Morning's first light traced pale lines across Merlin's attic walls. He rose quietly, washing his face in a small basin and straightening his vest. Today he had a purpose beyond errands and polishing lanterns: he would visit the Red Lantern sign and seek out the retired watchman rumored to provide lessons in marksmanship. With Wintrell's advance safely tucked in his vest pocket, he felt the weight of responsibility and choice. He must do this carefully—without raising suspicion among the boarding house staff or the city's watchful eyes.
Downstairs, the boarding house stirred into its daily rhythm. Mistress Halewick reviewed the day's bookings, her dark auburn hair pinned neatly as always. Bertha kneaded dough in the kitchen with energetic gusto, flour dusting her forearms. Annabelle polished the silverware with quiet diligence, humming a tune so soft only those standing close could hear. Betram collected tools to fix a loose latch on a window upstairs. All of them wore calm, familiar expressions—each person a steady line in the tapestry of this household.
Merlin offered to run the morning's errands—post a letter for Wintrell, purchase fresh cream from the dairy vendor, and pick up a jar of honey from a corner store. Mistress Halewick, eyeing him briefly, found no fault in his request. "Be quick about it, Merlin, and don't forget to ask about the delivery of those linen sheets." She handed him a scrap of paper detailing the order.
He nodded with his usual polite efficiency and set out into Storshallow's early bustle. The city awakened with a murmur of voices and mechanical hums. On the main thoroughfare, a mixture of traffic rolled by: a horse-drawn carriage trotted along, its driver tipping his hat to a passing mechanical hansom that hissed gently on its runic charge. Merchants opened shutters to reveal displays of fabrics, tools, pastries, and trinkets. Overhead, a pigeon alighted on a wrought-iron balcony, cooing softly as it watched the humans below.
Merlin completed the first tasks swiftly. The letter was posted at a small stall near the central plaza, where a clerk with ink-stained fingers sorted mail into pigeonholes. The cream and honey were procured from friendly vendors who recognized Merlin's face from previous visits. He chatted mildly, deflecting casual inquiries with cordial vagueness. No one needed to know he had a private errand after these.
By mid-morning, he slipped into the quieter lanes near the craftsman's district. The heavy scent of varnish and sawdust hung in the air. Artisans shouted instructions to apprentices over the din of saws and hammers. Merlin followed the tinkers' instructions from yesterday—two alleys past the clockmaker's tower. The tower loomed ahead, its upper balconies bristling with gears and chimes, and he could hear the faint tick-tock of a public clock face turning.
Turning down a narrow alley, Merlin found the sign: a wooden plank with a faded red lantern painted upon it, its paint chipped and peeling. Beneath it, a small door with a brass knocker. He swallowed, heart steady but cautious. He rapped lightly—three measured knocks.
Footsteps approached. The door opened to reveal a man in his late forties, lean and wiry, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes were keen, set beneath strong brows. He wore a simple shirt rolled at the sleeves and trousers belted at the waist, no adornments beyond a battered leather bracer on one forearm. He looked Merlin up and down, cautious but not unfriendly.
"Yes?" The man's voice was low, steady, like someone accustomed to giving clear orders.
Merlin dipped his head politely. "Good morning. I was directed here by a discreet notice—marksmanship lessons, taught by a retired watchman?" He kept his tone respectful, calm, and earnest.
A flicker of recognition crossed the man's face. He glanced up and down the alley before stepping back. "Come in quickly. Don't dally." Merlin slipped inside, heart thumping lightly.
The interior was modest: a single large room divided by a wooden screen. A small table held a half-eaten loaf of bread and a jug of water. On one wall hung an old watchman's coat—dark green, trimmed simply. Another corner held a rack displaying a few firearms of varying sizes: simple single-shot pistols, a longer musket-like piece, and one or two intricate repeating pistols that looked costly.
"I'm Alrick," the man said, resting a hand on his hip. "Used to be city watch years ago. Now I teach a few private clients who need to handle a firearm safely." His gaze sharpened. "Who are you, and why do you seek lessons?"
Merlin inhaled, choosing his words with care. "My name's Merlin. I serve as an assistant at a reputable boarding house. My employer, a visiting scholar, may require travel through uncertain districts or late errands. I wish to learn basic marksmanship for self-defense—no troublemaking, just safety." He patted his vest pocket meaningfully, letting the mention of payment remain unspoken but understood.
Alrick studied him for a moment, as if judging character. "You look honest enough. No ruffian's swagger about you." He approached the gun rack and tapped one of the simpler pistols. "Lessons cost two silver crescents per session. You'll need at least a few sessions—handling, loading, aiming, maintaining. Ammunition and range fees extra."
