While Merlin pondered how to approach the matter of finding a firearms instructor, life in the boarding house wove itself into the gentle tapestry of a new day. The morning's quiet industry gave way to midday bustle. Outside, the hum of Storshallow's markets beckoned, and inside Halewick's walls, everyone played their part. Annabelle carried a woven basket on her arm as she stepped out into the late morning light. Mistress Halewick had entrusted her with errands: fresh vegetables, a portion of smoked fish, and a special order of rare spice needed for tonight's soup—coriander pods from a distant continent. These small tasks, while simple, reminded her that their boarding house strove to offer more than plain fare. Guests paid good coin for comfort and quiet elegance, and Mistress Halewick took pride in pleasing every palate.
Dressed in her pale blue dress and sturdy walking shoes, Annabelle navigated the cobblestone streets, humming a lullaby under her breath. The basket bumped gently against her hip with each step. She passed under wrought-iron streetlamps and over a small canal bridge, the water below reflecting wisps of cloud. The market square lay just beyond—an open area ringed by stalls and awnings, where the air smelled of fresh produce, baked bread, and sizzling oil.
As she approached, the noise rose: vendors calling out their wares, customers haggling, laughter and chatter bouncing from stall to stall. Annabelle loved the market's vitality. Here, she could glimpse a different slice of the city's life than the quiet halls of the boarding house. Her eyes drifted over displays of golden pears, crates of turnips, bundles of leafy greens sprinkled with dew. She nodded pleasantly at a fruit seller she'd visited before, a woman with a red kerchief who always smiled at her.
"Good day, Miss," the fruit seller said, holding up a cluster of grapes. "Sweetest ones this season. Care for a taste?"
Annabelle sampled one, savoring its burst of juice. She considered the dinner menu—maybe a small fruit salad to lighten the evening meal. "I'll take a small bunch," she decided, placing two copper marks in the seller's hand. The woman wrapped the grapes in brown paper with a wink.
Next, Annabelle headed toward the fishmonger's stall. She recognized him immediately: a broad-shouldered man with a bristly beard and kind eyes. He hoisted a fresh-smoked trout from a hook, offering it for inspection. "Halewick's place, yes? Quality for you, always."
Annabelle nodded. "Yes, a half fillet of the best-smoked trout, please." She smiled softly, aware that the fishmonger's warm professionalism mirrored the boarding house's own standards.
Coins exchanged hands again. She slipped the fish into her basket, carefully wrapped so its scent wouldn't overpower the grapes or the fresh vegetables she planned to buy next. She still needed those coriander pods—that would be trickier, as spices were costly and closely regulated.
Meanwhile, Merlin emerged from a side street near the craftsman's district, tucking away the folded card from the notice board. He passed workshops where hammer-on-anvil rang out and the scent of sawdust lingered. He'd asked a discreet tinker, a man well-known for minding his own business, about the Red Lantern sign. The tinker had merely shrugged, pointing him two alleys further. There, Merlin glimpsed the symbol: a faded wooden sign painted with a crimson lantern, swaying gently in the breeze.
He wouldn't inquire today—he needed a proper excuse for stepping into unknown territory. But he noted the location for tomorrow or the day after. First, he'd have to tell Wintrell what he found. This was a delicate matter, and nothing he could rush.
As he retraced his steps, Merlin's stomach rumbled softly. He'd had only a light breakfast, and the street's aromas—fresh bread, sizzling meat from a corner stall—tempted him. With a small portion of the advance from Wintrell, he indulged in a hand-pie stuffed with minced beef and onions, savoring its warmth as he walked. This was a little luxury he could afford now, and it reminded him that despite the hidden dangers and cosmic mysteries, life here also had simple pleasures.
Annabelle found the spice merchant at the far edge of the market. He stood behind a tall counter laden with glass jars, each filled with colorful powders and dried leaves. The merchant, a thin man with spectacles and a careful manner, recognized her from previous visits.
"Coriander pods, you say?" He dipped his head gravely. "A rare request these days. Trade routes are strained by certain… disruptions. But I have a small supply." He produced a tiny parchment packet, tied with twine. Inside, Annabelle spotted the tiny brown pods that Mistress Halewick prized. The cost was high—three silver crescents, almost a week's basic groceries for a laborer—but the merchant house could afford it for their discerning guests.
