The mechanical carriage brought them back to Storshallow's boarding district as the sun edged toward the horizon, painting the rooftops in shades of ochre and copper. Merlin stepped down first, then offered his hand to Wintrell, who accepted it with a short nod. The hum of the carriage's runic engine faded behind them as the driver, after a polite farewell, guided the vehicle off to wherever it was hired from. Merlin took in the quiet bustle of the late afternoon street: vendors closing stalls, lamplighters readying their tapers, and a distant clang of a blacksmith finishing the day's last order.
Master Wintrell carried a careful calm in his posture as they entered Mistress Halewick's boarding house. He removed his gloves and coat in the foyer, placing them neatly on a stand. Merlin did likewise, hanging up his modest jacket and smoothing his vest. The air inside smelled of warm bread and lentil stew. A comforting aroma, though a subtle tension still thrummed beneath the ordinary routines—perhaps only Merlin noticed it now, since he had seen the city's puzzle pieces more clearly.
The new merchant guest—Davren, if Merlin recalled the name correctly—sat in a corner of the small parlor, leafing through a local gazette. The merchant wore a shirt of coarse linen and suspenders over sturdy trousers now that he'd settled in, and his well-maintained boots rested near the door. A few strands of silver hair had escaped from behind his ear, and he tapped his foot lightly as he read, humming now and then. He glanced up and gave a polite nod to Merlin and Wintrell. Merlin returned the nod with a slight smile, while Wintrell merely acknowledged the man's presence with a curt inclination of his head.
Annabelle drifted into the parlor carrying a small bowl of walnuts. She offered them to Davren and then glanced toward Merlin, concern and curiosity in her gentle hazel eyes. He reassured her with a calm look; everything was under control, or at least so it seemed. Annabelle's dress today was a modest sage-green cotton with a white apron tied firmly at the waist. A straw-colored ribbon pinned her hair back beneath her cap. She radiated a quiet diligence, her posture graceful and self-contained.
Mistress Halewick emerged from the hallway. "Master Wintrell," she greeted, hands folded over her apron. "I trust your outing was productive?" Her voice was brisk, but not unkind.
Wintrell inclined his head. "It was, thank you. I shall remain in my room for the evening, as I have some notes to review. Please have supper sent up in an hour—light fare will suffice."
Halewick nodded. "Of course. Merlin, see to it."
Merlin acknowledged the order. "Yes, Mistress," he said quietly. He would arrange a simple tray: bread, cheese, perhaps a slice of roast and some fresh greens, with a pot of black tea. It would be easy enough, and Bertha in the kitchen, a robust woman with a ready ladle and flour on her cheeks, would prepare it without fuss.
Wintrell departed upstairs, footsteps measured on the old wooden steps. Once he was gone, Halewick turned her attention to Merlin, her gray gaze sharp but not harsh. "You've done well assisting him so far," she noted. "Keep it up. He's a man of precise habits. I expect nothing less than your best."
Merlin dipped his head. "I understand, Mistress."
She gave a tight, approving nod and moved toward the kitchen, where a muffled conversation rose between her and Bertha about the proper arrangement of supper trays.
Merlin turned to Annabelle. She offered a faint smile, holding the empty walnut bowl close to her chest. "Long day?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a murmur.
Merlin chose his words carefully. "Interesting day," he said. "We visited a collector's estate—quite a grand place. The city has many hidden corners."
Annabelle's brows rose slightly, but she did not pry. Instead, she excused herself to tend to the linens upstairs. Merlin suspected she had her suspicions about the strangeness revolving around Wintrell's research but, like him, knew better than to ask too many questions.
Merlin headed for the kitchen. Bertha, stout and cheerful, wore a flour-dusted apron and tended to a pot over a low flame. The scent of simmering vegetables and herbs drifted through the warm space. "A tray for Master Wintrell," Merlin requested, standing straight and calm. Bertha nodded, ladling a portion of roasted root vegetables and sliced chicken onto a platter. A wedge of sharp cheese, a small loaf of bread, and a pot of tea completed the meal. Everything would be placed neatly on a wooden tray with a small, embroidered napkin that Annabelle had set aside.
