Chapter 4: Merrevin Street

Ting! Ting!

The bell of the shop, Whispering Pages, rang as I entered.

I stepped inside, immediately noting the small and slightly cramped nature of the shop. Books were tightly stuffed into every available shelf, leaving little room to spare.

This looked like the store of a typical Victorian man, with a clear intention of saving as much as possible. The owner, who soon caught my eye, seemed to be around fifty with much of his hair already turned grey.

He was dressed as you'd expect a typical Victorian man to, in a black suit with a vest, notably absent of any tie. He expertly pulled on a cigar, inhaling and exhaling without once removing it from his mouth; quite the veteran I say.

Perched on his head was an old-fashioned and rather inexpensive cap, often humorously termed the baker boy cap or the newspaper boy cap, becoming something of a uniform for them.

Such caps were usually adorned by older gentlemen or those of modest means, signaling their humble socio-economic status. And, of course, you'd see these caps on the heads of newspaper boys, complete with their bags of papers, a signature look for them. Yet, there was another group that favored these flat caps: the gang members.

Shaking my head, clearing those thoughts, I approached the man who had kept his gaze on me.

"Quite the thinker I see," he commented casually, observing me.

"Indeed." I didn't allow a smile to break through, keeping my expression resolute. I consciously deepened my voice, aiming for it to carry an icy detachment that would serve as a silent signal not to trifle with me.

Yet, my intentions might have faltered due to the unfamiliar muscle memory of this body.

"Pfft." A muffled chuckle, along with a swirl of cigar smoke, slipped from the store owner. My rigid posture, juxtaposed with my serious demeanor, apparently made for an incongruous and somewhat amusing sight.

Just imagine the scene of the most badass character you know with seriousness and coldness flashing through his eyes. But then his shoulders were raised a little too much, his back slightly bent as if it was aching, making him look like an absolute clown. Ha, such imagination scared me.

"Work for a circus, do you?" The man inquired, finishing his bout of laughter and wiping away a non-existent tear from the edge of his eye.

"Mr. Tinker, a deck of antique cards and a bottle of ink," I remarked, reverting to a more regular tone.

"You're familiar with me?" Mr. Tinker queried, pulling out a metal case from a drawer, which resembled the ones used for cigars but was meant for cards. Setting it on the counter, he then rummaged through another drawer and, after a few seconds, procured a transparent ink bottle filled with blue ink.

"So you're into antiques?"

"In a manner of speaking," I replied with a slight grin.

"Anything else on your list?"

"Yes," my tone shifted, deepening with some authentic seriousness.

"What is it?"

"12 cartridges."

"Cartridges?"

"The kind used for specters and wraths." As I spoke, my left palm, which was resting on my hip, subtly moved the coat aside to reveal the pistol.

Despite catching a glimpse of the pistol, Mr. Tinker remained unfazed. Instead, he inquired further.

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"I don't understand, sir."

"Stop playing innocent, Cliveas Tinker. I'm certain you've replenished your stock, especially after the recent magic raid in this city."

Instead of responding, Cliveas remained silent, squinting his eyes as though closely observing me. After a tense pause that felt like an eternity, he finally broke the silence.

"Who gave you this address, sir?"

"A gentleman with a distinctive smile, I believe."

"Hmm, an intriguing way to describe someone. What was this gentleman's name?"

After a brief pause, I redirected, "My cartridges?"

"On their way."

With that, he rose from his seat and ambled toward a shelf to his left. Reaching for a notebook, he swiftly returned to his desk. With precision, he tore a small slip of paper and, taking a pen from the table, scribbled something down, concluding with his signature.

"Anything else?" Cliveas Tinker inquired, suddenly looking up at me.

"Yes, a martial arts manual."

"Martial arts?"

"Indeed, the kind that will guide me."

His eyes lit up with understanding. It was a coded request for a magician's guide, an essential tool to help scholars transition to Master.

