Head ringing. What passed for blood ran freely from her nose. Remoulade used her free hand to stem it. Crossing to where Wingyatt lay, Remoulade inspected her insensate assistant. His outburst had been largely unexpected. She wondered if it had been the liquor that got his spirits so up. Still, Remoulade was glad she had done no serious harm to the silly bird, who looked far older than he was.
Glancing over her shoulder, Remoulade observed Crispin receiving the tender ministrations of Berta the cow. The young man looked as if he had been run over three times, if not more, but at a glance, Remoulade figured he’d live, which she supposed was good. With the unsanctioned out-of-office adventure concluded, Remoulade could sneak back home, none the wiser, with no need to fill out any additional forms.
Wearyly, the junior clerk let her attention wander. Some paces away, the well-meaning and unfortunate soldiers who had stumbled into the night’s adventure seemed still to be among the living, maybe a little worse for wear, but that was not really her concern.
Remoulade nodded in appreciation as a looming, red-lipped figure inspected the unconscious soldiers. Remoulade’s thoughts halted, and her focus sharpened upon the figure who had not been there before. Their garb was fine; their features indistinct save for their bright red lips. They communicated inquisitive humor and filled the young clerk with dread. A blink of her eyes, and the figure was gone.
“Well, Miss Marmalade, a rare sight to see you out of office.” The voice came from just behind Remoulade. Without turning, she recognized it—a perfect fit for the lips that birthed it. Turning slowly to the cart once belonging to the late Giuseppe, the elder smuggler and carter, Remoulade found her direct supervisor, the Master Archivist, Lourn, who shelves forgotten thoughts. Edit note: (Might change name to Lore Morning Empty Shelves or Lourn.)
Starlight waning, the sun just beginning to wake, Remoulade could make out only the barest shape of Archivist Lourn, sitting pretty as you please upon the cart. “So, young Remoulade, is all this business or social?” asked Lourn, loosely gesturing to take in the entire tableau.
Before Remoulade could say anything, Wingyatt spluttered awake, took in the situation, and quite clumsily tried to escape. Leisurely, Lourn’s hand seemed to reach out—neither stretching nor distorting space—yet somehow grabbed Remoulade’s ever-loyal assistant by the wing and held him in place.
Voice low, the Master Archivist continued, “I myself was out for a bit of a midnight stroll. There’s this shipwright I watch over; he’s absolutely obsessive. Nearly every thought seems bent to his craft. So delicious—I’m infatuated. Anyways, I creep into his shop, thinking to watch him burn the midnight oil, only to find he’s run off. Apparently, his great-nephew is gone missing. Well, I know the lad. I’ve watched him crawl under benches since he was a little golden-haired thing. No talent for his family’s craft, still he’s sweet.” Speech breaking off, Lourn began to stroke Wingyatt as if he were some sort of misshapen cat.
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“Junior Clerk Archivist Remoulade Marmalade, who doesn’t murder the poor—our policy on out-of-office operations is quite clear,” Lourn resumed abruptly. “Considering the nature of the infraction, I’ll make time personally to receive your report. Consider yourself on leave till then.”
Having yet to say anything at all, with a flick of the master’s fingers, Remoulade was sent flying back through space and time. Tumbling end over end, feathers flying, she and Wingyatt arrived—or landed—haphazardly in her cubicle. The tea she had set, the teapot still whistling, the clock ticking, the time to end her shift just passing.
Thump. The thick mists of the office did nothing to cushion Remoulade’s fall. She stared up at the impenetrable ceiling, thoughts spinning, limbs tangled, the weight of a distressed Wingyatt heavy on her chest, the implications of her actions crowding her thoughts. In spite of it all, Remoulade smiled.
**
"I'm just going to check."
"No, Gran said to leave 'em alone."
"Let go, let go, ouch!"
"I'm telling!"
"Nooooo!"
Crispin woke to the running and shouting of children. A smile spread across his face as he heard the tiny footfalls on the creaking floorboards. Was this a dream? Suddenly, a weight fell across his abdomen. Pain exploded throughout Crispin, the sort too awful to be a dream.
It forced him up, coughing. Instinctually, Crispin's arms wrapped around the thing that had fallen onto him. In surprise, it screamed, thrashed, and wiggled. Eventually, the red-faced head of Crispin's nephew popped out from the blankets.
From the nearby door, a voice called out. It was shockingly loud, and Crispin immediately knew it as his little cousin Nessa. "Mama, Gino woke Crispin! Auntie Orsola, Crispin's up!" The girl, barely 12 years old, went running off, her voice foghorn loud.
Thoughts still spinning, a second form impacted Crispin. Looking down, he realized Gino's twin sister, Dora, had flung herself at him, and the two twins were crying. Putting aside his pain, Crispin swept the twins into a tight bear hug.
Crispin ignored his niece and nephew's apologies, explanations, and protests that he was getting tears and snot all over them, and pulled the little hellions in all the closer.
"Uncle, you big crybaby, stop it, or you'll make Gino cry," sobbed Dora, snot dribbling down to her chin, her brother red-faced as he unsuccessfully held back his own waterworks.
"Liar, you're the one crying!" exclaimed an indignant Gino.
"Nuh-uh, I ain't crying, you bedwetter!" shot back his sister as she scrubbed at her own tears.
The twins' nascent argument came to a halt as a firm knock resounded from the doorframe. Standing there, a sight more presentable than when he was the captain who had tried to come to Crispin's rescue, was the man. In the light of day, Crispin could see the epaulets he wore more clearly, along with a rosary of the Church, which was odd.
“Ah, I see you're up," said the older man. "It seems that we fell into more than we had expected.”
“I..."
"It's all right. In the dark of the night, the world's firmament grows thin, lad. We know you were not acting under your own power. Still, my superiors will have some questions..."
Whatever else the man was going to say was lost as the thump of many feet came toward Crispin's door. Leading the parade and shoving aside the poor soldier was Crispin's grandmother. Her first words upon seeing him were, “Crispin, my lovely, beautiful fool, what did you do this time?”