Annabelle paid without complaint. Mistress Halewick had provided the coins that morning, trusting her with the purchase. To Annabelle, this trust mattered. She was no scholar like Wintrell, no world-weary traveler like Davren, but she had her own pride in performing her role flawlessly.
She slipped the precious spice into her basket and turned for home. On the way, she noticed a young boy playing an accordion at a corner, pigeons and doves fluttering around him. The gentle melody tugged at her heart—Storshallow's beauty wasn't just in grand architecture or mechanical marvels; it was in these quiet moments of humanity. She dropped a copper mark into the boy's tin cup and continued on, feeling oddly uplifted.
Back at the boarding house, Betram muttered to himself as he examined a squeaky door hinge on the second-floor landing. He'd been the handyman here for years. A tall, broad man with a perpetually ink-stained apron (from tinkering with mechanical parts) and a flat cap jammed over thinning hair, Betram knew every creak and whistle in these old walls.
He worked a few drops of oil into the hinge, flexing the door back and forth until it swung silently. Satisfied, he rubbed his calloused hands on a rag. He paused for a moment, listening. Beneath the distant murmur of guests, he thought he caught… something. A faint scrape? Probably just the old beams settling. Still, the cellar incident he'd complained of earlier was at the back of his mind. He considered investigating after supper, if he could find a lantern bright enough.
Sighing, he made his way downstairs. Merlin had returned from some errand—Betram barely acknowledged him with more than a grunt. Not that he disliked the young man; Merlin was decent enough, polite and helpful. But Betram preferred practical matters to fancy mysteries. Still, he couldn't help noticing Merlin's thoughtful frown now and then, as if the boy had worries he wouldn't voice. "Not my business," Betram muttered, heading for the tool closet.
Merlin stepped back into the boarding house's main hall, feeling the shift in air as he closed the door. He set down a small bundle of fresh candles on a side table and caught sight of Mistress Halewick smoothing the edges of a doily on the parlor table. Her keen eyes flicked up, acknowledging his return. She said nothing—no questions, no demands—just that stern, satisfied nod that meant all was in order.
Annabelle arrived shortly after, basket laden with produce and the precious coriander pods. Merlin watched as she handed them off to Bertha in the kitchen, who exclaimed softly over their freshness. Bertha was a round-faced woman whose arms carried a faint dusting of flour at all times. She promptly set about washing the greens and filleting the trout, humming a tune under her breath. "Tonight's dinner will be a delight," she declared, pulling out a clay pot for the soup.
Merlin admired how everyone here had their role: Annabelle's quiet diligence, Betram's gruff care for the building, Bertha's culinary skill, Halewick's disciplined oversight. Each contributed to the house's peaceful atmosphere, a haven for travelers like Wintrell and Davren. Yet Merlin knew that beneath this calm, he and Wintrell delved into mysteries that might unsettle everything if revealed.
As the afternoon sun slanted through leaded glass, Merlin caught a soft melody drifting in from outside—the same accordion tune Annabelle must have heard in the market. He imagined the boy, the birds, the simple joy of a street performance. Storshallow was a tapestry: threads of bright, everyday life woven beside darker, hidden strands of conspiracy and cosmic hints.
Merlin would have to juggle these worlds with care. Soon, he'd visit the Red Lantern sign and find the retired watchman who could teach him to handle a pistol. He would manage the paperwork with Wintrell's support, navigating city laws and fees. All so he could continue exploring old texts and arcane relics without falling prey to unknown enemies.
For now, he straightened a stack of newspapers in the hall, noting that Davren had left a few loose pages on a side chair. One article mentioned new taxes on imported metals, another a recent archaeological dig uncovering strange ruins beneath a drained canal. Merlin lingered on that article—ruins beneath the canals? More secrets beneath the city's surface. He folded the newspaper neatly, storing the information in his mind.
At supper time, the guests would gather around the dining table, savoring Bertha's carefully prepared soup—its aroma now wafted from the kitchen, redolent of coriander and smoke-kissed trout. Annabelle would serve, Halewick would ensure decorum, and Betram might join them briefly to fix a wobbling chair. Outside, somewhere, the masked intruder who dared to break into Viscounti's salon could be plotting another move. And Merlin would be ready, or as ready as one could be, armed with quiet diligence and soon, a little more tangible protection.
In that subtle interplay of ordinary and extraordinary, Merlin took solace. He was not alone; he had the steady rhythm of the boarding house staff, the small kindnesses of a well-run home, and the texture of life's simpler moments to anchor him when all else seemed uncertain.