Merlin considered the funds Wintrell had provided. He had enough for initial training and still some left for the eventual firearm purchase. "That's acceptable. When could we start?"
Alrick grunted thoughtfully. "I use a private range behind a friendly cooper's workshop. Quiet spot, no prying eyes. Early mornings or late afternoons best. You must keep this discreet. The watch keeps records, and though teaching's not illegal, they don't like seeing ex-watchmen freelance."
Merlin inclined his head. "I understand completely. Discretion is key."
"Good. Meet me tomorrow at dawn by the old well behind the cooper's shop—three alleys east of here. Bring a few silver crescents, and I'll supply a training pistol and blank rounds first. Once you're confident, we'll move to live ammunition." Alrick paused, eyes narrowing. "If I suspect you're up to no good, I'll end the lessons. Agreed?"
Merlin nodded firmly. "Agreed. I have no interest in causing harm, only preventing it."
They shook hands. Alrick's grip was firm and steady. "Tomorrow, then. Don't be late."
Merlin thanked him and slipped back outside. He retraced his steps through the alley, heart lighter with the progress made. Once on the main street, he blended effortlessly with the crowd. A horse-drawn wagon passed, piled high with crates of apples, the driver humming a tune. Behind it, a mechanical delivery cart hissed softly, its driver tapping runes on a small console. The city's dual nature again.
On his return, Merlin stopped by the linen supplier to inquire about Halewick's order. The clerk there—an elderly woman with thick spectacles—assured him the new sheets would arrive in two days. He thanked her, pocketing the delivery note, and made his way back to the boarding house.
Inside, he found Annabelle arranging fresh flowers in the hall vase. She cast him a curious glance. "You took your time with the errands," she said gently, not accusing but noting.
Merlin offered a mild smile. "The dairy vendor was chatty today. Had to wait while he sorted fresh cream from yesterday's stock." He lifted the small jar he'd brought back, still cool to the touch. "But I got what we needed."
Annabelle nodded, satisfied. "No harm done. Mistress Halewick stepped out to speak with a neighbor about guest referrals. Bertha's in the kitchen making a new batch of rolls. Betram's… well, somewhere around," she ended with a wry little shrug.
Merlin placed the cream and honey on a side table, then turned to go check on Wintrell. Before he reached the stairs, Betram emerged from a corridor, carrying a small oil can. The handyman paused, squinting at Merlin. "Got the linens sorted?" he asked, voice gruff but not unfriendly.
"Two days," Merlin replied. "The supplier apologized for the delay."
Betram grunted. "Not unusual in these times. As long as the guests don't complain." He wiped his hands on a rag. "By the way, found no mice or anything odd in the cellar last night. Probably just the old wood settling."
Merlin inclined his head. "Good to know. Stability is best, yes?"
Betram snorted faintly. "You're an odd one, Merlin—always so calm. Good quality in a place like this." With that backhanded compliment, he moved on, muttering about a squeaky floorboard near the second-floor landing.
Merlin headed upstairs and lightly knocked on Wintrell's door. The scholar's voice invited him in. Inside, Wintrell studied a set of notes at the desk, a quill scratching over parchment. He looked up, raising an eyebrow in inquiry.
"All errands done, Master Wintrell," Merlin reported quietly. "And… I found a watchman willing to teach marksmanship. Lessons start tomorrow at dawn, privately."
Wintrell's lips curved slightly, relief in his eyes. "Excellent. Discreet, yes?"
Merlin nodded. "He insisted on it as well. I'll learn gradually. In time, we can secure a license and a modest firearm. No rush, better we do it properly."
The scholar tapped the quill against his thumb. "Agreed. Good work, Merlin. We proceed with caution, as always."
Merlin left the room, the tension in his chest easing. Plans were in motion. He had found a path that might protect them, and he had done so without drawing suspicion from the staff or exposing their secret inquiries. Outside the window, a faint neigh drifted from the street below—another horse-drawn carriage passing. Life in Storshallow continued seamlessly, unaware of the small knots of secrecy tightening behind closed doors.
As afternoon light slanted through the parlor windows, Merlin helped Annabelle dust the mantel, straightened a few chairs, and listened to the distant hum of the city. Soon he would learn to aim and fire a pistol, a skill that felt alien yet necessary. He accepted this new step with the same calm he brought to laying a table or folding linens: just another task to be mastered, another thread woven into the tapestry of his second life.
The day wore on in peace and routine. And beneath that surface, Merlin carried the quiet knowledge that he was steadily equipping himself for the shadows lurking at the edge of their world.