All things in their place, inkwell near full to overflowing, and not a speck of dust upon her desk, Remoulade let out a sigh of weary boredom. Normally, she valued the uneventful nature of the graveyard shift, yet at the moment, Remoulade could barely stand it. Her last client had been a near-unbearable boar, so insistent that they knew how things should go.

But no, she'd sorted out the awful fellow and had him and his particulars stowed away, forms filed all to protocol. It was at times like these that she pondered the strange dichotomy of her profession. The rewards were rich and many, but at times, when faced with the silo-faced parishioners that so often formed a near-endless line before her desk, she felt that perhaps those same said compensations were a barely sufficient salve to such irritants.

A second sigh escaping her lips, Remoulade's eyes darted to the small clock kept at the back of the kiosk that was her workspace. Moment by moment, its hands ticked ever on. Impatient, she pushed on those limbs, willing them to pick up their pace and let her shift be done.

The weight of her focused gaze seemed to do the trick, and with a tick-tick-tick, they jumped forward a bit. Satisfied with the visual progress, Remoulade pried her rear from the confining cage of her chair. As she rose, she was assailed by the needles that were the all-too-common consequence of her extended sedentary existence.

Bracing herself against her desk, she stretched in relief, waiting for the moment of discomfort to pass. Barely a few moments were left till the end of her shift, and then she could disappear deep into the catacomb of high-walled bookshelves she called home. She needed rest—a reprieve of sorts—but the office had been short-handed as of late.

The reasons had been all hush-hush, a matter for upper management, obviously, so Remoulade had cleared all concerns regarding the lack of manpower from her plate and simply focused on her day-to-day. Shaking off the momentary introspection and consideration of office politics, Remoulade reconfirmed the empty queue and decided to take a chance.

Tempting fate, she turned to her fine tea set and, scurrying behind the back of her chair, began to arrange things just the way she liked to enjoy a celebratory late tea. Crouching down to reach under a pile of precarious books, she began to inch out the fine imported tea that served as a potentially vital support for the tower.

Carefully, slowly, breath held, she slid it out from the prodigious weight, breath catching a moment as the books wobbled to and fro. For a moment, she felt real concern raise its head and wondered if she'd be buried beneath the hardbacked bodies of her trusted friends. Yet her concern passed as the impending literary landslide settled.

It was precarious, true, but the tower of volumes still stood. Following suit, Remoulade rose to her full and inconsequentially negligible height. Prying at the well-stoppered tin of tea, Remoulade nearly overbalanced as it came free with a pop of force. Regaining her balance before she went careening into the well-disguised clutter of her cubicle, she scanned the immediate vicinity to make sure none of the remaining coworkers on the graveyard shift had noticed her.

Her quick survey complete, Remoulade brought the tin to her nose and breathed in deep the rich and heavy flavors of the dried leaves, intoxicating somehow, both bitter and sweet. Quickly moving about the tight confines of her workspace, she crossed to her burner and, twisting a knob, heard the click-click as a spark caught and the fire lit. A smile split her lips as she set her kettle upon it.

Her mood feeling improved, Remoulade called out to her sleeping assistant, an uncustomary sing-song lilt in her voice. "Wing-Gyatt! Care for a cupper, old man?" Hearing no response, Remoulade began to turn the corner where the old buzzard slept, only to stop mid-turn as a man suddenly appeared before her booth, letting loose a ghastly scream.

Quickly tucking the jar of leaves into her pocket, disregarding the bulge created, Remoulade smoothly slipped back into her seat, adjusting her glasses, and spoke. "Name, nature, and relevant claims." The words, having become rote by now, flowed easily in spite of the sudden appearance of the client before her.

By all appearances, the young man was human, though it was hard to tell with his features frozen in a horrified rictus as they were. "Sir, no need to be distressed. Just step up to my desk, and I'll have everything sorted for you in but a moment, I swear." Words clearly unheeded, the man stumbled back, a palsied trembling working its way through him. Remoulade did not like the look of it, and, in all honesty, she didn't like the look of him either.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

His clothing may have been fine, but it was hard to tell under the wine stains and what she hoped was mud. Blonde hair, cropped in what she would have to guess was fashionable for the time, the man was young, at least as far as Remoulade could guess, the range narrowing as she inspected his still-boyish features to something in the ballpark of twenty years, though maybe a smidge less.

If she had to place the young man's nationality, Remoulade bet on him being from somewhere between Etilan and/or Hallosian border and found herself wondering if a new bout of clandestine intermittent warfare had broken out in that region once more. She supposed she'd find out in due time if it mattered at all. Regardless, the boy was clearly out of his depths—unsurprising, considering this seemed to be his first death.

