Jenkins couldn't tell whether the huntress's offer was serious or just a joke. In any case, he was broke, so he didn't need to waste ti considering it.
"One hundred thousand pounds? If I had even ten thousand, I'd have moved out of this dangerous city long ago. Damn those New God Cultists!"
He spat the words with a resentnt that felt increasingly natural to him.
"Actually, I don't believe the followers of the New God should be blad for everything that's happened recently," the huntress countered. "They're certainly audacious, but I wouldn't call them purely evil."
She picked up the banknotes from the table and began counting them with practiced ease, a faint smile gracing her otherwise plain, forgettable face.
"I do appreciate clients like you who pay in cash. Would you believe it? The last one paid with a blue-blooded cod in a wooden box. I'm still keeping the thing in my fish tank."
The blue-blooded cod was a peculiar species of fish found only in the deep sea, most of them possessing a single eye. These creatures were born with a faint supernatural ability, a sort of danger sense, which was an exceptionally rare skill almost akin to cost-free divination.
"Perhaps if you eat it, you'll gain its power," Jenkins quipped, showing no intention of leaving just yet.
"So, you don't think the New God Cultists are the cause of the recent turmoil in the city?"
"Stop probing," the woman said with a scoff. "There isn't an Enchanter in this city who doesn't know the legend of the Stage of Destiny at the end of the epoch."
She continued mockingly, "If you have another commission, just say it. I admit it was my fault for delaying this mission, so I can give you a ten percent discount on the next one."
"There is one more thing..."
A fla whooshed to life in his hand, incinerating the stack of docunts. He touched a hand to his chest, suddenly uncertain if this next request was the right move. But the question had been nagging at him for a long ti, and he needed an answer.
"There's an abandoned hospital on the outskirts of Nolan, about five kiloters east of the city's Pet Managent Center. It's located around..."
"Say no more," she cut him off. "I don't accept any commissions related to that hospital."
"May I ask why?"
The woman uncrossed her left leg and crossed her right one over it, narrowing her eyes at Jenkins.
"Because I don't want to die."
"What's in there?"
"Thirty thousand pounds," she replied. "And after I tell you, I'll have to move out of this city, too."
"..."
Jenkins had no idea why the huntress's moving expenses were three tis the amount he'd just pulled out of thin air, but he couldn't have afforded even half of it.
In the end, he didn't get his ten percent discount, but at least he'd saved himself another expense.
Before leaving the black market, he took one last, hopeful stroll, wishing he could stumble upon so cheap yet powerful artifact like the protagonist of a novel. But this only served as another reminder that stories were just stories.
Even if reality was a book, Jenkins suspected he was probably not the main character.
Back on the main street, he pulled Miss Miller's ladies' pocket watch from his coat and was surprised to see it was only three in the afternoon.
His original plan had been to go ho and lose himself in a book for the rest of the day, but halfway there he rembered that the commission at the detective agency should also be complete.
He patted his head and ran his fingers through his cat's fur. The creature, fluid as liquid, squeezed its head out from his tight collar once more. If Jenkins tilted his head down, his chin would touch the top of the cat's head.
He deliberately lowered his head and rubbed his chin against Chocolate's crown a few tis, but the tickling sensation of the soft fur against his skin was more than Jenkins could stand.
In stark contrast to the quiet streets and the dim black market, business at the Howard Detective Agency was booming.
As he climbed the stairs, an old woman in a headscarf happened to be descending. She wore an old-fashioned black jacket embroidered with a silver floral trim. Jenkins, ever the gentleman, stepped back on the narrow staircase to let her pass. She didn't seem to notice, her head bowed, her expression etched with sorrow.
He found himself wondering about her story, but Jenkins wasn't so bored as to start prying into the affairs of strangers.
Unfortunately, Detective Dick Ován, the man who had accepted Jenkins's commission, wasn't in, but the case file and final report were ready for him.
This had only been a precautionary probe ordered by the Church, and the case itself was sothing he'd fabricated on the spot. He didn't feel it was necessary to hear the detective's report in person.
The agency's typist brought him a cup of hot tea. He settled onto the long sofa in Detective Ován's reception room and untied the string binding the paper file.
The middle-aged detective's stiff, formal handwriting ticulously detailed the entire surveillance of the solitary widow. The conclusion was that the widow did, in fact, go out frequently at night—for clandestine trysts with a man.
"Mrs. Margaret must be fifty by now, surely?"
A corner of his mouth twitched as he forcefully banished the unsettling image that flashed through his mind. He continued reading. Detective Ován's investigation led him to suspect that Mrs. Margaret was pregnant.
He listed multiple pieces of evidence and had even diligently compiled a list of potential fathers, which, to Jenkins's surprise, included several well-known rchants and nobles.
It seed his neighbor led a remarkably colorful life, and Jenkins had just inadvertently stumbled upon her secrets.
He feigned patience, reading through the entire file before approaching the front desk to pay the remaining balance. He politely declined the suggestion to wait for Detective Ován's personal debriefing.
"I only wanted to know if my neighbor was involved in anything illegal. Since Detective Ován has concluded she is not, I have no need to intrude upon her privacy any further. It was foolish enough to spend gold pounds on this matter; I won't waste any more of my precious ti. Goodbye, my dear lady, and thank you for the tea."
With that, he turned and left, not noticing the young woman behind the desk hesitate, as if she wanted to say sothing more.
He hadn't run into Magic Miss, whose real na was Agnes Howard, this ti. But Jenkins still rembered that she had purchased the ashes of an "Illegal Immortal" at Mr. Hood's gathering last month.
"I hope what happened with the Undying Man won't drag her into it."
Jenkins sent a silent blessing to this acquaintance he barely knew. But having drawn the attention of the Unfortunate Wishing Tree, she would one day have to face the unknown price it would demand.
With this task done, all that remained was to attend Mr. Pisco's funeral tomorrow. After that, he would have nothing pressing on his schedule for a while.
The thought of Mr. Pisco brought another wave of lancholy. Like the kind-hearted Mr. Barnard, he would never forget this gentleman.
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