'An artefact has to be involved,' I concluded. It was the only logical explanation that I could think of. Most of the letter was unreadable; to try to comprehend it as it was now would be a waste of my time. There was a thought that bothered me though: what about others? What if, say, my sister Lune were to pick up that letter? Would she then be able to read its contents, or would it appear the same to her as it did to me? It was something I wanted to clear up as soon as I could. If she found it by accident, and it did appear to her as it did to me, what was I supposed to tell her then?
Not that I had an idea of what to tell her now either if I were to simply walk up to her and show her the letter. I kept it in my drawer, hidden away underneath the pile of all the random stuff that Zoras kept in there. For someone as studious and systematic as him, almost to a fault, it was quite unusual, but nevertheless, that very unorderlyness allowed me to keep it hidden away. Even someone like him had his blindspots, I suppose.
I sat down on the bed, my legs crossed and my hands holding the bowl of soup Lune so graciously prepared for me, I began sorting things out. First, I needed to figure out my memories. The fact that there wasn't a test today was something that I was already informed of this past month. Now, getting my memories would be the quickest way for me to figure things out, but as things stood, it was perhaps the most difficult endeavor as well. Next was the letter, which was equally confusing. Most of it, I could not read, but the few bits here and there that I could read suggested a struggle. There was someone, or perhaps something, after Zoras. It was Zoras who wrote the letter, but to whom he addressed it, I could not read. Whatever might have been the circumstances though, one thing that I could deduce was that, in some capacity, large or small, Mr. Douglas was involved.
As to how he was involved, that was what I wanted to focus on for that day, but before that, I needed to get myself something to protect myself with. In this country, owning a gun was, in fact, legal, but what stopped most people from owning one was the price. I was definitely richer than most of the people in my neighbourhood, but not rich enough to be able to buy a real gun. As such, I would need to make do with what I could afford.
I could ask Fjorcroft to get me one, and I would probably get quite a decent one, but then I would also need to explain to him a bunch of stuff. I pulled out my drawer, and from there a thin notebook. This was my passbook.
'I'll be able to afford something,' I thought. I finished the bowl of soup, and then went downstairs to finally freshen up. I messed up the order of things a tiny bit, but then again, it was my first day in this world. After that, I went back to my room, picking my overcoat from the hanger behind the door. I walked back down.
'I'll be heading out for a bit,' I told Lune.
'Take care,' she said as she waved behind me.
'I will,' I replied, taking my leave.
I was still cautious; it had only been a few hours since the last…encounter. Of course, I knew full well that a gun would be useless against them; even I could say that based on what limited interaction I had—if you could even call it that, but if it helped me the slightest—if I could only safely make an escape—that would be enough for me.
What I felt then was not something any ordinary person of this world could do. In fact, Zoras had never witnessed, or even read about something like that.
'Why must I be the one to clean your mess?' It was as frustrating as it was dangerous.
It was a short walk, partly because I walked as fast as I could without straight up running.
Should I really be doing this?
I stood in front of an abandoned warehouse. This was a place that Zoras had only once heard of from Fjorcroft, a place where they sold fake guns. Now this was illegal, mainly due to a concern of safety. You see, the difference between something from here and something from the shop down the city square was that the guns here would heat up rather quickly, and perhaps they might even blow up in your face—but that wasn't a problem for me. Why? Because all I had the money for was buying a simple pistol.
The atmosphere here was eerie, but that had little to do with the fact that there was probably someone stalking my every move at that exact moment. I stepped into the warehouse, cautious of each step I took. I could hear the faint sound of machinery in the distance, somewhere below me, probably.
'Who might you be?'
In the very corner of the room, lit only by a candle, was an old man, and behind him, on show, were all the guns that I couldn't afford.
'I-I'm here to buy a gun.'
'Why not the shop down the city square?' he asked, all the while rubbing a wine glass with a piece of white cloth.
'I…I don't have the money for that.'
'So you say,' he said, putting down the glass and placing the cloth in a corner of the table in front of him. 'So? How much do you have?'
'Eighteen pounds,' I said.
The old man laughed. 'Child, do you want me to blow a hole through your chest?' He narrowed his eyes, examining me from head to toe. 'Listen kid, all you'll get for that price is some old, flintlock pistol, and those things went out of fashion a decade ago. Do both of us a favour and return when you have more money, alright?'
'I'll take that.' I said immediately.
