Jenkins froze. He stood in the darkness of his bedroom, his eyes scanning the surroundings. In the dual-colored glow of the red and blue moons, his reflection in the mirror showed a deeply furrowed brow.
The whispers were unintelligible, yet they grew louder, more insistent. It felt as though an invisible presence was leaning close, murmuring directly into his ear.
Worse still, a sudden headache and a wave of nausea gripped him. Desperate not to wake his family, Jenkins buried his face in his pillow, his body twitching uncontrollably. The whispering and murmuring persisted for a full half-hour before vanishing. Jenkins hastily wiped the blood from his face before finally collapsing into an exhausted sleep.
The phenonon occurred only once, but Jenkins didn't dare ntion it to anyone, fearing he would be suspected of consorting with so malevolent deity. He suffered no lasting physical harm, though a dull headache lingered through the next morning. It wasn't until the day after that he had a sudden realization: the bizarre whispering had started at the precise mont one month gave way to the next.
"Was there a connection?"
He had no way to prove it. All he could do was wait for the end of the next month and see if it happened again.
A gloomy rain set in on Monday and persisted for days; the sun didn't reappear until Thursday.
It was the third of August. Following the instructions Mr. Hood had given at the last gathering, Jenkins scoured the densely packed classifieds of 'The Penny Press.' Using the novel as a cipher, he decoded the ssage and learned that the next eting was set for Friday night. Best of all, the location was right here in the Sabine District.
It was only as he searched the paper that Jenkins realized Mr. Hood's thod—relying on newspaper sales rankings—was also a subtle test. As a supposed newcor to the city, knowing such local trivia wouldn't be easy for him.
"But I already have my excuse ready."
Coming up with excuses was never the hard part; it all ca down to how thick-skinned you were.
Papa Oliver was the only one who knew of Jenkins's plan to live independently, so he showed no surprise when Jenkins approached him on Thursday, a thick manuscript in hand.
"This is good."
Papa Oliver took the stack of papers and nodded at Jenkins, who looked a bit sheepish. In truth, Jenkins felt a pang of guilt for passing off stories from his old world as his own.
But he still needed to earn a living.
"As a follower of the Sage, it's a fine thing that you're looking to make a living through books. I'll take a look, of course. But if you're serious about this path, you should consider enrolling in a writing course. I hear the colleges offer night classes for working n and students looking to get ahead. Your family can afford it. Then again, finding a real author to ntor you is also an option..."
He offered this advice as he began to flip through the manuscript. He was a deeply caring man; though stern on the surface, he had always treated Jenkins with great kindness.
He was only trying to soften the blow of potential disappointnt. From what Papa Oliver knew of the young man, Jenkins had never shown any particular talent for writing.
"Oh?"
His voice trailed off, a look of surprise dawning in his eyes.
"Fairy tales?"
Jenkins nodded. To convince Papa Oliver, he had strategically placed the most well-structured and engaging tales—like 'Snow White' and 'The Tinderbox'—right at the front. It had been no simple task. He'd had to rack his brain to recall the details of each story and then painstakingly adapt them to fit the context of this world. He'd even caught himself wishing he'd chosen the divine ability [Psychography]. The work had consud most of the nights he'd spent cooped up in his bedroom.
Papa Oliver settled in at the counter, quietly and carefully leafing through the manuscript. So stories he read with focused attention, while others he just skimd. ℞ÂℕỒꞖĘṤ
"'Not bad,' he remarked simply, taking off his glasses and handing the pages back to Jenkins. 'The prose is smooth, at least, though so of your word choices are a bit peculiar. I particularly enjoyed 'The Little Match Girl.' I take it you drew inspiration from that young flower seller we saw the other day?'"
"And you think you can earn a living with this?"
he asked.
"Yes, sir. And it's more than just that. I've heard that being an Enchanter is quite expensive. Practicing abilities and preparing for rituals requires all sorts of rare materials, so it's best to start saving up now."
Papa Oliver gave a slight nod. "Are you planning to release this as a collection, or do you intend to publish the stories one at a ti in the papers?"
"I'd like to publish it as a book. I doubt many people look for fairy tales in the newspaper... Besides, I want to add a few more stories and get so illustrations. It would make the collection feel more complete."
Jenkins explained his intentions.
"Very well. Pick out the three stories you feel are your best. I'll get in touch with a publisher for you when I go to submit my report tomorrow."
"A report?"
Jenkins asked, surprised.
"Did you think our work was just about buying antiques? There's a great deal more to it. In a few months, once you've settled in, you'll be the one writing these reports."
Papa Oliver clapped him on the shoulder, a satisfied smile spreading across his face as he watched Jenkins stare back, dumbfounded.
The whole affair turned out to be much simpler than Jenkins had expected. He wouldn't even have to trouble Bishop Parrold; things were already falling into place.
Papa Oliver told him to be patient and wait for news. Jenkins wasn't in any rush. He spent the ti carefully revising the manuscript, adding several more tales to round out the collection to an even twenty stories.
He was running low on suitable fairy tales from his mory, so he even started adapting other kinds of stories, like the classic tale of a man who lives an entire lifeti in a dream. They were much more difficult to rework, but he was quite pleased with the results.
Friday arrived in what felt like the blink of an eye. The twin red and blue moons once again bathed Nolan City in their ethereal light.
The Williams household typically fell quiet after nine in the evening. Entertainnt options were limited in this era, and staying up late only ant burning through expensive gaslight and candles.
He bolted his door from the inside, then carefully opened his bedroom window. After a quick scan confird Maidenhaven Road was clear of patrolling constables or idle strollers, Jenkins leaped onto the large tree in the yard and nimbly climbed to the ground.
He had his [Flexible Legs] ability to thank for that; it allowed him to pull off feats he'd previously only dread of.
Once in the shadows of the house, Jenkins summoned the black robe steeped in his spirit. Judging by the shadow it cast against the wall, his disguise this ti was a lanky figure nearly seven feet tall, making him look like a human beanpole.
"Is the disguise different every ti?"
Jenkins muttered to himself as he crept toward the eting point. The chosen location was a small, derelict building in the Sabine District. It wasn't haunted; the previous owner, a widow who lived alone, had died in an accident, and with no known heirs, the property had simply been left to fall into ruin.
While searching for the address, Jenkins had seen a City Hall notice that the property was up for auction. A pity the price was far too steep, and besides, it was a long way from Pops Antique Shop.
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