Gathering her patience, Remoulade addressed the recently dead and departed ghoul that stood before her once more. "Sir, if you would kindly step up to my desk and give me your name, circumstances, and if any greater or lesser power has a claim on your soul, I would be more than happy to assist you." Glassy-eyed, he just stared at her as silence stretched, only at last breaking as her kettle reached the proper heat and began to shriek in protest.

With a shuddering jolt, the young man leapt back. A misplaced foot sent him stumbling, tumbling, falling ass over teakettle. It felt almost practiced, the sort of performance born of years of effort—perhaps he was a juggler, a professional fool, a performer of some kind, though she doubted he was a proper bard. Fighting back the unprofessional smile, Remoulade turned to address her assistant.

"Winnie, be a dear and help the man up. He's clearly having a rough time." Peeking through from between his dust-draped wings was the gimlet eye of a wakeful vulture, who was seemingly struggling as manfully as herself to hold back laughter. The old buzzard, her true and tested assistant of more years than were worth counting, hopped down from his perch where he had previously been resting.

Winnie, as she called him—or Win-Gaytt, who whispers all your dirty secrets, as he was properly known—hobbled across the ground, his sharp talons scraping on the stone firmament beneath his feet, closing in on the young man. Winnie's voice came flowing out from between his beak—it was fitting, age-ravaged and mischievous. "Well, well, don't keep her ladyship, the clerk archivist, waiting. Up, up, boy, get up. You have legs for walking still," he said to the petrified parishioner.

By way of congenial chiding, the charismatic old bird was able to convince the clearly traumatized apparition to uncurl from the fetal position and approach Remoulade's kiosk. Reaching it, the young man seemed to grasp at the edge of Remoulade's desk with a near-desperate fervor, as if it were the last bastion of normalcy to which he could hold in the face of the absurd.

It probably wouldn't have done the lad any good to know that the fine ivory of the countertop had been carved from the discarded molar of one of Remoulade's former coworkers, who had retired perhaps one or a hundred summers ago.

The man took in a few slow and calming breaths—though ineffectual, they seemed to do the trick—as, raising his eyes to meet her own, he clearly prepared to speak. But before he could gum things up any further, Remoulade beat him to it.

"Hello and welcome, sir. I am Miss Remoulade Marmalade, who doesn't murder the poor," she said, gesturing to her assistant, "and this fine gentleman beside you is Win-Gaytt, who whispers all your dirty secrets. May I assume this is your first time here? Clearly, you have questions, and we will answer them all in due time. But first, sir, I must know your name, circumstances, and whether or not there are any claims on your soul. Quick, quick, tell me your tale. I'll get you squared away, and then you can be on to whatever god or demon you prefer, if that's your inclination."

"What? I'm... demon?" said the man at last. "But I'm not... God?"

"Well, yes, sir," Remoulade replied. "A place for your soul to rest. It seems only fitting. Now, sir, please, your name or affiliation, if you would."

"Stop, stop, stop," cut in the young man. "Listen here, Remoulade, or whatever your name is, I'm not signing up for whatever you're selling. Just point me back to the main street, and I'll be out of your hair."

Remoulade had tried to extend what little patience she had left to the young ghost before her, but that patience was growing thin. "Sir, I understand this can be difficult for your sort, but I would suggest you mind your tone."

"My sort?" said the man.

"Mistress," cut in her assistant, a tight word of warning, reminding her to at least try to maintain, even at the end of her shift, a modicum of respect—respect for the lesser spirit that was an unawakened ghost. "Sir, I suppose this is your first time—first time, yes, dying."

"Well, yes," stuttered out the young man. "I suppose... wait, no, I am certainly not dead. How would I be talking to you, then?"

She said, "Ah, I see. You're one of those."

"Those?"

"Stupid."

She had tried; she truly had, to be patient, thought Remoulade, as Wingaytt let out an exasperated sigh of commiseration.

"Anyways, sir, if you could just confirm," she said, pulling a heavy book and placing it on the counter, watching words flow to fill its vellum, "that this is your name," she said, pointing down to a script that wriggled and flowed in a way that caught her interest even as much as she wished it did not, for there were a few languages she did not know.

"My name?" he said.

"Yes. Is this your name, your name and story? I am required to at least initiate a recording of them before you can be processed, sir."

Looking up into her eyes, the man said, "I don't think so."