Once he had a mont to spare, Jenkins rembered to inform the Church about the assassination attempt on the train. The investigation was concluded in a single morning, and the findings indicated that he had rely been an innocent bystander. The assassin's true target was the noblewoman in compartnt number five of the sa carriage.
Her husband was a wealthy factory owner who, much like her three previous spouses, had t an untily end just three days after their wedding. His younger brother, convinced of foul play, had hired the assassin to avenge him. As for the real story—whether the woman was a black widow or if the brother was simply after the hefty inheritance—Jenkins had no way of knowing.
He had enough on his plate as it was; there was no need to get tangled up in trivial matters that didn't concern him.
He was, of course, allowed to keep the bone whistle. An item with such distinctive markings was easy to look up. B-01-04-4565, the Skeletal Warhorse.
The item's origins and history were clearly docunted within the Church's archives. Its first owner was a military chaplain from the Church of All Things and Nature during the 10th Epoch. In that age, Church forces were humanity's primary defense against monstrous creatures, and the chaplain had discovered the bone whistle while tending to a battlefield and kept it.
For a very long ti, the item was kept and utilized by the Church of All Things and Nature, until it vanished after an accident as recently as the 16th Epoch.
Its security level was rated 4 instead of the safest level 5 because any creature that died near the warhorse had a high chance of reanimating as an undead being. Although these undead were weak, causing a public disturbance was best avoided.
The Skeletal Warhorse boasted incredible speed and jumping ability, and could even walk on water for brief periods. Its intelligence and temperant were comparable to an ordinary horse, with the sole exception that it required no food or water.
“This will make for an excellent mount.”
He mused, re-threading a cord through the bone whistle. He had once fantasized that Chocolate might one day gain the ability to grow to a colossal size—riding a giant cat would surely be an adventure. But now that he had a horse, the feline could just stick to its usual responsibilities.
“What exactly are Chocolate's responsibilities at ho, anyway...”
As the thought crossed his mind again, he paused in scratching the cat's chin. A soft paw imdiately tapped his hand.
Because he was staying at the church, the royal ssenger sent to inform Jenkins of the ti and location for the ceremony had no choice but to deliver the notice there.
The Church politely declined the temporary etiquette tutor sent by the palace, selecting instead a strict, elderly nun to give Jenkins a crash course.
Jenkins's advance “studying” proved to be the right call. Most of the nun's lessons overlapped with Hathaway's notes and Miss Stuart's impromptu classes. In fact, when it ca to the finer points of royal etiquette, Miss Stuart's instructions had been even more ticulous.
During their train journey, Jenkins had suspected the princess's enthusiasm stemd from the chance to “share” the burden of her own tedious lessons with soone else. He kept this theory to himself, however, as common sense told him it was a surefire way to offend a lady.
The elderly nun tutoring Jenkins was thoroughly pleased with his performance. She even remarked that, compared to him, the other young ladies and gentlen she had instructed in the past were hapless fools who couldn't even manage their own buttons.
The training was originally scheduled to last the entire afternoon and evening, but since it concluded early, Jenkins had ti to take Chocolate for a stroll around the church grounds.
Most areas of the church were open to him. His official cover story was that of a celebrated author who had co to Bel Diran to receive a prestigious award and was thus lodging here temporarily.
Which wasn't far from the truth. As far as Jenkins was concerned, that was the entire reason for his visit.
He rose early on Thursday morning. The tailors had prepared new attire for him the day before—several sets, in fact. The elderly nun from his etiquette lesson was tasked with helping him select the most suitable outfit in front of a massive, floor-length mirror, which proved to be no simple feat.
“Oh, young man, don't look so serious. Quick, look this way and give us a smile. My, the Sage has truly blessed you!”
Jenkins asked the nun if he could bring his cat to the afternoon's award ceremony, only to be t with an unequivocal “absolutely not.”
He was quite reluctant to entrust his cat to a stranger in an unfamiliar city. In the end, he had no choice but to request a generous amount of food from the kitchen, shut it in the room with Chocolate, and hope the cat could hold out until his return that evening.
Interestingly, the royal residence—Coldspring Palace—was not located in the city center of Bel Diran, but in the suburbs on the far side of the city, as far as one could get from the Church of Knowledge and Books.
Everything proceeded with ticulous order, just like a historical mont captured in an oil painting. Watched by a crowd of gentlen in stiff formalwear and powdered wigs, Jenkins was personally presented with the Ritter Prize dal by the elderly Queen herself. She also bestowed upon him the title of Baron, a lifeti appointnt that was not hereditary.
The waiting reporters pressed their shutters, and Jenkins's smile was immortalized in that fleeting mont.
The award ceremony was followed by a dinner with the royal family. In theory, the Fidektri royal line had no direct heirs left aside from the Queen herself. Thus, the only people seated at the dining table were the Queen, Jenkins, and a young woman nad Jessica Windsor.
Jenkins recognized the young woman; she had been at Marquis Mikhail's ball in Nolan. She was, he recalled, a distant relative on the Queen's maternal side, and her father was a powerful duke with his own vast domain.
For so reason, throughout the entire dinner, the conversation was carried almost exclusively by the two young people, while the Queen simply watched them with a quiet gaze.
Her smile was warm and kind, but her advanced age clearly took its toll. She couldn't remain seated for long and eventually had to excuse herself from the table.
“Mr. Williams?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
He rose to his feet to see her off, executing a slight bow of respect. It was a posture Miss Stuart had drilled into him hundreds of tis, and the motion was consequently fluid and precise.
“Oh, it’s nothing...”
She simply smiled and shook her head, her gaze distant as she looked at Jenkins's face. A mont later, she departed, supported by a servant.
Miss Windsor was a woman of few words. With practiced skill, she navigated the veal on her plate while discussing literature and music with Jenkins in a cool, detached tone.
The great author, however, knew next to nothing about music. He spent most of the conversation nodding and smiling politely, feigning agreent with her opinions. Only when she happened upon a topic Hathaway had also ntioned did he venture a sentence or two.
Unsurprisingly, Miss Windsor invited Jenkins to a ball the following evening. She ntioned that quite a few of his admirers would be in attendance, and that as a new mber of the nobility, he would need to acquaint himself with so worthwhile contacts.
That’s right. An honorary baron wasn’t true nobility.
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