With the tray ready, Merlin climbed the stairs to Wintrell's room—one of the boarding house's finer guest chambers. A door of dark-stained wood, a simple brass handle. He tapped lightly. Inside, he heard a faint rustle of papers before the scholar's low voice permitted entry.
The room was tidy, simple but comfortable. A bed with fresh linens, a desk near the window, a single armchair, and a small bookshelf holding a few volumes the boarding house provided its guests. Wintrell had his own papers spread out on the desk, weights holding the corners. By the lamplight, Merlin saw the scholar's face bathed in amber glow, casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. He looked more intense than usual, like a man trying to piece together a code written in half-invisible ink.
"Set it there," Wintrell said, gesturing to a small side table near the desk. Merlin complied, arranging the items just so, ensuring the pot's spout faced Wintrell's preferred side. The scholar noticed such details, and Merlin prided himself on attending to them.
As Merlin made to leave, Wintrell spoke in a hushed tone. "Tomorrow evening's meeting with Viscounti will be crucial. After I examine this palimpsest, I may need your help with a small errand. Be prepared to venture out at odd hours if needed."
Merlin looked over his shoulder, expression unchanged. "Of course, Master Wintrell. I remain at your service."
Wintrell nodded absently, turning back to his notes. Merlin quietly slipped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Downstairs, twilight deepened. Davren, the merchant, put away his gazette and rose, stretching before heading to his room. Mistress Halewick supervised the final lock-checking of the front door. Annabelle hummed a quiet lullaby as she carried fresh linens to the top floor. Betram snored faintly in a chair near the back hallway, arms folded over a toolbox—he must have finished his repairs and dozed off in a moment of peace.
Merlin considered the cellar again. Night had fallen, and he recalled Betram's complaint about odd noises. He could probably find a reason to go down there—perhaps to fetch spare candles or check for a misplaced broom—just to confirm if anything was amiss. But it would be risky to show too much curiosity without a good cover. He would wait, perhaps, for an even quieter moment. One night, when everyone slept and the house held only secret whispers, he might slip down and see if that symbol or strange hush persisted.
For now, he picked up a stray linen from a chair, folding it neatly and placing it on a side table. He wanted to appear as normal as possible—just the helpful assistant, eager to keep the boarding house tidy. No one must suspect that behind his calm demeanor lay a mind cataloging every curious phrase, every cryptic hint.
Outside, lamps glowed, and Storshallow's streets at night took on a softened hush, broken by distant laughter from a tavern two blocks away, the whisper of a breeze through iron railings, and a gentle clatter from a closing storefront. Merlin settled into the gentle rhythms of the evening, helping Annabelle arrange things for the morning, speaking only when needed.
As he passed a window in the corridor, he paused. Across the street, faintly lit by lamplight, stood a figure in a long coat. The person's posture was stiff, face obscured by the angle and shadows. Merlin couldn't tell if it was a city official, a night-watchman, or simply a passerby lingering. The figure seemed to glance toward the boarding house for a moment before moving on, disappearing around the corner. Merlin's heart gave a subtle lurch. Were Wintrell's activities drawing attention, or was this just his imagination conjuring watchers in the dark?
Caution, Merlin reminded himself. He would watch. He would learn. He would remain unobtrusive.
The evening wore on. After ensuring Wintrell's tray was retrieved—empty, but for a few crumbs—and the kitchen tidied, Merlin retired to his attic room. He sat on the edge of his modest bed, listening to the distant creak of the building's old bones, to Betram's muffled snore through the floorboards, and to his own heartbeat.
Tomorrow, they would see the palimpsest. A relic that might unveil more about Eldara, the Ethereal Veil, and the shape of this world's buried truths. Merlin felt the subtle thrill of standing at the edge of a grand revelation. If he played his role well—silent, observant—he might gain insights no one suspected he sought.
For now, he let the quiet of the night settle over him. He would need all his wits and subtlety in the days to come. Secrets lived in shadows, and Merlin intended to learn how to see clearly in the dim glow of lamplight and candleflame. In this city of mechanical marvels and hidden godlings, he would find his footing, step by careful step.