Acknowledging my request, Cliveas repeated his earlier process. He handed me both papers, which I promptly slipped into my trousers pocket.

From my wallet, I laid a pound on the table — a pound for a deck of cards and an ink bottle.

Collecting the deck and ink, I approached the exit.

Ting!

The bell chimed as I pushed open the door. On the cusp of leaving, I looked back.

"Mr. Tinker, you're not only a good man but also a devoted husband and father. Value your family."

Caught off guard, Mr. Tinker was momentarily spellbound. My parting words snapped him back to the moment.

"Keep the change."

"Change?" He echoed, eyes darting to the pound on the table.

"Wait! It's one pound and three shillings!" He exclaimed. But then, a wistful smile spread across his face.

...

After exiting the shop, I navigated through a series of alleyways until I found myself on Merrevin Street. As I stepped onto this path, a wave of unease washed over me, though I kept my face impassive. The reason for my apprehension was an event from the novel: the Battle of Merrevin Street, also known as the protest on Merrevin Street.

As I strolled along, I spotted the municipal square situated at the intersection of Merrevin Street and Ironcut Street. The area bustled with numerous stalls and a dense crowd of people.

'Is there a festival coming up?' I wondered. After all, municipal squares were primarily venues for circuses and festivals.

As I walked closer to the tent, it dawned on me that this entire setup was for the festival called Festum Messis Lupercon, celebrated by the church of Mother Nature. This was a significant festival, with preparations commencing three months in advance. A grand 12-day affair that would kick off on June 18. While some might consider such extensive preparations a tad much, it was a necessity. After all, most of the people in this nation held a deep reverence for either Mother Nature or God Eternal.

That sound pulled me back to reality. Good heavens! I had been so engrossed in the sights and mysteries of the city that I completely forgot about breakfast! How could I, of all people, miss a meal? The very idea was ludicrous to someone as food-obsessed as me.

Spotting a nearby stall, I decided some quick street food would remedy the situation. Though street food might be a tad oilier than I'd prefer for breakfast, at this point, it didn't matter.

"How much for this mutton chop?" I inquired, mouth-watering.

"5 pence," responded the vendor, flipping the chops on the grill.

Without hesitation, I handed over a grey note, equivalent to a shilling.

The man looked a bit flustered. "Sir, I don't have enough change. The day's just begun, you see."

I grinned, "No worries. I'll take ten plates then."

"Ten plates? You're joking, right?"

"Dead serious."

"Each plate comes with three chops, you know."

"I'm counting on it."

"Once I serve them, no refunds."

"That's fine by me."

He hesitated for a moment, then sighed in resignation, quickly arranging the mutton chops on the first plate.

"About the remaining fifty pence, sir?"

"Hand it back," I said, unflinching, as I accepted the plate of three mutton chops from him.

The plate of mutton chop in front of me seemed more enticing than any lady I had ever seen. Those perfectly round, tender chops...

I laid my palm on one, which was roughly half the size of my hand, squeezing it a few times. Its softness, even if it didn't completely fill my palm, was on another level.

When I bit into it, the rich juices flooded my mouth, almost like a direct ticket to culinary heaven.

"Ummmm!"

For someone starving like me, everything tastes divine, and this was no exception. Without a care for decorum, I eagerly bit off another piece.

Within half a minute, all three chops from the plate had vanished. Licking my fingers, I looked up at the cook.

His mouth hung open in an O-shape, a picture of shock. I just smiled at him.

"My second plate?"

"Coming right up!" He said, and quickly served up another plate. This cycle repeated for a few more rounds.

Munch! Munch!

Clap! Clap!

By the time I was finishing my final chop, the man had started clapping, whisking away the plate as if he feared I might start on the plate itself next.

"Was it good?" The cook questioned, his smile hinting at satisfaction as I licked my lips.

"Indeed, it was delightful. But maybe, just maybe, I had a tad bit too much."