy convention from a certain website: the woman’s encounters existed solely within her nocturnal fantasies. Unbeknownst to her, the man in her dreams was also experiencing the same visions.

With this setup, Elena could write freely—after all, it was just a dream, offending no moral sensibilities.

The story began with the married protagonist encountering a nobleman during his public procession. That night, she dreamed of him accidentally dosed with a forbidden lust potion, forced to seek a woman’s aid. By chance, she was press-ganged by his servants and presented to him.

Despite her protests—*"I’m a married woman, my lord, please find someone else!"*—she fled, he gave chase, leaving her no escape, and ultimately, she was ravished. The bed, the table, the windowsill—all bore witness to their *"battle."* The nobleman even delivered the classic line: *"Madam, surely you wouldn’t want your husband to lose his position?"*

Elena hesitated over whether to adopt local euphemisms like *"he licked her glory,"* but no matter how she phrased it, it always sounded ridiculous. In the end, she opted for more direct terminology, hoping readers wouldn’t find it too explicit. Then again, sensational fiction thrived on explicitness!

She deliberately withheld the dream reveal until the very end to maximize immersion. To build atmosphere, she wrote two full chapters of setup—by lunchtime, the climactic scene still hadn’t arrived.

Running short on time, she quickly stashed the manuscript and returned the writing desk to her room. As for the shopkeeper’s treasures, having served their purpose, they were now useless. Leaving them in her room risked discovery by the cleaning staff—a social media-worthy humiliation waiting to happen. She needed to dispose of them.

Burning them crossed her mind, but with only 150 copies in existence, it seemed a shame. Instead, she found a box and, under the cloak of a moonless night, buried them in a shallow hole.

Elena didn’t always have time to write. After joining the Mystical Society, she had much to learn—chief among them, the divine attunement ritual of Goddess Deidre and the visage-restoration ritual magic.

As Charles had explained, these rituals rarely succeeded on the first try. She needed to master them quickly. After all, even phone calls go unanswered sometimes—contacting the divine was like calling a spot with poor reception. Persistence was key.

The divine blessing test ritual of Goddess Deidre is quite simple. The Mystical Society has prepared ritual items: a full-length silver mirror (which isn’t cheap), a pink crystal, a white feather, and a bottle of scented oil with olive oil as the base, infused with fresh rose petals. Lastly, seven pink candles are needed.

The ritual must be performed in a quiet, private space. The mirror is set up, soft fabric is laid out, and the candles are lit. The pink crystal is waved in the air and placed before the mirror. The feather is dipped into the scented oil, lightly brushed across the space, then swept over the mirror, immersing oneself in inspiration and beauty—this is the hardest step. Staring at her reflection, she could hardly sense any beauty while chanting the incantation.

If a clear, bright image appears in the mirror, it means the Goddess of Beauty favors her. A blurred silhouette indicates that she is barely acknowledged by the goddess, while nothing appearing at all means dissatisfaction from the goddess. The clearer the image, the greater the favor. It’s said that when His Grace the Duke performed this ritual, his reflection even glittered.

If the mirror shatters or the candles go out, the ritual has failed and must be repeated after a few days. Such minor failures don’t bring severe consequences, so the Mystical Society is happy to share this knowledge.

Elena also tried this ritual. Perhaps due to the widespread paper dolls, her reflection in the mirror appeared as a vague shadow, like a heavily pixelated image. Still, this delighted the Mystical Society members, as they had never before seen any image appear in previous attempts.

The appearance-restoration ritual magic is more complex, requiring specific timing and location—a moonless night on a seaside beach, as Goddess Deidre was born from the sea, symbolizing Venus. The other props are similar to the divine blessing test: a golden mirror, a white candle, a perfume made of jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle, a quill dipped in gold dust, a parchment scroll, a pearl, and a golden ribbon.

The items aren’t expensive, but the variety is extensive. Fortunately, the club has them in stock, so Elena only needs to memorize the incantation and procedure. If it fails, she must wait a full month for the next attempt. This ritual magic cannot be recorded on ordinary paper—only specially treated paper can bear it, so she can’t rely on cheat sheets and must memorize it.

Mornings spent discreetly writing steamy stories, afternoons studying ritual magic over tea—Elena’s life is perfectly balanced. Yet she hesitates—she’s good at drawing. Should she add illustrations to her writing?