7 : 224 : 10 : 21 : 44

We see off the pair of soldiers, who take off in a hurry to apologize to the Duchess together. Big deal. If it were me, I’d gas him, but I can already tell Irifan’s not the type to blow her top over one raunchy letter. She's got bigger issues to worry about. If anything, I find myself secretly envying Milton. He’s got it all. Sane, non-violent friends, caring colleagues. Initiative. A badge. You miss all the shots you don't take, I realize that now. Everyone in this place loves Irifan. I should step up my game too, to not get left last in the race.

Then Lieselot drags me back to earth from my insightful inner soliloquy with a loaded question.

“Weren’t we supposed to do something?”

“Oh crap!”

The letter to Irifan’s aunt. Mr Aimes’s money.

We’ve been through such a roller coaster of drama and emotion today, I was getting ready to roll the ending credits, but the job's not done yet. In fact, we haven't taken a step out of the start square yet.

“This day just sucks!”

“For once, I agree with you,” Liselot says, nodding.

What do you mean, for once?

I still mourn the fate of my favorite bag, though. Milton promised he would fix the strap and I don’t doubt he can. These medieval handymen can do anything. But that doesn’t help me much right now. I feel practically naked without my key accessory. To begin with, he mutilated the bag for nothing, since the letter was never in there but in my cardigan pocket. Right here—

“—Huh?” I stick my hand into the pocket. For some reason, I don’t feel any paper or sharp corners in my fingers. Only my own leg. I reach a little deeper in. “Huuuuuh!? Where’s the frigging letter!?”

Moth bastards have eaten a hole in the pocket!?

The letter’s gone! It must’ve slipped out when we were chasing that punk!

“Zero...” Liselot gives me a hollow stare.

“Cover your ears and fuck me sideways.”

We’ve got some serious searching to do.

We backtrack the way we came towards the bakery, but see no discarded letters. The day’s not that windy, it should still be on this side of the mountains. What latitude, that's another matter. I don’t even know any handy search spells. I could track mana, to an extent, in theory, but letters typically don't emit supernatural energy. In other words, I'm all up the shit creek here without a paddle. At times like this, magic is completely worthless!

There's no choice but to do this the old-fashioned way. The way of Columbo.

We move on to interrogate every soul we come across along the length of the street, if they’ve seen anything resembling a piece of paper rolling about in the recent hour. Who the hell even pays attention to things like that?

Amazingly enough, someone always does. One old dude claims he saw another guy pick up what might or might not have been a letter only a little while ago, and that guy took off towards the north. We hurry to where we assume is north and continue to harass the townspeople, and eventually bump into a nice aunt walking her dog, who saw a man matching the description pass down Tapton Street. And where the hell is Tapton Street? In Sheffield? I need a fucking map!

Thankfully, there are signboards with street names at every major junction. It's the first time I feel literacy is a good thing to have and not just a curse to make your life harder. In time, we find the right way and along that lane run into another guy, who saw the guy we were looking for go into the local post office. Actually, it turns out this is the guy who picked up our letter and did that. Neither of us noticed he perfectly matches the description we’d been repeating to everybody on the way to this spot.

What can I say? All these faceless extras look the same in my eyes.

Like any law-abiding citizen, our guy took the letter to the local post office, because—what the hell else would you do with a letter you’ve found? I never thought people could be nice like that without anybody paying them. Maybe there is good in the world? And thinking about it further, maybe we should’ve gone and asked the post office first, instead of panicking and wasting so much time running in circles, bothering random bystanders? Which is word-for-word the conclusion we reached with Sir Milton in the earlier chapter, but I already forgot about that.

Something tells me neither Lieselot nor myself are very cut out for this spy crap. Not that there’s any actual spying going on. It couldn’t be that we’re just not suited for human life in general? It's the one thing you don't want to have in common with your friends.

Either way, suited or not, giving up is not an option for us. The hero always finishes what she starts. Like her subscription after the first free month with Netflix.

