Chapter 36

“Since we are hosting a tea party anyway, let us make it a charity tea party for those in need. The date shall be next weekend. The location, the gardens of Buckingham Palace.”

“Understood. I shall instruct the chef immediately to prepare…”

“No.”

At the resolute refusal, Baroness Lehzen’s eyes grew round.

“Tell the chef to prepare only black tea and hot water. The pastries, milk, and other foodstuffs for the tea party will be brought from outside the palace.”

“Outside the palace, you mean… the merchants?”

“Similarly, but rather than the existing royal suppliers, we shall grant an opportunity to market merchants scattered across various parts of London.”

With that, I walked over to the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, dipped my pen generously into the ink, and dashed off the sentences without hesitation.

“Issue a public notice so that all may see. State that this charity tea party is an occasion to understand the lives of the common folk and honor their toil. Therefore, we shall procure the most popular foods actually sold in the markets and streets of London.”

Confusion flashed across Baroness Lehzen’s face.

“Your Majesty, but for Your August Persons to partake of common market foods…”

“That is the nature of a charity event.”

I laid down the pen and stared straight into Baroness Lehzen’s eyes.

“Must not Your August Persons taste with your own mouths what the common folk consume daily to know how the world turns?”

As I spoke, I wore a cool, ambiguous smile.

Two days later, in the morning, royal public notices were posted on the bulletin boards of The Times and major government offices.

[Announcement of Her Majesty the Queen’s Charity Tea Party. Granting an Opportunity to the Merchants of London.]

The moment the word royal and the word opportunity were placed side by side within a single sentence, the notice permeated every single alley, market, and pub corner of London in less than half a day since its publication.

A shabby pub in the East End.

The reddish light of coal burning in the fireplace settled upon a navigational map and an old stuffed stag head hanging on the wall, while the smell of beer and cigarette smoke drifted sluggishly near the ceiling. The heavyweight merchants controlling London’s food distribution gathered one by one into this gloomy space, much like a river’s water collecting in a downstream pool.

“What manner of fortune is this?”

The man laughing to reveal yellowed teeth was Tomkins the baker.

His laughter held the characteristic, impatient joy of a greedy person upon hearing good news. Madison sat opposite him, stroking his chin whiskers with a feigned air of composure.

Composure, to a merchant, was the technique of revealing one’s excitement a beat later than one’s counterpart, and that one-beat difference determined the upper hand in negotiations.

“An opportunity. A grand opportunity.”

Madison tapped the newspaper resting upon the table with his finger.

“Haven’t merchants’ grievances been ceaseless lately owing to the opium trade prohibition measures? Her Majesty the Queen must have been mindful of that as well. Does it not mean she intends to soothe merchants like ourselves?”

“Naturally so, wouldn’t it be? A royal supplier—this shall become the glory of our house. With luck, we might even ascend to the gentry!”

Will the candy manufacturer raised his voice, overflowing with excitement. The luster of greed, as though gold coins were sparkling within his pupils, gleamed brightly.

“Moreover, look at the conditions. The most popular products on the market—meaning we merely need to supply what we usually sell, is it not so?”

“Nay, simply as-is will not suffice.”

Madison shook his head.

“It is a royal event. Food to be consumed by noble lords. It must look more vibrant and appetizing than usual. Understand?”

“Ah, of course!”

Every single person present accurately comprehended the meaning of that instruction.
Vibrant meant adding more alum, appetizing meant increasing viscosity, which was practically synonymous with raising the quantity of poison. Yet no one called that poison by the name of poison.

They termed their respective labors craftsmanship, referred to them as secret techniques, and called them competitiveness.

Were not human beings creatures possessing genius talent when it came to affixing beautiful names to whatever deeds they performed?

“The bread shall be baked white enough to dazzle the eyes. With plenty of top-grade alum mixed in, naturally. The rising will be astonishingly magnificent as well.”

“Is not color the lifeline of candies and jellies?”

Will stepped forward, refusing to be outdone.

“The green shall be brought out vividly by utilizing a trifle more copper powder, and the red shall look exceedingly appetizing if we employ different chemicals. Noble ladies will lose their minds the moment they lay eyes on them.”

Madison nodded with a look of satisfaction.

“Splendid. I shall take charge of milk and dairy products. I will scour every ranch near London to meet the volume. Naturally, we must adjust the consistency somewhat. It would be troublesome should it prove overly watery.”

Adjust the consistency.

Not a soul at this table failed to understand the meaning of those words (that he intended to grind up calf brains).

Yet not a single person uttered that term aloud. Everyone knew without being told; tacit agreement—knowing yet choosing silence—encircled the table.

“Since the pie is too vast to reserve solely among ourselves, let us form a guild under the banner of the London Merchants’ Association. The supply unit price shall be whatever we deign to name.”

“Most wise words!”

In the eyes of the merchants raising their cups high, only greed glistened.

What ingredients went into the food, or what effects those inflicted upon human bodies, mattered not at all.

