After Miss Miller stated her conclusion, her own expression shifted to one of mild surprise as she took in Jenkins's bewildered look. Jenkins blinked, then retrieved a ten-pound note and three silver coins from his pocket.
He had plenty of savings for now, but money had a way of running out. His current fixed inco was five pounds and ten pence a week: four pounds was the stipend the Church provided to Enchanters, one pound was his apprentice's wage from Papa Oliver, and ten pence ca from teaching night classes at the Church.
That ca out to about 281 pounds over fifty-two weeks a year. Of course, that was just his fixed inco. He also earned a commission from sales at the antique shop, and the royalties from his "Stranger's Story Collection" were another significant source of revenue.
Collaborating with foreign publishers ant that Jenkins’s cut would be significantly smaller, a reality dictated not just by the tax system but also by certain unspoken rules of international sales. As a result, now that the book's dostic sales frenzy had passed, his annual earnings from it likely wouldn't even match the first three paynts he'd received from Mr. Brol. The true value of the "Stranger's Story Collection" for Jenkins was becoming more about reputation than revenue.
"My total legal annual inco is probably only about a thousand pounds, and everything besides the Church's stipend is taxed!"
Jenkins had figured this out a long ti ago. If he were an ordinary man—a bachelor with modest expenses—that kind of inco would be more than enough. He could afford three maids (one just to look after Chocolate), a coachman, and a groom, and even keep a horse or two and a carriage.
This was the lifestyle of the highest earners among the middle class. An annual salary several tis greater would place him squarely in the upper echelons of society.
But his expenses were far from small. He paid Mrs. Mahat's wages weekly. Living on his own ant covering the cost of his als, steam utility bills, seasonal changes to his wardrobe, and the upkeep of his house. And that wasn't even the half of it. As an Enchanter, a single ritual to acquire a new ability could easily consu his entire annual inco.
He could still vividly recall his shock upon learning the sheer number of gems required for the [Astral Perception] ritual.
Therefore, he vowed to find a legitimate way to get rich before his savings were depleted.
Papa Oliver had suggested that marrying a young noblewoman from a prominent family would solve his financial woes in a heartbeat. But Jenkins still had his pride. Besides, he suspected Papa Oliver’s real motive was to steer the conversation toward the topics of socializing and marriage.
Jenkins quickly retrieved the data Miss Miller wanted and handed it over. He was deeply skeptical that any mathematical model could predict the patterns of such randomly appearing Cursed Items. Then again, he mused, Miss Miller probably possessed so special ability or artifact—perhaps a tool that combined arithtic with divination.
On Saturday morning, Papa Oliver had so business to attend to and gave Jenkins the day off. Jenkins was up early, and as he went downstairs to fetch the newspaper, he ran right into the young milkman.
The young man enthusiastically pitched a brand-new flavor of milk, but seeing as it would cost an extra five pence a week, Jenkins politely declined.
As he erged from the washroom with the newspaper in hand, Jenkins rembered that the reply from Eldron was due any day now. He obviously couldn't use his own address for the correspondence; the return address was the Pig's Head Bar, one of the gateways to the city's black market.
The remote establishnt served multiple purposes: it was a black market, a place for arms dealing, a hub for trading in hazardous materials, and an information brokerage all in one. After donning his black robe as a disguise, Jenkins had asked the bartender if they offered a mail-holding service.
The bartender had grinned, confirming that anything was possible for the right price, and had given him a real, verifiable apartnt address to use.
"A dark ale."
Still in his disguise, Jenkins rapped his knuckles on the bar top.
"Five pence."
The bartender didn't even look up. It was still morning, but the bar was already doing a decent trade. Several patrons were seated at the counter. To Jenkins's left sat a bespectacled, middle-aged man in shabby clothes, emanating a cloud of tobacco smoke so thick Jenkins found it hard to breathe.
Jenkins slid a crumpled banknote across the counter. The bartender snatched it up, saw the string of numbers penciled on it, and gave Jenkins a curt nod.
Jenkins turned, found a secluded table in the corner, and sat down. A mont later, a server brought his dark ale. By the ti the server walked away, a black leather satchel had appeared by Jenkins's feet.
"They didn't spend the entire two pounds I paid on the bag, did they?"
he wondered suspiciously.
His original plan had been to use the letters to feel out who was at 13 Green Avenue in Eldron City. But now that the Church was aware of the situation, the letters had lost their purpose.
Still, on the principle that money shouldn't be wasted, he decided to look through the replies anyway.
He had sent out fifty letters in total four days ago. If he hadn't received a reply by now, it was safe to assu one wasn't coming.
He counted thirty-seven returned questionnaires, the most important one among them. The banknote he had included had clearly done its job.
Jenkins, sitting at his table in the bar, opened the letter from Green Avenue in Eldron. The questionnaire had been filled out ticulously, not at all like a rushed job. If the answers were truthful, the respondent was a twenty-seven-year-old, unmarried man with an annual inco of about three hundred pounds, working an ordinary desk job.
"Are swindlers this honest nowadays?"
Jenkins felt that things were proceeding far too smoothly, which made him suspicious. Perhaps the recipient was simply such a masterful liar that he couldn't spot the deception.
The matter should have ended right there, with Jenkins burning the replies and pretending the whole affair had never happened. But as he shook out the envelope, he discovered that the respondent from 13 Green Avenue had included a short note. It was written on a neat slip of paper in an ugly scrawl, but there were no spelling mistakes:
Dear Miss Fabry:
I feel fortunate to have participated in your social survey, and I thank you for your generosity. I look forward to hearing from you again and hope to receive an update on your graduation project.
Hunter Bell
"Ah, this is a problem."
Jenkins groaned, burying his face in his hands.
The Church's assessnt had all but confird that number thirteen was the residence of a follower of the "Prince of Lies." What remained uncertain was whether it was rely a drop-off point or the actual hideout of a true cultist. If Jenkins didn't reply, the cultist—if there was one—might grow suspicious, realize they were being probed, and flee...
"Am I overthinking this?"
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