So we proceed next to the local post office to question the employees. The postal workers are not at all happy to answer our questions, spouting far-fetched excuses like, “letter confidentiality,” “right to privacy,” “business ethics,” and more blatant horse shit made up to distract us. I bet those people are foreign spies in disguise. We may be a little slow on the uptake at times, but we're not completely stupid, and I'm getting that letter back, even if I have to tear down the building brick by brick.

Finally, after providing the receptionist—and the director who was called for backup—a detailed description of the envelope, when it was lost, who it’s from, and who is the recipient, they begrudgingly choose to believe our story and give it back to us. I was three more “not possibles” away from disintegrating everything. But all's well that ends well, right?

Now I make sure to put it in the other pocket.

The silver lining in this stinky smog cloud is, the post folks also tell me where to find the house of Herman Gottfield. Which I fortunately remember right as we're about to head out. See? Things can work out when you put your mind to it.

We head to Mr Gottfield’s house directly from there, and find he’s the town’s blacksmith.

Mr Aimes owes the smith for an old order of baking trays, which he shares with us, though we're not interested and didn't ask. Mr Gottfield is also reluctant to receive any money from us and instead views his work a mere favor for a friend. On that note, he wants us to take the money back to Mr Aimes. Liselot and I make it clear to him this is not a smart move.

Following eloquent persuasion, Mr Gottfield thinks things over and decides to use the money to pay back a debt of his own. He tasks us to deliver the coin purse to Mr Hawthrop two blocks away. Mr Hawthrop turns out to be a barber, responsible for keeeping the blacksmith's impressive beard in shape. He strongly feels the money in the purse is way more than what Mr Gottfield ever owed him, and that he had forgotten all about the debt by now. How do these people stay in business?

Some subtle silver-tonguing is needed again to keep things in motion.

We instill some basic American values in Mr Hawthrop, how having more is always better than having less when it comes to money and donuts, and whether you strictly need it or don't is entirely beside the point. Upon carefully mulling it over, Mr Hawthrop then tells us his wife had previously ordered three breads and a pie from Mrs Aimes, and if we took the excess money to the bakery, it would make everyone happy and we could keep any leftover change. I'm so upset almost everyone here has a wife.

The merry-go-round brings us back to the starting point and nets us whopping six coppers as a reward. With six coppers, you can buy maybe a glass of water, so I gift my cut to Lieselot.

I’d be mentally and physically ready to go back home at this point—but I still have Irifan’s letter in my pocket.

“You go on without me, Lis,” I tell my friend as I lay dying over Mrs Aimes’s counter. “I can’t make it. You have to see this to the end, for both of us. For Irifan.”

Lieselot isn’t having any of that. “You’re not dying until you’ve paid for my apple tart!”

And I called this place paradise? I gather the scraps of my waning strength and turn to the baker.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where a guy called Jánnes lives?”

I don't even have a last name to give. Irifan said that would be enough, but how could it be? There was never any hope. Just a fool's hope.

But Mrs Aimes looks at me like I’m a bit daft and answers right away,

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“Why, of course I do. Anyone would.”

Mr Jánnes Mercier happens to be the Mayor of Morelieu.

I didn't know that.

Irifan’s aunt is the Mayor's wife. What a small world. And could these people please stop flaunting their wives already?

The Merciers live in a big mansion along the main street, as previously told, and it’s definitely not that hard to find, if only you have at least one functional eye. The house is a lot taller than the others around it and has a stout quality fence going around too. If not for the bakery side quest and the bag thief, we would’ve been done with this job in under ten minutes and I'd be back home masturbating by now. Chris almighty.

Now, the sun’s getting low and orange by the time the gate of the Mayor’s house is in front of us.

An older woman comes out to meet us.

A tall, gray-haired crone in an olive-green dress. She looks closer related to granny than Irifan. A grouchy, thin, wrinkled lady in her fifties, who seems to miss a soft spot for youngsters. Don't tell me it's the fate of all human females to turn into that near the end of their lifespan? I don't want to!

