Morticia raised her cup with her right hand, and her sleeve slipped down slightly. Jorgen noticed faint red marks encircling her forearm - the result of past rough restraints, marks that flesh and skin could never fully recover from.
Jorgen recalled something: she had fallen into the hands of bandits before.
Joseph had been watching her intently while she finished her medicine.
"Lady Morticia," Dalia said, "was the piece you played just now your own composition?"
"Not exactly a composition, just some spontaneous thoughts."
"Perhaps you should consider jotting those thoughts down."
It might have seemed inappropriate to say this to a blind person, but there was no awkwardness in their conversation. Dalia's tone was sincere, focused on Morticia herself and her music, naturally concealing the fact that she was blind behind a curtain that needed no peering. It was a conversation between two women of similar age and temperament, on equal footing, rather than one woman carefully approaching another who was blind.
Next, they talked about music, tea culture, Dalia's charitable work, and other topics, turning what should have been a politically motivated, cold meeting into a gentle, enjoyable tea gathering. Rather than deliberately avoiding the troublesome topics of murder and town safety, they seemed to genuinely get along. It was the simplest and most genuine reason. At least, Jorgen couldn't detect any pretense in their words. Although he couldn't participate in these conversations, the current situation made him want to relax a bit as well. He leaned back against the sofa, a smiling listener. Joseph did the same, his hands resting on his knees, and even his usually emotionless face appeared serene.
Jorgen had encountered many blind people before. He understood that the eyes were the most important tool for expressing emotions. Bright eyes could provide a strong sense of presence, while the lack of this ability in blind individuals made them appear as if they had lost a part of life. It wasn't discriminatory; it was a harsh reality that people often did their best to overlook.
However, Morticia seemed entirely untroubled by this shortcoming. She possessed a natural radiance - just as the green grass didn't need pupils to prove it was absorbing rain, the tides didn't need pupils to prove they could rise and fall, and moonlight didn't need pupils to prove it could illuminate corners - Morticia didn't need pupils to prove she was a woman capable of bringing vitality to her surroundings. With every syllable she uttered, every subtle change in expression, every well-placed gesture, she seemed to proclaim, "I am here, I am alive, and though I cannot see, I possess a soul as rich as yours."
This vitality undeniably infected Dalia. She, who had been silent for many days, displayed an unguarded smile for the first time since arriving in Darkshire Town. She even made a few grammatical errors in her speech - almost unbelievable for an authority on noble etiquette. But it was clear that she was so focused on self-expression, she had cast aside the rigidity of noble conversation conventions. Friends could speak to friends freely and wholeheartedly, without the cold formalities and politeness. She had become herself, not the so-called Special Agent of the MI7.
Jorgen was happy for her and felt that the meeting with Morticia had been the right choice. He tried not to let his thoughts return to the scene a few days ago when she had cried near Abercrombie's house.
I have to do my job. But how can I say that making her cry is also part of my job?
To divert his thoughts from these self-doubts, Jorgen tried to focus on Morticia's words and gather useful information.
However, there wasn't much to gain. She didn't mention her origins, the story between her and Gondore, or the reason for her blindness. Jorgen understood that this was normal. One couldn't expect a blind widow to completely disclose her life experiences to strangers - this cold calculation floated in Jorgen's mind and erased the pleasant atmosphere of the conversation from his being. He returned to being Jorgen, the MI7's field agent.
"Will you be attending the ceremony tomorrow?" Dalia redirected the conversation to its original purpose.
"Yes," Morticia said. "What about you, Joseph? Is there no issue?"
"Of course not. It's just a brief ceremony."
"Yes. The main part is me awarding shoulder badges to forty Nightwatchers."
"I believe Joseph has already chosen these forty Nightwatchers. However, I would like to recommend one more person," Morticia raised her voice slightly. "Come in, Althea. How long do you intend to keep standing there listening? Continuing to eavesdrop would be quite impolite."
Everyone turned as she called Althea's name. At first, there was no one by the door, and it was only after Morticia called Althea's name again that the young girl appeared.
"Sorry, Mom," she said, avoiding Jorgen and Dalia's gaze, her eyes fixed on the candlestick on the wall.
"Come here."
"I'd like to go back to my room..."
"I said, come here to me."
Althea bit her lip and walked over to her mother, staring at her, not taking a seat. Although she was dressed like a boy, in front of Morticia, Jorgen couldn't see the wild child who had once tried to attack Dalia with a knife and cunningly knocked down the blacksmith, Ball. Her gaze softened, and her hands rested comfortably on her lap.
