BRRRRRRRRING!

"Ah, Ah, Ah!"

Slam! The alarm clock fell to the floor.

Asher gave it a disgruntled look before deciding to generously spare its life.

Rolling out of bed, he quickly rushed to the washroom and began brushing his teeth. Staring back at him was a young man, not more than 5'10", looking around 19 or so. He had dark brown hair with red scattered throughout, reminiscent of maple leaves in the fall.

His eyes were black, full of mischief, yet he still had a refined look about him. Asher pondered whether to wear his suit jacket or a windbreaker, both of which had seen better days.

"Well, it's been quite rainy, I suppose."

He donned his black windbreaker, matching it with a pair of grey slacks before heading downstairs. He brewed himself a cup of tea and tore off a chunk of bread.

It had been about a month since the tragedy that night occurred. Asher wasn't privy to the actual details, but he suspected over 170 people lost their lives that night. Professor Hofsberg never visited the history department afterward. Though the writing was on the wall, he still struggled. Coming to grips with his absence was harder than he expected. He wouldn’t want me to wallow in sorrow. What would he say? Maybe something like:

"Quit your crying, silly child."

Wiping the morning frost from his window, he gazed upon Menthil.

Outside, he could see the city around him stirring.

Ding, ding, ding.

The clock tower in the local cathedral at Kensington and Hobble began its daily toll, announcing the hour for all to hear. Crows stirred, no doubt angry to be awakened. Hundreds of them flew off to begin their days, leaving only a few stray feathers. The never-ending fog blanketing Menthil obscured much of the morning rays. Drearier sights could scarcely be found.

Asher finished his breakfast, making sure to tidy the mess. He grabbed his umbrella. Just as he locked his door, he looked up in time to catch a young girl doing the same. She had shoulder-length brown hair that fell in long, springy curls. Her hazel eyes sparkled as she turned toward him, and he offered a polite smile. Janice, whom he'd never really spoken much to, responded in kind before walking toward him.

"Nothing to do but to do it," he muttered to himself.

Asher put on his hat before turning toward her, forcing a beaming smile.

"Lovely morning, isn't it, Janice?"

"Indeed, Mr. Morretti. Please make sure to stay warm."

Asher waited for her to pass and walk toward the parlor before heading downstairs. As he opened the door, it took a bit of willpower not to close it and promptly retire to his warm bed.

The morning frost, paired with Menthil's inexhaustible supply of fog, was truly a deadly combination. He pulled his collar tight and began briskly walking. Kensington Square was bustling with all sorts of street vendors. Commoners, peasants, street girls, hawkers, and pickpockets all contributed to the chaos.

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Stepping in something dreadful was the least of his worries. Inside his windbreaker, he tightened his grip on his wallet.

After about half-past, things around him began to look a little more respectable.

He had entered the western borough, mostly home to the middle class.

Soon, he saw a sign reading "Bolard Consultancy" hanging from a second-story building.

Turning toward the door, he raised his hand and knocked.

Asher double-checked that the chimney was on with a confused look.

Deciding he'd rather not tarry in the cold, he entered the building. Greeting him was, of course, an empty hallway.

Somewhat mocking himself for his ineptitude, he put on his most professional expression.

Psyching himself up, he even tried to make his steps up the stairs sound confident.

Cresting the stairwell, he glanced over at the reception desk. "Sitting" there, he saw a girl slumped over a newspaper.

"Ahem... AHEM!"

Jolting awake, the poor girl looked around like a child afraid of receiving a scolding. Noticing something, she calmed down quickly, straightened her hair, and wiped her drool. With perhaps the most shameless decorum Asher had ever seen, she brazenly looked over as if nothing untoward had ever occurred.

"Hello, how may I help you? Do you have an appointment with Detective Bolard?"

Feeling a bit amused, Asher approached her desk, taking off his hat.

"Yes, I'm here to interview for the assistant position."

"Ah! You must be Asher, then. I'll let the detective know you're here early. Please have a seat. Would you like coffee or tea while you wait?"

"Coffee, please—a bit of cream if you have any. Thank you."

"Just a moment, by the way, you can call me Liz."

It was maybe a quarter past when Liz returned with a steaming cup of coffee. Glancing at it, he noticed it had cream in it. How luxurious, he couldn't help but think.

"Mr. Bolard is ready to see you. It's the last door on the left."

Wasting no time, Asher thanked Liz and knocked on the door. It looked like a normal office. In fact, he noticed several similar doors as he approached.

"Come in," a stern voice resounded through the door.

Asher twisted the knob and entered, looking toward the desk.

Detective Bolard appeared to be a man in his 40s, balding a bit.

He had black hair and blue eyes, with a somewhat lost expression. Sitting at his desk with his jacket draped over his chair, he seemed to be nursing a hangover. Asher thought he seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember where he had seen him.

"Good morning, Mr. Bolard."

"Yes, hello there, Asher. Have a seat. Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

"I'm a grad student—a research fellow at Hearth University studying history. I'm an orphan, grew up in the lower boroughs. I live off Kensington. I used to aid the church in administrative duties at the orphanage."

Mr. Bolard didn't seem surprised that he was an orphan, or at least he didn't show it. Perhaps it was a common occurrence nowadays, as Asher pessimistically believed.

"Often in my line of work, a bit of negotiation and persuasion, so to speak, is necessary. Do you think you're capable of providing such services?"

Asher thought for a moment, wondering why Mr. Bolard would resort to such sophistry.

"Well, I'm not formally trained, but I've certainly seen my fair share of 'debates' in the lower boroughs. I don't think I'd be found wanting if ever the need arose."

Mr. Bolard chuckled, appreciating Asher's dry humor.

"So, what's the reason for a research fellow at Hearth answering my help-wanted sign?"

Asher contemplated whether he should bend the truth a little to save face; he decided to be honest.

"To be frank with you, detective, my research fellow position earns very little. If I'm lucky and downright frugal, I take home perhaps three crowns a month."

Mr. Bolard's eyes seemed to light up at his forthright answer.

"I see, so it's for money... good, good, excellent. Well, Asher, how would you like to be my assistant?"

Asher was absolutely ecstatic; however, he didn't let it show.

Quickly, he doused his joy, gathered his manners, and responded.

"Well, I can only hope for a successful partnership, detective."

Mr. Bolard pulled a drawer out and fished a cigarette tin from it. Turning to Asher, he offered him one before striking a match and taking a deep drag.

"Go see Henry; he's two doors down on the right. Tell him you've been hired. He will know what to do... As for your pay, you can ask Liz to help you."