The ferocious glint in Hathaway’s eyes genuinely startled Jenkins.
"I trust you wouldn't be so foolish as to..."
he ventured cautiously.
"Of course not,"
she cut him off, then offered an apologetic smile before letting out a long sigh and leaning back in her chair.
"I'm just... feeling a little weary. Enchanters like us spend our lives desperately trying to avoid all sorts of inexplicable dangers, yet ordinary people are so eager to explore the unknown."
"That's because they don't know what to fear,"
Jenkins picked up where she left off, the tip of Chocolate's tail flickering past the kitchen doorway in his peripheral vision. "We know more, possess more, and have seen things far more terrifying and arcane. That's why we've learned to be afraid... Excuse for a mont."
He stood and headed for the kitchen, where, just as he'd suspected, Chocolate was rummaging through a basket on the table. It held a few small plates. With the quality of his diet having declined sharply of late, Jenkins had been struck by a whim: he was trying to use his spirit to sketch food into existence from his mories.
The plates held his few successful creations. The process was incredibly draining on his spirit, however, so he only ever conjured up a small amount as an after-dinner treat.
What Chocolate was searching for was likely today's batch of cream ice cream.
"You'll get a stomachache."
He gently took the cat by the scruff of its neck, cradled it in his arms, and returned to the living room.
Hathaway had been staring into the fireplace, but she turned at the sound of his footsteps. The sight of Jenkins approaching with the cat in his arms imdiately made her laugh.
"My apologies. My cat was trying to sneak a snack again. Now, where were we... ah, yes. In any case, please try to rein in Miss Mikhail. This sort of thing is just too dangerous."
"I understand. And thank you."
"Don't ntion it. But please, don't let her know it was who told you. I gave her my word I wouldn't say anything."
The red-haired young woman offered a gentle smile and nodded.
"I imagine you didn't co all this way just to tell that, did you?"
Jenkins tapped his forehead, the reason for her visit finally coming back to him.
"That's right. A friend of mine has passed away. The funeral is tomorrow afternoon, but I have absolutely no experience with such events, so I was hoping..."
"No problem."
"Oh, please, let finish. There's actually sothing else. Sothing... well, sothing very important."
He mumbled for a good while, his face flushing, before finally steeling himself to voice his request. Jenkins wasn't one to impose on others lightly.
"I paid a visit to Bishop Parrold at the church today. He inford that it seems they've decided to award this year's Ritter Prize to ."
"Is that so?"
she asked, astonished. She started to rise from her seat, as if to say sothing more, but then sank back down.
"That's astonishing! It's the highest honor in the entire kingdom's literary world! I always thought that was an award reserved for old, bespectacled gentlen. This is just..."
She seed even more excited than Jenkins himself, expressing her delight in a rush of words.
"Mr. Williams, congratulations."
She rose to her feet and, with a playful flourish, extended her fair right hand. Jenkins stood as well, swept an imaginary hat from his head, bowed deeply, and finally took her hand, shaking it a few tis.
Perched on the back of the chair, Chocolate very pointedly rolled its eyes.
"Does this an you're going to beco a true nobleman?"
"What do you an?"
The conversation resud after they both sat down again.
"You didn't know? Traditionally, every recipient of the Ritter Prize is granted a title by the king at the banquet following the ceremony. Since you're already an honorary baron, you'll at least be granted the full title of Baron."
Jenkins genuinely hadn't known that. It seed his trip to Bel Diran was going to be far more complicated than he had anticipated.
"So that presents with a problem. Since I'll be eting the king, I assu the royal court will provide soone for so ergency etiquette training. But I doubt that will be enough. The Bishop advised to find a professional tutor for myself before I leave Nolan."
He finished, his eyes fixed on the young woman across from him.
"?"
"My social circle is rather small. I'm afraid I have no one else to ask. Of course, if you know a suitable tutor, a recomndation would also be wonderful."
The young woman shook her head gently. "The Ritter Prize ceremony is usually held in the middle of the month. While there are plenty of tutors, finding one for you on such short notice would be difficult. There simply isn't much ti. If you truly don't mind, I could teach you so basic etiquette over the next couple of weeks. Just the basics, mind you. My forr tutor, a woman nad Sadana, often complained that I was never one for rules."
"That would be perfect! Thank you so much!"
He let out a long sigh of relief. The most critical thing right now was just getting through the award ceremony. He could deal with the rest later. He was sure that between Hathaway and Miss Audrey, he could eventually find a professional local tutor.
That evening, Hathaway spent a great deal of ti explaining the customs and taboos of attending a funeral. There were no particularly interesting traditions, and as the conversation turned to paying respects and monts of silence, the mood grew somber once more.
"Who was this friend of yours?"
"Mason Pisco. You've probably heard of him—the famous playwright? He wrote 'Mr. Potter's Eternal 31st'."
He didn't explain how he had co to know the man, and noticing his somber mood, Hathaway didn't press.
The next day was Saturday, and because he needed to take the afternoon off for the funeral, Jenkins made a point of getting to the shop extra early. He knew Papa Oliver would approve the ti off, but he still felt guilty about how frequently he'd been asking for leave lately.
When he arrived at the shop, Papa Oliver was settled in his antique rocking chair before the stove, reading the day's edition of the Nolan Daily.
"So early today?"
He peered at the young man over the rim of his spectacles.
"Ah, yes. I have sothing on this afternoon and need to take so ti off, so I thought I'd co in early."
"If you have sothing to do, then go. Business has been slow lately anyway,"
Papa Oliver said in his unhurried way, his gaze already drifting back to the newspaper.
It was already the third of the month, and the antique shop had only made a single sale. And that was for a forgery—practically a piece of modern craftsmanship. The buyer had been a veteran collector himself, but he’d bought the bowl simply because he was fond of its design.
"It's alright. I'm not family, so I just need to be at the cetery soti in the afternoon."
"A funeral, huh..."
Papa Oliver shook his head. "Rember to dress respectably and bring a bouquet of flowers. I recall most of your clothes are black, so that's convenient enough."
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