What mattered was solely the opportunity to receive a Royal Warrant and the immense wealth that would accrue therefrom.

The day of the tea party.

The gardens of Buckingham Palace shone brilliantly, harmonizing with the sunny weather.

Round tables spread with white tablecloths were arranged across the gardens, and upon them, the foods prepared by the merchants piled high like mountains.

“Oh, my word. Just look at this bread.”

A noble lady clad in an extravagant gown uttered a cry of admiration.

“How on earth can it be as white as snow? The color is far more delicate than anything crafted by a court chef.”

She marveled as she picked up bread thoroughly bleached with copious amounts of alum.

“And what of this jelly? The green is as lustrous as though emeralds were ground into it.”

Another lady nearby picked up a green candy.

Precisely that candy containing arsenic, colored with copper powder.

I looked down upon that spectacle expressionlessly from the terrace, while Baroness Lehzen stood about unable to settle her nerves.

“Your Majesty… are you truly certain this is well? Such unverified foods…”

“There are people who live on eating such things daily, after all. And today is a charity party, specially. What charity could possibly surpass experiencing the joys and sorrows of the common folk firsthand?”

Leaving Baroness Lehzen behind, I stepped slowly down the stairs and entered the garden. At my appearance, the boisterous nobles fell silent in unison and bowed their heads or curtsied.

“Make yourselves entirely comfortable.”

I curved my lips into a gentle smile and raised a hand.

“For today is an occasion to honor the toil of the merchants sustaining Britain’s economy, and likewise for us to share the food they crafted and cement our harmony.”

“I am merely moved to tears by Your Majesty’s profound intent.”

An earl with a bulging belly flattered me with bread crumbs clinging to the corners of his mouth. Those crumbs had been bleached with alum, and the lips dusted with those crumbs were lips destined to shriek shortly—though not yet.

“Merchants’ anxieties were considerable owing to the recent suspension of the opium trade, yet with Your Majesty directly vending their wares thus, public sentiment shall soon settle. Truly, a benevolent monarch.”

“Indeed so. Moreover, the flavor is exquisite as well. I had no prior inkling such delicacies were concealed within London proper.”

Praises poured in from here and there, but inwardly I scoffed.

Of course it tasted exquisite.

Having poured in every imaginable “sweetener.”

“By the by, Your Majesty, what might that machine positioned yonder in the center be?”

A young viscount pointed toward a brass-colored machine stationed in the middle of the garden and asked. Gleaming beneath the sunlight, it served as another protagonist of today’s party.

“Ah, that thing you ask about?”

I replied with a feigned air of casualness.

“It is an item termed a microscope, creating a stir in scientific circles nowadays. It reportedly permits one to behold even the minute worlds invisible to the naked eye.”

Unfolding the meaning of the name microscope, it became a mirror revealing the microscopic.

A mirror. A mirror once again.

Ordinary mirrors reflected surfaces, whereas microscopes reflected interiors.
Showing not the exterior, but the interior. And precisely that interior was what this era feared above all else.

“Oh, a microscope! I have heard tales, but this is my very first time witnessing the real article.”

Curious aristocrats gathered one by one around the microscope. Curiosity had opened Pandora’s box, curiosity had plucked the forbidden fruit, curiosity had stolen fire.

And now, curiosity was drawing the nobles forward before the microscope’s lens.

They knew not yet.

That they were currently walking toward the cliff of truth, carried upon the wind of curiosity.

“Can truly minute things be seen in their entirety?”

“Indeed. I am told a single strand of hair appears akin to a thick rope.”

The atmosphere was ripe. Wine flowed, laughter spread, and vanity raised its head an inch higher than usual.

A young nobleman flushed with alcohol chuckled and placed a bread crumb onto a glass slide.

The pursuit of science was sometimes nothing more than a playful, aristocratic amusement to him, yet he did not realize that play could occasionally serve as the key to opening the door to truth.

“Let’s have a look…”

Squinting one eye, he brought his face to the lens with a face full of amusement. A moment later, he tilted his head.

“Hm? What is this?”

“What is it? Do you see jewels or something?”

“No, something… looks like a bunch of white, pointy things… Is this what sugar looks like? A bit strange, though.”

The playfulness was slowly draining from his expression.

Instead, doubt filled that space, much like ink soaking into paper.

“Let’s look at something else. What about this milk?”

This was the milk topped with generous custard cream, provided alongside the dessert, which Madison had poured his heart and soul into “adjusting the consistency” for.
Dropping a single drop of milk and peering back into the lens, the nobleman’s expression stiffened instantly.

“…?”

“What do you see? Are milk fairies dancing in there?”

Jokes were tossed from the surroundings, yet the nobleman peering into the lens did not laugh. Rather, his complexion grew increasingly pale.

“Is milk… supposed to be like this… What are all these chunks?”

“Step aside. Let me see.”

