Though official figures were not yet available, tens of thousands of people—celebrants and workers alike—had been at the docks when the shelling began. The aftermath, a calamity of both natural and man-made design, inflicted only injury and death upon those unfortunate souls.
When Jenkins returned to Nolan, he slipped out of his window, through the backyard, and onto the street. Carriages, emblazoned with crosses, sped past, rushing the wounded from the docks toward hospitals and churches.
The once-quiet St. George Street had suddenly beco a major thoroughfare. Jenkins even spotted Mrs. Goodman, who was usually idle at ho, standing in her yard and gazing out. Naturally, she noticed him standing by the gate of the house next door and imdiately cast a suspicious look in his direction.
This man was clearly not her neighbor, yet he stood far too close to the property next door.
For the ti being, Jenkins had no intention of returning to Ruen; he wanted to see if he could help those who were suffering. But he couldn't officially appear in Nolan at the mont, so he decided to take care of his own affairs first. Afterward, he could use the chaos as cover to slip into a church or hospital and see if he could lend a hand.
He planned to go to MrBirchwood's house to retrieve the book Mr. White Cat had given him. MrBirchwood's ho was on the other side of the city, and finding a carriage in the current situation would be nearly impossible.
He didn't find an empty carriage until he was near the bridge crossing the Westminster River. But just as it carried him over the water, two middle-aged n, one propping up the other, flagged them down.
One of the n had an obvious broken right arm, though it had already been treated by a doctor and was bound in a sling. The other looked ghastly, like a victim of food poisoning, clutching his stomach and clinging to his friend's arm just to stay on his feet.
"Please, sir," the man with the broken arm pleaded, "could you let us have the carriage? My brother is in terrible shape."
The hospital they needed was in the western district, the complete opposite direction of where Jenkins was headed.
"Of course," Jenkins replied. "You two go on ahead. What happened to him?"
He hopped down from the carriage as he spoke, helping the man with the broken arm settle his ailing brother inside. The driver also pitched in, asking if they'd rather go to a closer private clinic.
"No, that place is too expensive... Thank you so much. You're a true gentleman."
The man with the broken arm tipped his hat to Jenkins in gratitude and then explained:
"We went to the festival at the docks this morning, but then all hell broke loose. I broke my arm in the chaos, and Green and I got separated. By the ti I found him, he was already like this. He said he stumbled upon two strange n fighting. He must have panicked, because he ran right between them and got a face full of so weird smoke..."
As Jenkins watched the carriage speed back over the bridge, he stood clutching his cane, lost in thought. It took him a long mont to snap out of it. The poor man must have stumbled upon two Enchanters battling amidst the chaos and had the misfortune of getting caught in the crossfire.
As he'd helped the sick man into the carriage, Jenkins had already administered so minor healing. The toxins would soon be flushed out by the man's own tabolism; at worst, he'd have an upset stomach for a couple of days.
Jenkins wasn't worried about the two n he'd just encountered. He was worried about the countless others who had surely t a similar fate today but hadn't been lucky enough to find soone to help them.
He walked on, head bowed and lost in thought, through the unusually raucous city streets. It was only when he arrived at the foot of the apartnt building where MrBirchwood's family lived that a new thought struck him: had they also attended the festival that morning?
He worried they too might have t with misfortune as he raised his hand to knock. But when the door opened to reveal the landlady, and behind her, MrBirchwood's elderly mother preparing to go out, he breathed a sigh of relief.
"Who are you looking for?"
the landlady asked cautiously, as if she feared the man before her might pull out a gun.
"Her."
Jenkins nodded toward the elderly woman, who studied him with a puzzled expression.
"I've co to pick sothing up," Jenkins stated. "Your son was keeping a book for soone, and now, ownership of that book has passed to ."
He produced the token Mr. White Cat had given him, but Mrs. Wood—MrBirchwood's mother—shook her head:
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, sir."
She then tried to move past Jenkins and out into the street, but he stood his ground in the doorway. He narrowed his eyes, unable to tell if she was genuinely clueless or feigning ignorance for so other reason.
"In that case, let bring up sothing else," Jenkins said coolly. "I seem to detect a hint of a Cheslan accent. Or is that just my imagination...?"
The old woman, who had been leaning heavily on her cane and walking with a tremor, ca to a halt. She squinted at the stranger for a long mont before finally speaking:
"You're an interesting man. Co upstairs."
"Mrs. Wood, this doesn't feel right!" the landlady interjected. "Is he threatening you? Don't be afraid. All I have to do is shout, and the policeman on the corner will co running."
the landlady asked nervously, sohow now brandishing a feather duster that had, a mont ago, been resting on the shoe cabinet.
"He's not a bad man," Mrs. Wood replied. "He really is a friend of my late son. He was just having a bit of a laugh with ."
With that, she turned and started up the stairs. She looked so frail, as if she could fall at any mont. It was a far cry from the spy he'd seen eting her contact just a few nights ago.
Upon entering the apartnt, Jenkins saw that it was empty. He then recalled that everyone in the family, apart from the old woman before him, held a job and wouldn't be ho at this hour.
He remained standing, surveying his surroundings and pretending he hadn't been here before with Hathaway, in his guise as Mr. Candle, over the matter of the fruit platter.
"Ever since my son passed," Mrs. Wood said, "all sorts of strange people have been showing up, asking for the odd things he left behind."
Mrs. Wood set her cane aside and headed for an inner room:
"Wait here a mont. I'll get it for you. I rember the book you're talking about."
Jenkins stood by the entrance, watching the trembling old woman's back as she disappeared through the doorway. A few seconds later, the barrel of a gun poked out from the sa doorway, followed by the woman herself. Her expression was now grim as she leveled the weapon:
"Alright. Who are you?"
The weapon Mrs. Wood held was no small-caliber handgun; it was a hunting rifle. Its dark, gaping muzzle was aid squarely at Jenkins. She expertly flicked off the safety and gave the rifle a slight shake:
"Over there. Don't move!"
Jenkins remained silent, complying with her command. He moved away from the door and stood with his back against the wall.
"Now," she demanded, "tell who you are. And what is it that you know?"
"I'm a friend of your late son, and I'm here for a book. For both our sakes, I suggest you put the gun down. You really don't want to know what happened to the last person who tried to pull a trigger on ."
She was, after all, MrBirchwood's mother. So, despite having a gun pointed at him, Jenkins maintained a basic level of courtesy.
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