Evening settled over Storshallow with a mellow hush, and the boarding house's dining room hummed softly with voices and the gentle clink of utensils. The soup, flavored by the precious coriander pods Annabelle had procured, elicited quiet murmurs of pleasure from the guests. Mistress Halewick observed all with a keen eye, nodding slightly at Bertha's skill and the unobtrusive service Merlin and Annabelle provided.
Merlin stood near the sideboard, ready to offer fresh bread or refill a cup of tea. He wore his usual attire—vest neatly buttoned, sleeves rolled just enough to keep his cuffs clean—and listened to the low conversation at the table. Davren, the traveling merchant, compared markets in distant towns to Storshallow's bustling square. Master Wintrell, quieter than usual, offered polite acknowledgments rather than engaging deeply. Merlin noticed Wintrell's gaze drifting now and then, as if still pondering the night's intrigues and the future acquisition of a firearm.
When the meal concluded, Halewick dismissed them with a crisp, "Thank you," and the guests retreated to the parlor or their rooms. Merlin cleared plates, carefully stacking them for Annabelle to wash, while Bertha tidied the kitchen. Betram popped in, muttered something about checking the cellar locks before bed, and vanished down a corridor, lantern in hand. The ordinary rituals comforted Merlin, anchoring him before he embarked on his quiet quest tomorrow: finding the retired watchman under the Red Lantern sign.
Later, Merlin stepped out into the courtyard behind the boarding house to breathe in the night air. The distant sounds of hooves and wheels on cobblestone drifted over the walls. Though mechanical carriages had gained popularity in certain quarters, traditional horse-drawn carriages still plied the city's older districts. Their drivers favored routes where narrow lanes and ancient stone bridges suited hooves better than gears.
He leaned on the low garden wall, watching as a horse-drawn hansom ambled by on the distant street. The gentle clop of hooves contrasted with the near-silent glide of mechanical carriages he'd ridden in with Wintrell. In these older quarters, tradition held firm. Some nobles insisted on sleek black coaches drawn by matched grays, their harnesses chiming softly. Merchants' wagons, piled high with crates, rattled along behind sturdy draft horses. Even a few hired cabs still employed a single mare or gelding, trotting steadily as they ferried patrons late into the night.
This mixture of old and new extended to how people traveled. While Wintrell had embraced the mechanical carriage for speed and efficiency, others cherished the romance and reliability of a living horse—an animal that required care, skill to handle, and offered a reassuring warmth. Merlin found the contrast soothing; it reminded him that not all of Storshallow's wonders were fueled by runic batteries or steam boilers.
A muffled sound drew Merlin's attention to the side gate. Annabelle stepped through, arms folded against the slight chill. Her hazel eyes reflected the glow of a nearby lamppost. She offered a gentle smile. "All finished for the evening?" she asked quietly.
Merlin nodded, shifting his weight. "Yes. Everything's in order. I thought some fresh air before bed would be good."
Annabelle considered the street beyond the courtyard. "The city feels calmer tonight, don't you think? No incidents like what Master Wintrell hinted at before." She spoke carefully, not prying but acknowledging the tension that had crept into their lives these past days.
Merlin managed a reassuring smile. "Things are stable here. Mistress Halewick keeps a good house." He paused, then added softly, "If we can handle our roles well, perhaps we can keep it that way. People come and go, some with heavier secrets than others. We just need to ensure none of that disturbs our peace."
Annabelle lowered her gaze, her expression thoughtful. "You're right. I suppose we all play our part." She glanced at the moonlit sky, the triple crescents faintly visible through a veil of cloud. "Strange times, but we carry on."
With a small nod, she headed back inside, and Merlin remained for a moment, alone with his thoughts. Tomorrow he would slip away for a brief time—perhaps during his midday errands—to locate the watchman who might teach him marksmanship. He would say nothing to Annabelle or the others. They didn't need that worry. For them, life was a matter of fresh groceries, tidy linens, and polite smiles. Let it remain so, he thought, as long as possible.
He crossed the courtyard and re-entered the kitchen, where Bertha dried her hands on a towel. The plump cook smiled warmly. "Was the courtyard cooler than you expected, lad? You've got a bit of a chill." She gestured to a kettle steaming on the stove. "Have some hot chamomile before bed, calm your nerves."
Merlin thanked her softly and poured himself a mug of the herb-scented brew. The warmth spread through him with each sip, easing the knots in his shoulders. He imagined the city outside: horse-drawn carriages and mechanical ones sharing the roads, scholars and thieves rubbing shoulders in shadowy alleys, and relics of old gods hidden in locked attics and submerged vaults.
After finishing the tea, Merlin slipped upstairs to his attic room. From his small window, he watched the silhouettes of horse-drawn coaches meandering along distant roads lit by gaslamps. The scene was a quiet painting in motion, each carriage lantern flickering like a firefly in the dark. He noted how the city balanced progress and tradition, comfort and danger.
As he prepared for bed, he considered the coming meeting with the watchman. He'd need to phrase his request carefully, emphasize self-defense, and perhaps mention he worked for a respectable scholar and a reputable boarding house. Connections mattered. If the watchman asked for references or proof of identity, Merlin could produce a brief note from Wintrell—an indirect endorsement. Money helped, too. The purse in his trunk would cover lessons and maybe even a down payment on a modest firearm. But he had to be patient, never rushing.
Tomorrow's negotiations would unfold like careful diplomacy. He would ask about training discreetly, avoiding any hint of involvement in shady dealings. If questioned, he could simply say that a servant occasionally needed to ensure his master's safety when traveling late or delivering valuable parcels. Such reasoning was plausible enough in a city where small pockets of crime or political tension persisted.
Lying back on his narrow bed, Merlin closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted to Wintrell, who likely sat by a lamp, re-reading notes from the palimpsest encounter. Then to Viscounti's estate, where locks were probably double-checked and guards posted at windows. And to that masked intruder who vanished into the night—would they strike again?
The boarding house's steady rhythms lulled him: muffled footsteps, a distant cupboard closing, a faint hum of a lullaby Annabelle might be singing to herself in the linen closet. The staff's personalities surfaced in his mind like comforting lanterns: Annabelle's quiet kindness, Bertha's hearty practicality, Betram's gruff diligence, Mistress Halewick's unwavering standards. They deserved a peaceful haven. He would help maintain it, even if it meant stepping into a world of bureaucratic permits and firearms training.
Outside, a lone horse-drawn hansom passed, its driver humming a low tune as the horse's hooves tapped a gentle cadence. Merlin listened until the sound faded into the hush of midnight. In that moment, he felt a strange blend of resolve and serenity. He would face what came next—mysteries, dangers, and the careful acquisition of means to protect himself and Wintrell's endeavors—with steady hands and a calm spirit.
Beyond his window, the world turned slowly, weaving the old and the new together. Storshallow slept, dreamed, and carried on, and so would he.