"You're not here for that vial of spices!"
Higgins declared with absolute certainty.
"Of course not. I'm here for this..."
Sothing dark flew from the man's hand and clattered onto the floor. Higgins squinted, staring at it for a long mont before he realized it was a hideously ugly mask.
A cold sweat broke out on his brow. He finally understood what he had stumbled into, and the magnitude of the mistake he had just made.
"What is this?"
"Sir... this..."
"My ti is short. You'd better be quick."
Higgins swallowed hard. "Kill , then. I won't say a word."
Bang.
The bullet tore through his forehead. Higgins collapsed to the floor without even a flicker of surprise on his face.
Jenkins sighed. He stuffed the body under the bed, gave the scene a quick clean-up, and stepped outside. After closing the door, he wedged a strand of hair he'd plucked from the corpse between the lock and the doorfra, then promptly departed.
The evening ball was every bit as tedious as he'd imagined. Thanks to so ergency tutoring from Miss Stuart, he managed to avoid making a fool of himself on the dance floor, but beyond that, Jenkins found nothing to hold his interest.
Guests in their finest attire danced to the orchestra's music in a ballroom lit as brightly as day. A combination of gas lamps and candlelight from the chandeliers set the ladies' jewels ablaze with glittering light.
As a newly minted noble with no pedigree to speak of, he still found himself welcod by a number of young ladies. It was a common belief in this era that writers were, by nature, incurably romantic.
This only went to show that popular opinion wasn't always correct. In any case, Jenkins had no intention of pursuing friendships with these won. After all, once he returned to Nolan City, it would likely be a long ti before he visited the royal capital again.
Still, he wouldn't refuse a lady's invitation to dance. Remaining seated the entire evening would be far too awkward.
Miss Windsor was Jenkins's companion in na only. She clearly detested these social functions as much as he did, having refused every single gentleman who asked for a dance. Even Jenkins had only accompanied her into the ballroom; afterward, she had remained on a sofa in the sitting area, a wine glass in hand, keeping an eye on Chocolate for him.
He declined several invitations for private conversation and had no interest in chatting with the young n who approached him either. When the ladies finally realized his attention was fixed solely on Miss Windsor, they left him alone, and Jenkins at last had a mont of peace.
"So you're determined not to get involved in any of the nobles' affairs?"
"I am."
He frowned and glanced at the table. "Do they not serve juice here?"
"..."
Miss Windsor shot him an incredulous look. "Are you allergic to alcohol?"
"No, I simply dislike drinking. It dulls my mind, which is detrintal to both my work and my writing."
"I'm surprised to find soone like you in this mad age..."
With that, she raised her hand and snapped her fingers. A passing waiter stopped instantly, bowing to hear her request.
"A glass of juice..."
She glanced at Jenkins.
"Anything will do."
He shrugged.
"Of course, sir."
After the waiter departed, Jenkins leaned back into the sofa, and Chocolate ambled over to curl up on his lap once more.
"Snapping your fingers isn't very ladylike, you know."
"But I have no desire to be a lady. I intend to be the Duke of Windsor."
From what Jenkins had gathered from the society pages, the current Duke of Windsor had expressed his intention to pass the title to his daughter, but in reality, Miss Windsor had over ten brothers.
A small smile touched his lips, but he quickly suppressed it.
"I have no desire to be a proper nobleman either. My ambitions are far greater—greater than you can imagine."
"The Archbishop of Nolan?"
She peered at Jenkins through the crimson liquid in her glass. For a fleeting instant, the man's reflection warped into sothing utterly terrifying.
She hastily lowered the glass but managed to mask her sudden unease.
"I won't be answering that question."
Stroking his cat with one hand, Jenkins accepted a glass of grape juice from the waiter and took a sip. He could still taste a faint trace of alcohol.
"But even if you're unwilling to form ties with the nobility, trouble won't leave you alone. That's how it is in this world. The most vexing problems often arise from the most unexpected places."
"I'm well aware of that... What I an is, when trouble cos, you deal with it. Besides, I have the backing of the Church. That should keep most of the flies away."
On this point, however, Miss Windsor's view would prove more accurate. Just as their conversation drifted from literature to Jenkins's new book, and then to the political hot topic of parliantary reform, a group of young n approached.
Leading them was a young man who had shed his formal jacket, leaving him in a shirt and black waistcoat. He couldn't have been more than eighteen, an age defined by brash confidence.
"Baron Williatte!"
He shouted from five ters away, his voice cutting through the music and drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the ballroom to the disturbance.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
Out of politeness, he set down his wine-like fruit juice, gently patted Chocolate's head to shoo him off his lap, and rose to his feet.
Miss Windsor's brow was already knitted in a tight frown.
"I am Digby O'Neill Galvin, only son of Duke Galvin, a Knight of the Order of the Bauhinia, heir to the lands of Sland, descendant of the ever-noble House of Muen, and one blessed by the Lady of the Unlit Moon."
He puffed out his chest, glaring at Jenkins. Jenkins shot a look at Miss Windsor, silencing her before she could speak. He was genuinely curious to see what this fool wanted.
The ball was dreadfully dull, after all. A little entertainnt was welco.
"I am Jenkins Redemptor Williatte, a Baron for life in the Fidektri Kingdom, recipient of the 1865 Ritter Prize, a friend to the great Church of the Unlit Moon, an ally of the Stormlords, a herald of the Everlasting Sleep, a mortal blessed by the Stars, and may the Sage be with ! Now, young man, do not waste my ti. What is it you want?"
He bood in response, deliberately pitching his voice low to make it deeper and more powerful.
The latter titles were no lie. They were honors bestowed upon him by the Orthodox Churches in gratitude for his contributions during the Silver Vertigo incident. To be precise, he had received the dal of the Waxing Moon from the Church of the Unlit Moon, the rmaid dal from the Church of the Storm Lord, the dal of the Black Robe from the Church of Death and End, and the dal of the Seven Stars from the Church of the Myriad Phenona of the Starry Sky.
He had simply phrased them to sound more impressive.
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