"Whether it was a week or a month, I know not. The panic and despair made it rather difficult to focus on all that surrounded me."
Cardinal Jean-Paul, Date Unknown.
Francis arrived at the bar well past the usual hour, the morning sun already high in the sky. He nudged the door open, expecting the familiar clatter of mugs and chatter, only to be greeted by an almost empty room.
"Francis," barked a voice from behind the counter. "Nice of you to finally show up."
He looked up to see Maura, the burly woman who ran the place. Her arms were crossed, eyes narrowing in mild annoyance.
"Morning, Maura," Francis said, ducking his head.
"Morning?" she snorted. "It's nearly noon, lad. You slept through half the morning."
"I… lost track of time," he admitted, with a polite shrug.
"Lost track of time, eh?" She tapped a finger on the counter. "You know, most people would've been fired for that. But somehow, I keep giving you chances."
Francis inclined his head. "I appreciate your understanding. It won't happen again."
Maura's scowl softened, just slightly. "See that it doesn't. Now, get to work. Tables won't clean themselves, and the few customers we have need tending."
He nodded again and got to it. The day was mercifully quiet; only a couple of patrons lingered, and he moved through his duties efficiently. Polishing mugs, counting coins. It was all routine, almost meditative.
It wasn't long before the old man appeared, the same gnarled figure from last night, shuffling toward him with cautious anticipation.
"Good day, lad," he rasped, producing a small notebook. "How… how goes it? Have you… deciphered more?"
Francis's stomach twisted slightly. Speak the truth and risk the old man learning too much too soon. Lie and cheat him of a keepsake he had guarded for decades.
He paused, letting a moment stretch between them. "It's… progressing," he said carefully, measuring each word.
The old man leaned closer. "Progressing?" His eyes sparkled with hope. "Can… can you tell me more?"
Francis considered, counting the risks in his head. "The poem… it's more than just words," he said. "It leads somewhere, but… it requires patience. And discretion. I can't—" He stopped himself, choosing his words. "I can't speak too freely, for fear that it might fall into the wrong hands."
The old man's brow furrowed. "Ah… I see. You're careful. Good. I trust you, lad. You know where I… where I've kept it all these years. I'd rather it remain safe."
Francis inclined his head. "Of course. Safety comes first." He gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile, both to reassure the man and to reassure himself.
"Then… I shall wait." The old man shuffled back, the notebook tucked under his arm.
Francis exhaled softly once the man was out of sight. Truth, as always, was a dangerous thing, and discretion was a weapon he wielded better than most.
Not long after the first old man shuffled away, another figure appeared near the counter. Francis looked up and recognized him immediately—the bishop of the local chapel. His robes were worn but clean, and the subtle scent of incense clung to him.
"Ah," Francis thought, "an esteemed guest indeed."
The bishop gave a polite nod. "Good day, Master Francis. I trust you are well?"
"As well as one can be," Francis replied, inclining his head in a gesture of feigned reverence.
The bishop's eyes twinkled. "I hear tell you have been quite the helper for our less literate townsfolk. Admirable work."
Francis managed a modest smile. "I do what I can."
The pleasantries passed, and the bishop's gaze grew a touch more serious. "I come with a proposition," he began. "Our town, as small as it is, lacks learned men of your caliber in the clergy. We would be honored to have you join our ranks."
Francis blinked. "Join… the clergy?" His mind raced. "I—I'm not sure about… the vows."
The bishop chuckled. "Ah, yes. Times have changed since the Cataclysm. The vows are not what they once were. You may still own property, live freely… and yes, marry, should the lady of your choice be willing."
Francis's stomach twisted. "I see…"
The bishop leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. "I couldn't help but notice you and Miss Camila entering together the other day. Quite the charming pair, I must say."
Francis felt heat rise to his cheeks. "I… that is…" He coughed, flustered. "I wasn't aware that… um…"
"Awareness aside," the bishop said with a knowing smile, "she is a fine lass. Reverent, clever, and devout in a way most cannot match. You would be a fortunate man indeed if she bore you children."
