Chapter 17: Arrival

Mercy, judgment, wisdom.

Roland tapped on the tablecloth.

A white wave of sound wove through the carriage, sketching the smiling face of a woman.

She looked somewhat weary; her pinned-up hair was slightly undone, with a few strands falling along her cheeks, softening her features;

the corners of her eyes drooped gently, making her gaze less sharp;

her flesh-colored lips curved faintly upward, bathed in the gentle afternoon sunlight, lending her an alluring haze.

Outside the window, forests, lakes, and birds rushed past, never to return, but the intoxicated woman cared only for the cup in her hand, filled with a vermilion liquid.

“Perhaps you are wisdom. It is hard to imagine that a woman as intelligent and insightful as you would not embark upon the path that symbolizes wisdom.”

Before he finished speaking, Roland tilted his head to the side and softened his tone:

“Perhaps you are mercy. A believer who should devote herself to judging evil yet, after the judgment is done, willingly shelters a young man who has suffered calamity, never growing weary along the way. A person like you, if not to tread the path of mercy, would indeed be a pity.”

He did not mention judgment explicitly, but his implication was clear in the second sentence.

Enid smiled happily.

“Seeing how flattering you are, I feel at ease.”

She paid no mind to Roland’s compliments.

“If you truly have such a simple nature, living well won’t be easy.”

Enid tucked her hair behind her ear and admitted, “You guessed right.”

Judgment.

One who delivers the purifying flames to the blasphemers.

As she affirmed Roland’s guess, the line of words beside her face suddenly stretched longer.

“Burner, executor.”

“To see them is to see the blazing flame.”

“Among the three sacred orders of the Holy Cross, judgment is the most merciless. They pursue ‘purification’ with ruthless means, heed no pleas, and show no mercy.”

“Men, women, elders, even infants.”

“They are called the ‘filthy hounds of flame.’”

“But in a sense,”

“they are also the cleanest among the three orders.”

Roland silently finished reading the text.

The cleanest among the three…

Lady Enid truly was a good person.

At least so far, she had been kind to him.

“I cannot promise to agree with you, madam,” Roland spoke earnestly. “I know nothing of the occult, nor of the other world you mention—if it exists. If possible, I wish to understand everything about that world first. Then, I will make my choice…”

That would be enough.

Enid said.

Don’t tell anyone, and then, embrace your new life.

She pushed the pie toward Roland, took his hand, and placed it on the plate.

“Eat more; you’re too thin.”

“I’ve already just now…”

“Eat a little more.” Enid rested her chin on her hand, watching him, her brown eyes reflecting the youth’s raven hair and golden gaze—though she was unaware that her ‘impertinent’ gesture was fully observed by the person opposite her.

“An evil-minded bat, delighted by the admiration of beautiful things.”

“She fancies this handsome black-haired, golden-eyed young man-cat.”

“Miss Nina, what exactly did you do to what’s in my head before this?”

Roland felt a bit uneasy, touching the fork beside him, lowering his head hesitantly, “I… I want to ask you something else…”

About that uncle.

The man who was about to adopt him…

The unknown made him anxious.

In truth, Enid did not know much either:

“I’ve never heard of any prominent person named Collins. Moreover, if he had made a name for himself, he wouldn’t have gone twenty years without sending a letter home—or perhaps he simply did not get along well with his brother.”

“The villagers say he left for London twenty years ago and never returned.”

“You must be prepared for hardship, Roland.”

“I will try to apply for subsidies for you, but that doesn’t mean you’ll live well.”

“Being born in such a place, you should understand what true hardship is,” Enid leaned back. “Or maybe he’s unwilling to raise you—”

“In that case, come to the Church.”

“The Tribunal of Judgment will always welcome you.”

“The evil-minded bat curses Roland Collins for being unwanted.”

“Indeed.”

Lady Enid’s cold expression was full of “He’d be better off dead.”

And…

Subsidies?

He had never heard of such a thing.

Mr. Abner said the best support for the poor was the whip and harsh words: “If you could work a little harder, even just five more hours, you wouldn’t be in such a state.”

Subsidies were Daniel’s last words before he died: “May the Father of All bless you.”

“I will help you apply for them.”

Enid looked sideways out the window, lost in thought.

“Post-disaster subsidies.”

“The Church: compassionate gaze/verbal blessings (hopes to inspire).”

“The evil-minded bat: underwear/shirts/bow ties/trousers/socks/shoes/boots/coats/inner coats/outer coats/top hats/canes/living expenses/delicacies/mystical knowledge/protection/guidance, and so on.”

“Note: missing everyday gloves.”

“I never asked you to fill in the gaps.”

Recalling recent events, Roland could not help but sigh, “You have been too good to me, madam. I don’t know how to repay you.”

The things wrapped around him, if converted to money, would be enough for him to live for quite some time.

“Thank the Father of All, Roland.” The woman’s fingers traced the black lacquered window frame like a graceful pianist playing black and white keys.

She furrowed her brow, as if she’d been sitting too long, “Still, the iron box is more comfortable…”

……

The carriage took two days to travel from Folkshire to the capital.

Along the way, they rested several times—Enid worried Roland couldn’t endure such a long journey—and finally, on the evening of the third day, the horses’ hooves slowed as they entered the city.

It seemed to have just rained; the occasional flickering gas lamps lit the streets like a shimmering golden lake.

Here and there, sparks of light glowed dimly by the roadside—men wearing work caps.

They squatted near blackened doorways plastered with colorful posters, giving indifferent glances to the carriage carrying Roland.

The night was chilly.

Further in, more carriages came and went.

The trees lining the street—pines and spruces—were like half-grown teeth in an almshouse or a half-played, chaotic game of chess.

Some shadows hid beneath the trees, poking heads out as the carriage passed—while others, embraced tightly amid bright flames, paid no mind to whether it was a carriage or something else lurking behind the trees.

Shops lined the street, from fishhooks to broom stores, from sauce shops to flour stores.

Button shops and pants shops were separate, though they ought to be together;

cutlery and knife shops differed, depending on the ostentation of the posters or the storefront signs;

small tobacco shops and taverns were much like those in the county—perhaps because they knew well that those who come here to spend money cared little for appearances.

The carriage traveled a stretch of road without lamps, turned an unknown number of corners,

and finally stopped on a narrow residential street.

Very narrow.

“We’ve arrived, Roland.”