Chapter 13: The Sinister Bat

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Lady Enid was a good person.
At least, when she wasn’t discussing cultists or the Father of All Things.

The clerics had lodged Roland in an empty brick house for the night. It wasn’t until the next morning that Enid, dressed in her black mourning gown, came to wake him.

“Bats in the sunlight.”

Roland tried to wipe the words from his sight, yet feared that if an emergency arose, these words might just save his life.

Enid was unaware of all this. To her, Roland’s posture was somewhat delicate:

A boy in gray plaid work trousers leaned against the wooden headboard, black hair falling on either side of his face. After a night’s rest, his collar was slightly undone, revealing his neck and collarbones. His wrist rested on his forehead, eyes half-closed, beautiful yet carrying a trace of sorrow like a fragile, battered...

homeless cat.

Roland had no idea what was happening until the words changed again:

“Bat of wicked thoughts.”

“Lady Enid?”

Roland deliberately turned his face slightly, angling his ear toward her, quickly tightening his collar and getting out of bed.

Enid smiled and greeted him.

Only then did she have time to look around—her face immediately clouded with displeasure. She swiftly turned and spoke to the man by the door:

“I believe I told you, Fernandez, to arrange a comfortable place. He’s just endured a catastrophe, by the Father of All Things, and yet you let His child sleep in a drafty hut riddled with holes out of sheer laziness?”

As she passed by, Roland caught sight of the man standing with his back to the sunlight.

The man named Fernandez.

In the blurry light, the man had a stern, square face, unusually short hair, and an intimidatingly strong build...

And at this very moment, his expression was somewhat awkward.

“Lady Enid, we all sleep in the same place,” he said, instinctively tightening his legs and straightening his back.

Few had escaped Enid’s reprimands.

“The ‘same place’—?” Enid’s voice rose. “What do you mean by that, Fernandez? You mean to say that this fragile, beautiful boy who has just lost his family, tortured for countless days by cultists, nearly drowned in fear and terror, should share quarters with us, trained men who endure hardship year-round?”

“If His child can bear the same suffering as us, then where does that leave us?”

“Your cruelty should not be directed at an innocent boy.”

“Fernandez.”

The burly man was struck dumb by her barrage of words. Roland noticed genuine shame in him as he bowed his head heavily. “You are right, Lady Enid. I shouldn’t have listened to Keene and allowed the boy to stay in the wooden hut…”

Roland glanced at the words floating around, shifting erratically.

Over Enid’s head hovered the phrase: “Bat of wicked thoughts (thinly veiled anger).”

Above Fernandez’s head: “Crafty bat henchman trying to drag others down.”

Roland: …

- That’s so like you, Miss Nina.

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He opened his hands, letting the sunlight streaming through the doorway leap onto his palms.

…

…

In truth, there was no proof that Roland was old Collins’s son.

A certain greedy council member, as gluttonous as his belly, cared nothing for such ‘proofs’. Seth Will and Talis Collins themselves never took Roland to register the claim—after all, a doomed heir, why bother inscribing his name under the Collins family?

So when Enid ordered an inquiry, on paper, poor Roland was once again an orphan.

Fortunately, the adults at the Almshouse and the poorhouse could vouch for him: at least they could prove he had left the poorhouse just days ago.

“I’m not on the Collins family tree?”

“Not yet. That cultist didn’t include you.” Enid shook her head, then asked, “But if you want, we have enough witnesses and evidence to make it official—I can help you become ‘legitimate’… meaning, your bloodline would have a not-so-honorable origin.”

Roland caught her meaning and gently shook his head: “No, ma’am, I’m fine just using the Collins name temporarily.”

Enid’s lips twitched slightly, pleased, but still explained:

“If your father is a cultist, it will cause you great trouble in the future.”

She led Roland through the muddy lane, speaking as they walked:

“Regarding your future, you have two choices, Roland,” Enid said. “That cultist, Talis Collins, has a brother in London. I think he might take you in. Although the Collins fortune is nearly gone, for the sake of a hundred pounds…”

The second choice needed no elaboration.

Returning to the poorhouse, having Councilman Abner find him a job, a foster guardian.

To Roland, the two choices were essentially one.

“Then, before you leave, come with me first.”

Having obtained the answer she desired, Enid cheerfully parted ways with the black-clad clerics.

They were headed to the local constabulary to assist the town’s police with the aftermath of last night’s fire, while Lady Enid and Roland made a direct route for the town’s largest and busiest street.

“You can’t wear that. Let me see... at least, I have to buy you a pair of shoes.”

Roland’s interpretation of ‘at least’:

I need a pair of shoes.

Enid’s interpretation of ‘at least’:

This boy needs shoes—and matching trousers.

Then, the shirt should be suitable as well.

Besides that, a young gentleman should have a jacket that sets him apart from mature men—somewhat elegant but not ostentatious.

Finally, he needs a hat to complement the fine outfit.

She took Roland first to a cobbler’s shop to buy a pair of Chelsea ankle boots, button boots that wrapped tightly around the ankle—requiring a small metal hook to fasten each button through its hole.

Then, at a slightly larger shoe store, she bought a pair of tall boots with gaiters.

A stiff-shirt with pleated collar and cuffs, black trousers, a deep brown short vest with lace trim, and a single-breasted fitted jacket.

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Along with a dark crimson jacket embroidered with gray thread and padded shoulders.

And a new walking cane.

“Ma’am, I…”

“Country styles are too outdated.”

Enid looked somewhat displeased.

She reached out to button Roland’s loosened collar, then stepped back a few paces, regarding the black-haired, golden-eyed boy with a peculiar expression:

He resembled a figure an oil painter had left on the canvas through fantasy, obsession, and madness.

His forehead was broad, nose prominent, black hair tied behind his head. Thick, curled lashes framed cat-like eyes where clarity and allure intertwined in contradiction—

Somewhat cold and indifferent, yet like a deity gathering the twilight’s precious jewels:

“Treasure is not singular,” He said.

But fortunately, they shimmered upon the same person.

The exquisite nature of the boy lifted the entire ensemble’s elegance to new heights.

Truly beautiful.

She thought.

“Ma’am, I have no money.”

Roland awkwardly flexed his wrist, feeling the weight of gazes focused on him as if about to ignite him—he caught a blurry reflection of himself in a roadside glass, the words seeming to mock him.

“No better top hat available… what did you say?” Enid noticed the boy’s discomfort, her lips curling slightly in amusement. “This won’t cost much, Roland.”

“This is the Father of All Things’ mercy to the suffering.”

Enid finished, and the words beside her face immediately changed:

“Price list”

“God’s mercy: 1 penny”

“Wicked bat’s wickedness: 7 pounds 6 shillings”

- Indeed.

- The hat alone costs 11 shillings.

“I am grateful to the Father of All Things, ma’am. But I believe I should thank you more…”

“You may simply call me ma’am, or even by my name.” She was noncommittal, glancing at the sky. “We can get something to eat first. Is there anything you want to take with you? Besides what turned to ashes in that manor.”

Roland shook his head: “Only myself.”

“…Poor child, may the Father of All Things bless you.”