Francis nearly choked on his ale. "I… I appreciate your… assessment, bishop, but…" He ran a hand through his hair, trying to regain composure. "I will… think on it."
The bishop's face broke into a pleased grin. "That is all I ask, lad. Consider it carefully. And remember, the Lord favors those who are patient in their choices."
Francis gave a small nod, inwardly groaning at the relentless matchmaking and his own flustered reaction. The bishop, satisfied, moved on to greet other patrons, leaving Francis to breathe a quiet sigh of relief—and to silently curse his unlucky timing.
As the bishop moved off, Francis leaned against the counter, staring into his half-empty mug.
"Everyone has an opinion about my life," he thought, swirling the ale absentmindedly. "Marry, settle down, serve God, guard a treasure… as if I have time for any of it."
He glanced around at the other patrons, most of them laughing at some joke that had likely been told a dozen times before. Their lives seemed measured in mugs and gossip, predictable in every way. He felt the familiar pang of detachment.
"And yet…" he admitted to himself reluctantly, "there's something comforting about it. Even if they're cattle, living in their small pens, it's… life. It's steady. And I suppose I need a bit of that, or I'd go mad with my own plans."
His eyes flicked to the corner where the old man had been. He'd have to be careful—treasure-hunting was thrilling, but secrecy was vital. The contrast between his ambitions and the townsfolk's simple pleasures had never felt so stark. And yet, for a brief moment, he understood why they stayed: it was easier, predictable, safe.
"I don't belong entirely to either world," he thought. "Not their small, safe one… not yet my grand one either. But maybe… maybe that's enough for now. Just enough to keep me sane while I figure out the rest."
As Francis' shift ended, he slipped out of the bar as quickly as he could, the setting sun painting the streets in warm amber.
He paused for a moment, letting the quiet of the evening wash over him.
Why do I even keep this job?
Two bronze a day, forty days off a year—aside from weekends—were nice enough, but hardly worth much. Low-ranking pirates at sea earned more in a single raid than he did in a year.
"At least I'm not getting tortured by the Royal Navy anytime soon," he muttered under his breath.
His thoughts drifted, inevitably, to the treasure. He would need an excuse to cross to the neighboring islands—news of such excursions would spread like wildfire among the townsfolk. They weren't exactly bright, but they weren't foolish, either. Curiosity and idle time made for efficient gossip.
A pretense was crucial. But what could he possibly use?
Francis was about to return to his planning when an all-too-familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Francis!"
He turned, frowning. Camila was there, hands clasped together, eyes wide and bright.
"I—I can't right now," he said quickly, holding up a hand. "I have… things to do."
"Things to do?" she echoed, tilting her head. "But you promised last time! Just a little? Please?"
"I really—" He paused, glancing at the street. A few villagers had already noticed her call. Their eyes were small sparks of curiosity, the beginnings of whispers. "I don't have the time today, Camila."
Her bottom lip trembled slightly, and she leaned a little closer. "But I've been waiting all afternoon. I even skipped the chickens!"
Francis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Camila…"
"You're so dishonest," she said softly, a mock pout. "You always have excuses."
"I'm not… mean," he said, though his voice softened. "I just have… work. Important work."
She pressed a hand to his arm. "Is it really that urgent?"
He hesitated, feeling the tug of her enthusiasm against his own plans. "You do know… I can't stay too long. I have to…"
"To what? Solve a puzzle no one else could ever understand?" she interrupted.
Francis blinked, caught between exasperation and amusement. "Something like that," he admitted reluctantly.
Her smile widened. "Then come on! Just for a little while. I won't let it take over your whole day."
He groaned, but the warmth in her eyes, the persistence in her voice… he could feel the pressure melt. "All right. An hour. That's it."
"Yay!" she squealed, grabbing his hand and tugging him down the street.
He followed, muttering under his breath, "I'll regret this…"
The village watched them go, silent witnesses to another chapter of whispers and speculation. Francis didn't care—at least, not entirely.