Annoyed, another nobleman shoved him aside and pressed his eye to the lens. And one second later.

“Agh!”

He shrieked and fell backward.

“W-What! What on earth is that!”

“What is the matter, my lord? Whatever did you see?”

The garden stirred into an uproar in an instant.

Amidst the converging gazes of the crowd, a man stumbled out, parting the throngs of people.

With disheveled hair and a flushed face.

It was Dr. John Lindley, holding a wine glass in one hand and a botanical guide in the other.

“Ugh.”

He let out a rough burp, and without even bothering to help up the fallen gentleman, walked straight toward the microscope.

“Why are you all making such a fuss? Science is inherently a bit… graphic, you know.”

Adjusting the focus with familiar movements, he peered into the lens.

A week ago, he had beheld the very same thing in his laboratory and turned the color of dirt, yet right now, the cruel smile of a prophet confronting an ignorant crowd hovered at the corners of his lips.

“My, my. Quite lively, very lively.”

“Doctor! Just what is inside there?!”

The aristocrats, gripped by anxiety, urged him on.

Dr. Lindley slowly lifted his head.

His eyes were unfocused from alcohol, yet the mockery contained within them was sharper than ever.

“Are you curious?”

He raised the wine glass he was clutching and pointed toward the vessel containing the milk.

“That rich and thick milk the noble ladies enjoyed so elegantly just now.”

Silence. The wind gently lifted the edge of the tablecloth.

Aside from that tiny motion, the entire garden held its breath.

“Ta-da!”

Dr. Lindley spread both arms in an exaggerated gesture. The movement was no different from a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, yet what emerged from the hat was no rabbit.

“Congratulations! You have just partaken of calf brains!”

“…What?”

“Calf brains, I say! Brain! Since they ground that up and mixed it in, naturally it had to be thick and rich!”

The doctor chuckled heartily and tapped the lens with his finger.

“Those whitish lumps floating around in there. Those are neural tissues. Ah, of course, it’s not just brains. What’s this yonder… a piece of copper? Truly a gift more splendid than an Easter egg!”

At that instant, everyone’s masks were stripped away upon the stage of the garden.

“Ugh…”

A noble lady standing in the front row clapped a hand over her mouth.

The milk glass she held dropped to the ground and shattered into pieces. That which was not milk spread across the lawn under the name of milk.

“W-What is the meaning of this! Calf brains?! Copper fragments?!”

“What of this bread, then!”

Instead of answering, Dr. Lindley picked up the white loaf.

“This dazzling whiteness! Quite beautiful, is it not? Yet flour alone can never produce such a color. Not because London’s bakers are magicians. Aluminum! Alum was shoveled in, which is why it yields this color!”

He split the bread in half and hurled it to the ground. The dull thud of the bread striking the turf sounded abnormally heavy. So heavy that one could hardly gauge the density of alum contained within that sound.

“Those of you with robust stomachs, please continue partaking. Whether the alum hardens like stone inside your bellies, or brain matter courses through your blood vessels! Is the flavor not exquisite?”

At Dr. Lindley’s declaration, the tea party venue transformed instantly into bedlam.

Sounds of retching echoed from here and there, and several ladies shrieked and fainted.
The mouths that had been praising the merchants’ toil just moments ago now spat out curses.

Of course, those who managed not to shed their masks of aristocratic decorum replaced their emotions with phrases like “This cannot be!”, “Good heavens!”, “Horrifying!”—yet that did not mean they felt no fury.

Amidst that crucible of chaos, I quietly lifted my teacup.

Pure Earl Grey, floating with cornflowers and laced with the aroma of bergamot.
I alone was drinking the sole safe beverage in this garden today.

As I did so, I etched into my memory the figures of the pale-faced merchants backing away in terror.

Madison’s face was visible.

The mask of confidence and composure melted away from his visage, revealing the bare face of sheer terror.

The terror of discovering that the true nature of what he manufactured had been stripped bare before so many people.

Tomkins’s face was visible. Remnants of the bread he had just consumed wedged white between his yellowed teeth. Remnants of bread bleached with alum. Those would be descending into his stomach right now. What he had fed to others, he was now consuming himself.

Will’s face was visible. The bright red candy he had proudly pulled from his pocket earlier was in sight. Laced with arsenic. Had he fed that to his own children as well? Or did he give them the real article and sell the fakes exclusively to other people’s children?

You say without a law there can be no punishment?

I set down my teacup. The crisp sound of porcelain resting upon a silver tray rang out above the garden’s commotion, sounding to my ears like the tolling bell of a verdict.

Then one simply needs to make a law.

To forge a law, lawmakers must first become victims themselves.

Abstract reports fail to move hearts.

Numbers fail to generate empathy.

Yet a person who has felt brain matter, alum, and arsenic melting within their own mouth and stomach can no longer inhabit the same world.

They are compelled to forge a different world. For if they do not forge it, they perish themselves.

In that sense, my charity tea party was an unqualified success.