'Huh?' The man looked at me, wondering if the words that left my lips and the ones which he thought he heard were the same. 'To think someone would want to buy a flintlock in this day and age.' He walked out the counter, to a room behind him, fading into its darkness. As for me, I stood in a corner, leaning against one of the pillars of the old warehouse with my arms crossed, waiting; and wait I did for quite a while, but eventually, the man returned, and in his hand: an old, dusty pistol made primarily out of wood, with metal forming the moving parts, painted in a shade darker than that of the wood being used.
'Thought I'd at least give you something that looked decent,' said the old man as he put the old pistol on the table. It had probably been decades since it was made, yet there were no signs of rust on it.
'Seems pretty well kept for a flintlock,' I said, trying to crack the tense air, but the man simply looked at me with a vexed face. 'Of course, we value our creations here, unlike those bastards in the city. Now,' he lifted the gun and put his index finger on the trigger, then pointing it upwards, he pressed it. The loud gunshot reverberated through the walls, persisting longer than it took the bullet to reach the ceiling. 'Eighteen pounds,' said the man.
'O-of course!'
I pulled out a cheque from my pocket and wrote down the amount. The man, again, looked at me as if he was wondering why on Earth was I even here in the first place, and I was slightly worried that this was one of those places where they didn't take cheques, and that I had to hand over the money in cash, but that did not seem to be the case, and the old man, albeit rather reluctantly, took my cheque and handed me the gun.
'Listen, Kid,' he said, his tone that of a warning. 'The next time you come here, come with the money in cash,' he paused, 'and have some money in the first place. Now get out.'
'I-I will!'
I rushed out of the warehouse, not turning back. It was scary, too scary.
I'm not meant for this, mannn!
After a while, I made it to the main market, and from there I could slow down, even if only a little. I made sure to hide my new pistol inside my coat, since I didn't exactly buy it legally. There were still rules in place when it came to owning firearms: namely, you needed to "register" yourself, and that registration took place the moment you bought your firearm, but since I didn't buy it legally, that part never happened. In other words, right now, I was owning a firearm illegally, and I could very well find myself in prison for it. There was a silver lining though. Since Zoras' brother, Fjorcroft, worked in the government, he could pull some strings and get me registered, or the best case scenario, give me enough money to go and buy an actual gun, but again, the problem with that was that I would have quite a bit of explaining to do.
I had a means to run away now…or at least, I hoped, so I wasn't that keen on taking the most crowded path I could possibly find. In fact, that now worked to my disadvantage—what if I accidentally shoot a civilian?
While on my way, I passed by an unsuspecting yellow tent, small, with a piece of cardboard leaning against it. On that cardboard, written in bold, white letters, was the identity of this small little tent: Lorienne's Divinations. Perhaps it was something about the white letters contrasting on the black background, or perhaps it was the tent itself, ordinary in every way, but a stark contrast to its surroundings filled with stalls, some selling fruits and vegetables, others selling wooden toys for children—but instinctively, my eyes were drawn towards it.
I didn't enter it though, no: I merely looked at it for a moment before moving forward with my day, but from that tent left a young woman, her steps hasty, and in that haste she crashed onto me, the slips of paper she held in her hands flying around us as we both fell onto the ground below.
'I'm so sorry,' she said, almost immediately as she started collecting all the slips.
'It's alright,' I said, helping myself up, before giving her the helping hand. After that ordeal, she simply bowed, thanking me, before taking her leave, her feet still clattering.
'Was she a noble?' I wondered. She appeared familiar: her long, wavy blonde hair, with bangs framing her small face, and her almond eyes that reflected the sun's warmth. She wore an emerald green dress, with golden trims and layered frills, a dark brown corset around her waist, and the frilled collar of her white blouse visible above that as the dress tore into a V shape from her cleavage to her shoulders.
From the quality of the fabric to the intricacy of the design, it was most certainly quite expensive, which made me wonder if she was a fallen noble like myself. I didn't consider her being a true noble for one particular reason: she would be risking her life being here. There had been quite a few cases of murders of nobles in the neighbourhood. The fact that the killer hadn't yet been arrested, or that the investigations themselves barely made any progress instilled fear in the hearts of many nobles.
The common folks were discontent and afraid of the nobles, and right now, the nobles too were afraid of the commons: I could only hope to not die being caught up in the middle of whatever mess was about to unfold.
And if she was in fact a noble, I could only pray for her safety.