The first letter Jenkins opened was from the Silver Jasmine Opera Troupe. Before their trip, Hathaway had already delivered the music she composed for the opera to a Mr. Nelly. Now, after half a month of rehearsals and revisions, the five-act opera, *Murder on the Steam Express*, was finally ready for the stage.
Mr. Nelly had sent the letter to invite Jenkins and Hathaway to watch their dress rehearsal on Sunday morning and offer their feedback. It was a significant event, as journalists and critics would also be in attendance. This would have been perfectly normal, but the problem was that Hathaway would most likely invite Briny along, and Jenkins had been trying to avoid seeing the blonde young woman again.
"This has to be dealt with sooner or later."
He told himself, pausing at a five-way intersection to let a speeding carriage pass before turning onto an eastern street. He brushed past a young flower seller, tucked the letter into his pocket, then turned back and stopped the girl, buying a rose from her for a generous price.
He was no longer afraid of these little girls, but his current behavior suggested he'd developed a peculiar condition: a compulsion to help any flower seller he encountered.
While this was also an unhealthy psychological state, it was certainly better than fear. Besides, his slightly pathological behavior could be classified as an act of charity, which, apart from being detrimental to his wallet, wouldn't harm anyone.
Holding the wilted red rose, he continued on his way. It was noon now, so it was only natural for a flower picked in the morning to look . He continuously channeled his life spirit into the bloom. Passersby, of course, wouldn't notice the change, but anyone who could observe him for the length of a block would undoubtedly witness its astonishing revival.
The street was bustling with pedestrians. All sorts of people passed by Jenkins, and each one would subconsciously glance at the lusciously vibrant rose in his hand. In this season, it was rare to see such a brilliant flower.
He glanced at his pocket watch. There was still plenty of time before his lunch break ended, so there was no need to hurry. He pulled another letter from his pocket to read.
The "new knowledge" he brought to this world granted him a small amount of spirit through the Gift of the Sage. Ever since Monday, the feeling of spirit flowing into his body from the void had been constant. He knew then that the new book wouldn't fail.
"Which means, in the first month alone, I'll get... oh, that's a huge sum of money."
No one ever complained about having gold pounds in their pocket, and Jenkins was no exception. He planned to a portion of the money once he received it, as he always did, because he firmly believed the earnings from his "plagiarism" didn't truly belong to him.
The vast majority, however, would still go into his pocket. After all, he was the one who brought these stories to this world, and polishing, adapting, and revising them had taken a great deal of effort.
"Sir, forgive the interruption."
Lost in thought, he didn't notice a carriage stopping on the other side of the street. A middle-aged gentleman stepped out, and leaning on his cane, quickly crossed the road to catch up with Jenkins, who was still walking ahead.
"Pardon the intrusion..." the man huffed, trying to catch his breath. "Sir, may I ask where you bought that flower?"
He panted for a few moments before he could speak a full sentence. His expression was awkward; he was clearly not accustomed to approaching strangers. The winter air was cold, and white mist plumed from his mouth as he spoke. He gave Jenkins another apologetic smile.
He truly couldn't explain.
"I bought it from a young flower seller back that way. If you need it, please, take it." Content orıginally comes from novel✦fire.net
With that, he pressed it into the middle-aged man's hand. He had no use for the flower anyway; Chocolate didn't like to eat such things.
"Oh, I couldn't possibly. How much did you pay for it? I can..."
"Sir, there's no need to pay me. Please, just take it. Since you were willing to get out of your carriage and chase me halfway down the street, this flower must be very important to you. Take it, and I wish you success!"
He finished with a wink. The middle-aged man smiled shyly, accepted the flower, removed his glove, and shook Jenkins's hand in farewell.
Watching the man return to his carriage, Jenkins turned and continued on his way.
"Gifting a rose leaves a fragrance on the hand."
He whispered the phrase in the ancient script from his memories, then sniffed the hand that had held the flower, but smelled nothing.
"I knew it. Just a metaphor."
This should have been just a small, everyday event, like passing a certain alley at noon or stumbling upon an illegal gathering while walking his cat at night—something to be completely forgotten in half an hour. But it was precisely this small incident that led to an unexpected turn of events five hours later, at dusk.
By then it was five o'clock. After seeing off the last customer, Papa Oliver was hunched over the counter doing his books, while Jenkins was putting a box he'd taken out earlier back in its proper place.
Once he was done with this task, he could leave for the day. He planned to head straight to the church for dinner before starting his evening classes.
"Welcome... oh, Captain Bincy? Welcome."
He spoke while reaching for his coat on the wall. "I'm just leaving. If you have confidential matters to discuss with Pops, I can wait a moment."
"No, Jenkins. I'm here for you."
He walked toward the counter, with Jenkins following behind. The man took off his hat, shook the snow from its brim, and pulled a black-and-white photograph from his pocket. The print was new, clearly freshly developed.
"Do you know this man?"
The background of the photograph was a red carpet, stained with dark splotches where it had been soaked with blood. The middle-aged man to whom he had given the flower that afternoon stared wide-eyed at the camera, as if he were looking right past the lens at Papa Oliver and Jenkins. He was obviously dead—because there was nothing below his neck. It was a truly horrifying way to die.
"Yes... I met him this afternoon."
Jenkins nodded, but with some hesitation. Since it was Captain Bincy here to question him, and not the police from KalFax Field, it meant this was no simple murder case.
"Is there something wrong with this case?"
Papa Oliver, of course, had come to the same conclusion as Jenkins.