The winter sun climbed from the east, its morning glow painting half the sky in shades of crimson. In the waning days of winter, the sunrise was particularly stunning. Far from the city, in a quiet country town, the first sliver of light pierced the gap in the curtains. It streamed into the small room, falling gently upon the eyelids of a sleeping, red-haired young woman.
Her eyes fluttered beneath their lids, her delicate skin seeming to reflect the soft glow. When she opened them, her beautiful gaze was clouded with confusion. Reaching a hand out from under the covers, she shielded her face from the light and then sat bolt upright in bed.
Hathaway recalled the events of the previous night and instinctively glanced at the pillow beside her. Briny was still sound asleep. It seemed last night's 'Lullaby' had been a bit too potent.
The aftereffects of using 'Dirge' still lingered. Beyond the dizziness and nausea, an unpleasant ache had settled into her muscles. This was likely due to sleeping in her clothes. And the one who had brought them here was, undoubtedly, a certain young writer who would never do anything improper.
Across from the handsome double bed stood a wooden desk. An oil painting of a slumbering cat hung on the wall above it. Beneath the painting, Chocolate was curled up on a soft pillowcase, fast asleep.
To her left, Jenkins lay sprawled on his back on the sofa. His right arm dangled over the edge, fingertips nearly brushing the cheap carpet. He was sleeping soundly, the sunlight on his face doing nothing to disturb his rest.
She had no idea what had transpired during the latter part of the fight, but seeing the three of them—and one cat—all safe in the room, Hathaway couldn't suppress a smile of relief.
She pressed a hand to the back of her neck and gently rolled her head, trying to loosen the stiff muscles. Just then, she heard her lover murmur in her sleep:
Even as the three of them settled into the carriage for the return journey, Jenkins remained blissfully unaware of why Hathaway was fuming. He'd spent the entire night on the sofa and had woken up with aches all over.
The only one in the carriage who seemed well-rested was Chocolate. Jenkins, worried it might not sleep well in a strange place, had gone out of his way to make a little nest for the cat. This morning, however, the cat's appetite wasn't its usual self, likely because the food provided by the inn didn't agree with its palate.
As for the previous night's events, Jenkins had offered a clear explanation over breakfast. The salesman, he explained, was apparently an accomplice of the man who fired the first shot. Once Jenkins had exposed him, he'd made a hasty escape.
"You must have fainted from the shock and exhaustion," he had said. "We were terribly worried."
"And the shot you fired...?"
"Oh, that's nothing to worry about. I have a license. Besides, before we left, didn't the town priest agree to smooth everything over?"
Of course, the priest had only been given a carefully edited version of the story, and he would never find the salesman in question.
Jenkins had offered this explanation to Briny, but the blonde young woman was naturally skeptical. Judging by how they'd all woken up, Jenkins had to have been the only one conscious when they arrived at the room. Yet he'd conveniently omitted any mention of how Hathaway had lost consciousness.
For a moment, she couldn't help but suspect the whole affair was some sort of scheme on his part, but she quickly chided herself for being paranoid. From every conceivable angle, Jenkins Williams was an upstanding gentleman.
The carriage, carrying its three yawning passengers, rolled back into Nolan City around ten in the morning. Since Jenkins had sent word before leaving the town, Papa Oliver would already know why he was late.
And just as he expected, when Jenkins pushed open the door to the antique shop, Papa Oliver looked up from his newspaper without a single word of reproach for his tardiness.
"There's a long, golden hair on your collar."
Jenkins quickly looked down and plucked away the strand—Briny's, no doubt. It must have gotten there last night when he was carrying the young women.
"No need to explain."
Papa Oliver lowered his newspaper, cutting off whatever Jenkins was about to say. In truth, the writer had prepared a rather lengthy and logically consistent lie for the occasion.
"It's a good thing, isn't it?"
Papa Oliver said, as if he'd seen through everything.
Jenkins was a bit confused by what the old man meant. He paused for a moment before explaining:
"I didn't do anything."
"I know you didn't." ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ N0v3l.Fiɾe.net
Papa Oliver broke into a laugh, looking remarkably kind.
He stood up, set the newspaper on the counter, and retrieved an envelope from underneath, handing it to Jenkins:
"Take the day off. I happen to have some business of my own. But I still don't approve of you running around after sunset. After all, the undead are still lurking about our city."
A rather bewildered Jenkins soon found himself ushered out of the shop by the old man. But since he had the day off, he certainly wasn't going to turn around and insist on working. He gave the 'Pops Antique Shop' sign one last look before turning toward home.
He examined the envelope as he walked. To his surprise, it was a letter from the old painter, Grant.
"An invitation to an art exhibition?"
This was the exhibition the two of them had discussed back in January. The exhibition was scheduled for the end of the Month of the Sun and Revival. The old painter, grateful for Jenkins's permission to use the illustrations from the "Stranger's Story Collection", had sent him a ticket.
It was clearly a very formal affair. The ticket itself was ingeniously designed with intricate cutouts; when folded and stood upright, it formed the shape of a spire. The assembly lines of this era couldn't produce something so complex; each one must have been made by hand.
"If I have time, I'll have to go take a look... I wonder if they'll let me bring a cat."
Chocolate let out a sudden, distinct burp, then shyly lifted a paw to cover its face. Fortunately, Jenkins was still absorbed in the letter and paid no mind to the tiny sound by his ear.
He appeared to be heading home, but after leaving Fifth Queen's Avenue, Jenkins ducked into a nearby alley. When he emerged from the misty passage, he had transformed into a tall, thin man with a bandaged face, crowned with a patched, black top hat.
The hat was in utterly atrocious taste. Jenkins couldn't recall ever seeing a more dreadful piece of headwear.
Dodging a carriage that clattered past on the street, Jenkins strolled with his hands in his pockets. He led Chocolate on a wide, circuitous route that eventually brought them back to Fifth Queen's Avenue, from where he entered the Dock Area.
He was on his way to retrieve the serial killer's effects, the most important of which was the Soul Box.