“An express delivery for Mrs Mercier,” I say, while doing my best to hide my exhaustion and profound annoyance.

“About time,” the woman says and takes the envelope from me.

Finally, finally, I can get rid of this damn thing, which had started to burn like toxic waste in my pocket. Only the corners are a little wrinkled, but it's otherwise still in tip-top shape. A job well done. I can’t be 100% sure we got the right person, but I’m too far past caring at this point. Anyone willing to take it will do. And Liselot’s face suggests that unless this circus ends soon, there won’t be any town left here by tomorrow.

Instead of sending us off right away, the woman proceeds to break the seal on the envelope and opens it right there.

She stares keenly at me as she draws out a folded sheet of paper, holds it by one corner and shakes it open in front of my face.

“Huh...?”

Written inside is—nothing.

Not a single line.

The paper is pure white, with not a spot of ink on it.

“Congratulations, Zero,” that woman tells me without a smile. “You’ve passed the test.”

7 : 224 : 04 : 18 : 20

The sun swims past the mountains when I drag my feet back home to the villa. You can be sure I didn’t take one running step on the way.

Who knows how things might’ve turned out after that, but Mrs Aimes saved the day. The baker spotted us going past her shop on the way out of town, and called us in to test-taste her fresh-out-of-the-oven chicken-leek quiche. The hard-earned meal saves peace in the Duchy, and lets Lieselot go home with a content smile. At least one of us got what she wanted from this trip.

I climb listlessly upstairs, praying quietly I won’t run into granny again today.

If I did, I might do or say more things I’d be certain to regret later.

There's not an iota of spare energy or patience left in me for more games and lectures. All I want is a hot bath and then the merciful oblivion of sleep.

Oh god, I still have to fix the window too…

On the way down the corridor, I pass by granny’s room. Through the slight gap under the oak door, artificial light pours over the carpet. Granny seems to be in. On top of that, I hear voices of conversation. Does she have guests in? No, I only sense one presence. She must be on the phone.

Pro mages and alchemists have a nifty crystal-based gadget that lets you link to other similar devices over distance, to transmit sound and even noisy image. They call it…megaphone. That’s the Order’s primary way of keeping contact with agents in the field, without having to depend only on sketchy letters, or couriers that take their time. The megaphone does take a bit of skill with manipulating mana to use, so it's not for everyone.

Normally, I wouldn’t care enough to eavesdrop on her town gossip, but some of the mentioned keywords catch my attention.

The door is closed and locked, of course, but far from airtight, and with how big my ears are, there might as well be no door.

I can’t not hear it.

I do my best to mask my presence and stop to listen.

—“I did receive it, yes, eventually,” another old woman’s voice speaks. It’s fuzzy but sounds a bit like Mrs Mercier. “Though I nearly gave up hope waiting! You would certainly expect an enemy agent to be more effective. And to draw less attention to herself. That girl will be the talk of the town for weeks to come, with those antics.”

“And?” Granny’s voice asks. “What about the letter? Was it tampered with?”

“No, by the looks of it. The seal was intact. Whether or not it was simply skilfully replaced, or restored with magic, I wouldn’t know. I don’t have your eye for such things, Tessie. But I doubt she could have faked that reaction, had she known the contents beforehand. She seemed genuinely mortified. I almost felt sorry for her.”

“Bah,” Master Teresina snorts. “It was just one godsdamned letter, not the end of anybody’s world. She’d better get used to being disappointed if she means to keep hanging out with our lot.”

“Did you ever get used to it?”

For a moment, granny’s voice says quiet.

“What was the message this time?” she then asks with a sigh and I hear her chair creak. “I asked Irifan not to tell anyone on our end.”

“It was the recipe for the cinnamon quill they had at the Midwinter banquet—in invisible ink. A trick as old as time, but your protégé certainly seemed fooled.”

“Tch. Any mage worth her salt would’ve known to at least check for other optic wavelengths. To not have recognized plain lemon ink on the spot, by the scent alone—her mind’s been anywhere but on the job again. That twerp…”

“Does that mean she’s not one of theirs then?”