"Sit down," Morticia said. After the girl took a seat beside her, she continued, "I know this child has caused you both some trouble. I want her to formally apologize."
"But... Mom," Althea seemed a bit embarrassed. She turned her body slightly and stole a glance at Dalia and Jorgen from the corner of her eye before quickly looking away.
It wasn't just Althea who was uncomfortable. Dalia said, "There's no need for that; it's all in the past," and nudged Jorgen's hand, signaling him to speak.
"It was just a misunderstanding, and my handling of it was improper," Jorgen said. "We don't want to make the young lady feel embarrassed."
Seeing Althea before her mother, hoping for protection and forgiveness from her loved one, Jorgen suddenly realized how inappropriate his use of a knife to intimidate her had been. He also understood why Dalia had been upset with him over this matter. Initially, he had only understood that although she was a child, she had a degree of aggression, and he might have overreacted, but it wasn't necessarily a mistake. However, in the face of Dalia's maternal instinct, it was indeed a mistake that required no explanation.
"Indeed," he added, "I should be the one apologizing. Professional habits led me to behave inappropriately towards Miss Althea. Althea, I hope you can forgive me."
He had never expected to say such words: a public apology for accidents caused as a member of the MI7. In the past, his apologies for the innocent he had used, harmed, or deceived were always buried completely under black, hard earth, as if they had never existed. Using a knife to intimidate Althea was the most insignificant of these accidental damages, and the small scar beneath Althea's eye had completely healed. However, even if it was insignificant, Jorgen had lifted the giant stone pressing on that bleeding land for the first time.
"Althea," Morticia said, "Mr. Jorgen is speaking to you."
"Oh," the girl raised her eyes and twisted the edge of her pants with her right hand. "Alright."
Although it was her mother's request, she at least accepted the apology vaguely.
Morticia patted the girl's hair. "You heard us talking about the ceremony, right?"
"I heard."
"I was just thinking of recommending you to receive the Night Watch insignia that Lady Dalia brought. What do you think?"
Althea fell silent. She was caught between a rock and a hard place, especially with Jorgen and Dalia waiting for her answer. After all, her previous attitude had been that the Night Watch didn't need Stormwind's recognition, and those insignias were a symbol of the Council's attempt to control the Night Watch. Her gaze appeared uneasy and confused, like a small piece of ice on a ledge, encountering a warm breeze, not knowing whether to melt and fall into the snow or continue hanging in the air. Morticia, who had been "watching" her all this time, had transformed from a gentle, fragile blind woman into a mother who showed necessary authority. But this authority was not oppressive; it was filled with love.
"Answer me, Althea. Are you willing?"
"No need to pressure her," Dalia said.
"This child may have said some inappropriate things," Morticia said, "but please don't misunderstand; she's not so naive. She fully understands the significance of the insignias you brought for the Night Watch. No one worships their father as much as this child does, and no one hopes as much as her that the Night Watch he envisioned can become a legitimate and celebrated organization. Althea, you've made mistakes and gone against your heart. This is your chance to make amends, and it's the first step in showing your true determination to your father. Do you really want to miss this opportunity?"
"No, I..." Althea took a deep breath. "Alright, Mom."
"Then you've agreed. Lady Dalia, Mr. Jorgen, do you both approve of this arrangement?"
"Of course, I'm very willing to do this for Miss Althea," Dalia said.
"I have no objections."
"Then it's settled. No matter how much is from the heart and how much is in obedience to her mother, at least from Althea's expression, she doesn't seem to oppose this arrangement."
"Alright. Now, to celebrate our agreement," Morticia leaned in close to the girl's ear and whispered something softly.
"No," Althea said urgently. "No."
"Listen, don't be so rude again."
Morticia squeezed Althea's hand. The girl had gone through several embarrassing moments, but she seemed to slowly relent, or perhaps she had finally let her guard down. "Alright," she said and then, holding her mother's hand, they both approached the piano. They were responsible for different scales and played a piece together.
Their fingers produced notes that sent subtly permeating light into every corner of the room, into the ears of everyone present, out into the corridor beyond the walls, and into the dim air outside.
"They practice together at least three times a week," Joseph told Dalia and Jorgen. "This is Althea's first time playing in front of guests."
Twenty minutes later, Jorgen and Dalia walked along the stone path from the front gate to where the carriage was waiting. She spoke almost to herself:
"They truly love each other."
Although she said it lightly, Jorgen could hear a hard-to-capture sense of loss and envy in her tone. He tried not to pay too much attention to it.
"Jorgen, you..." Dalia began.
"What?"
He waited for her to continue.
"No," she said, "it's nothing."