“So it would appear.” Granny exhales another heavy sigh. “Were it one of his people, he would’ve sent someone...smarter. Someone more pleasant and suave. And we would’ve seen through her a year ago. No. I don't think he's onto us yet.”

“What’s the matter then? You’ve finally found a new friend to your merry brotherhood. Shouldn’t you be glad? If she’s half as capable as Vysania, your future looks brighter than it’s ever been.”

“This and that are two different beasts altogether. She may be no mole, but that doesn’t make her one of us either. Whether we’re doing the world a favor by training her, or sawing the branch we sit on, it’s still far too soon to tell.”

“Don’t you think you’re being overly paranoid now, even for you? Sometimes things can be just what they seem.”

“I’m nowhere near paranoid enough,” granny retorts. “What choice do I have? How many do you think we’ve lost by now? Garnet hit us so damn hard. I’m not scared of bad news, not anymore, at my age. But Irifan...she deserves better. It ain’t right. A child like her—nothing but bad news, one after the other. Hearts can break for less.”

“She chose this Hel herself, Tessie. And she’s not a child anymore. The best we can do is be there for her. Till the end.”

“...It being her own choice doesn’t mean she chose right.”

I’ve heard enough. Granny’s starting to grow suspicious. I can feel her attention shift.

I tiptoe down the hallway and hurry away from the voices’ range.

“Damn...”

I admit it. After a year, I'd already begun to wonder if there even is a secret Order, and it’s not just a bunch of rich, privileged people LARPing to kill time. All for their own good, to silence their nagging conscience. Environmental activists who go wave banners at rallies and then fly home. Company heads who mow down rainforests to make room for their tree-planting PR-campaigns.

But suppose there is a brotherhood. A group of people who actually practice what they preach. Who gave up on luxury and indulgence to try and make a difference. Maybe someone looking from outside would only laugh at their hobbies and say they’re like grown-up children who never moved on from fairy tales. Idealists with their heads in the clouds, who have no idea what real life out there is like. Maybe that someone was me.

But that's the thing. Whatever you think about these guys and their street credibility—they’re trying. It's not for the looks.

Whether they have anything to back up the big talk or don't, they’re serious about it.

I never recognized just how serious.

They’re ready to lay down their lives to make the world of tomorrow even just a tiny bit nicer than it was yesterday. Because they believe it's worth it.

So what am I?

Am I serious about this?

When I told Irifan I wanted to be part of the gang, what did I actually want that day, in my heart of hearts?

All I thought about was me, how I didn’t want to die poor and alone. How I wanted to be part of something bigger. It didn’t need to be the Order. I would’ve been fine with virtually anyone. Even the Thunderbolts. Though those guys are nothing but leftovers from more successful magazines and couldn’t sell a solo issue to save their lives. Like, would anyone know who Bullseye is without Colin Farrell and one of the most panned flops in cape movie history? Fat chance, right?

I fully embraced the role of a clown in their circus, if only it got me out of poverty.

Who they are, or what they do, I didn't really even care. Whether I personally shared their creed or not didn't matter. It was only so much flavor text. The way they helped me, I wanted to return the favor and help somebody else, who was lost and confused, and disturbingly sexy—like me. That’s all. Then we'd have proper balance again. I wouldn't be left forever in debt again, the way I was with the Bengholms.

The Order was only a tool of my self-satisfaction. If we both get something out of the deal, then isn't it fair? Why make it more complicated than that?

But maybe these guys are actually legit?

Maybe they really need all the help they can get.

Maybe they deserve to have it.

Then am I the right gal for them? Am I up to this? Is there anything I actually have worth a damn to give them?

What if I can’t just hack my way through this?

Somehow, that thought scares me like nothing else.

But there’s only one way to know for sure if you have what it takes.

You go to the deep end of the grown-ups' pool, jump right in, and start kicking.

As I’m about to.