I think that I shall always remember Sylvionne Street fondly. It is a quaint little part of the Quarter where the air almost always holds the hint of freshly-baked bread from Umphrett's bakery, which stands just across the street from my loft apartment above the dry good's store.

Though centrally located within Temple, it being a bit off the way from the main thoroughfares that pass through the locale assures that it has always, and likely will always, remain something of a small and unnoticed little community; a fact that has always suited me quite nicely.

It was the middle of the workweek, though chance had me homebound due to my recovering from a minor chill that came over me the day before. Normally I would've slept a spell longer or perhaps enjoyed the sunrise from my apartment balcony, but a fitful night's rest worrying about my reduced wages from sick leave had already soured my morning. Thus, I was awake long before the cock's crow and found myself braving the crisp morning air as I made my way across the street.

It is a little known fact that Umphrett's bakery actually doubles as a small outdoor cafe, and thus it's morning pastries are something of a closely guarded secret by locals. I was overjoyed to find that I was the first to arrive that morning, and quickly picked out my preferred seat nearest the street so that I would be sitting in the warmth of the newly risen sun, and it was several minutes before the eponymous proprietor noticed my arrival.

She ambled her way over with a cordial smile and greeted me, asking how I was and if I were there for my usual, to which I responded affirmingly to both questions despite my mood.

She had just left after setting down my gray and a fresh bagel when a shadow fell across my table from over my shoulder.

At first, I thought that she had merely forgotten something and came back to resolve it, but when the shadow did not move, nor speak, I turned around to find myself peering into a pair of beady brown eyes set into slight, unkempt face. He was slouching terribly, and what's more, wore a cat-like grin buried amid patchy stubble.

I grimaced, recognizing the imbecilic smirk almost immediately and callously turned my eyes back to the book in my hand. I was mildly annoyed, but not at all surprised when he passed by me and proceeded to take the seat across from me at my table. Knowing that further attempts to ignore him were about as likely to succeed, I sighed deeply, marked my place and met his eyes, to which his smile only widened.

"Shall I presume that you're stalking me for some particular reason, Mister Dobbs?" I asked harshly on the off-chance that his unwelcome presence was not infinitely obvious.

"What?" he asked, trying to look and sound hurt by my tone, "Can't a fellow just drop in and say hello to a friend?"

"Only when they are wanted," I hissed and began opening my book again. This man was, in fact, an acquaintance of mine through work. Jeffrey Dobbs, 35, and in the employ of the local post as a mail carrier. He was in my office at least two or three times a week to drop off letters and records from clients.

In most cases, I fondly welcomed my consistent visitors, and would gladly partake in conversation with them to break the daily dredge. Dobbs, however, was an exception, in part because he was crude, ornery, and dull-witted, but largely because he was also an accomplished prankster.

Dobbs looked aghast, and chuckled a little, "Ah, still sore are we? Can't much blame ya'--I did go a bit overboard with that last one. But here, let me pay for your breakfast, as recompense for my crimes."

I piqued a brow and looked sidelong at him. He was wearing the smile of a baffoon, but the glint in his caramel eyes seemed sincere, so I relented.

"There's a girl," he said as he pressed a small silver coin on the table and motioned for the proprietress. After he, too, had been served a drink, he leaned over, "So I wanted to tell you that I'd be leaving town."

"Oh?" I said, still feigning a bit of prudish nonchalance, "For long?"

"For good, I think," he said with a short rasp. "My mother, you see, she's getting on in the years, keeps coming down with the fever and can't much get out of her lodgings. Figure I'd be a good son and move back to take care of her."

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"Would it not be more judicious to have her come here? You'd no doubt find better care and amenities in the city than--where did you say she was from again?"

"Aye, the Fjordsgate," he replied solemnly, and with good reason. The region he spoke of was a long way from Nevaryn, at least a week by coach. Longer for anyone inexperienced with mountain travel, and with too few stop-offs for a sickly old woman to travel.

I took a drink and looked away, feeling a little abashed at my statement. "That's very thoughtful of you," I said, finally, "I wish you the best."

"Appreciate that, Miss Cleyne," he said, though I did not yet look back at him. "Incidentally, I'm glad I bumped into you this morning. You...uh...know this city quite well, don't you?"

I took another sip and allowed myself to glance at his face. There was a certain eagerness to his tone, yet it was hushed as one that was about to disclose some incriminating secret. I was not quite sure what to think of this change, but whatever the case, my curiosity was piqued, and so I nodded questioningly.

"I've been, err--" He paused to look around. "Ya see, I've also been carrying letters for a particular noblewoman in the city--privately, of course!--and she would like it very much if I could find someone trustworthy to exclusively deliver them in my stead. Given that you pass by her estate on your way into Sullivan's"--the name of the records office where I work--"I thought you might perhaps be interested."

My brows immediately sunk and I went to reach for my book, "I'm afraid I've no interest in working for the post."

"Not for the post," he rasped a little, his voice accidentally breaking the hush. I paused, surprised, and withdrew. Suddenly the thought of this secret being somehow implicative seemed a touch closer to reality. Yet for whatever reason, I opted to hear the man out; I think because I was curious if Dobbs was perhaps more than just the run-of-the-mill postal worker I had taken him for and had indeed committed himself to something illicit.

"It's a...private contract, you see. Not illegal, though I don't figure my job would be right pleased if'n they found out, you see."

I asked him why, to which he merely responded with how much the affair paid, which happened to be almost double for one day than my own salary made me in a week's time.

"She's certainly the generous sort," he said, nodding at my sudden interest, "Little strange if you ask me, too. Rumors say she's the last of her name, and she lives all alone in her estate save her butler. Me, I don't much pay no mind to it long as I go home with coin in me pocket. So what do you say?"

I told him I would consider the offer, opting to allow myself a night to think it over, though I confess only so I did not seem desperate. The offer was too lucrative to pass up for what little work that was required of me, and what with things the way they were for me financially, how could I possibly refuse? Thus, when I met him again the next morning, I formally accepted the job with little hesitation.

I spent much of the rest of that morning discussing how the assignment was to operate. It was simple enough: Lady Eizenstrauss would arrange for me to pick up letters at her estate's mailbox and carry them wherever in the city they were required to go. Typically there were only a few letters at a time, and most of the time they were either in the Old Imperial district or one of the surrounding sections of the city.

In some rare cases, I might be sent across town on special errands, though I would, of course, be amply compensated for my time. This compensation, he said, would be delivered to my home address, which I would have to provide when I picked up the first delivery along with a few other minor details.

"Won't I need to meet with Lady Eizenstrauss personally to discuss these arrangements?" I asked, my natural sense of curiosity getting the better of me.

"There won't be any need," he said as the two of us enjoyed our tea outside one of the countless small street restaurants common to the Temple quarter, "I've provided all the direction you need. So long as you follow them, you'll be fairly compensated."

"Haven't you ever met her?" I pressed a little harder.

He shook his head. "I've only ever met her servant--Basil, I think his name was. He's a strange chap as well, real pale like and young to boot. Curse me if I don't wonder why for all the world he'd choose to be a servant.

I paused to drink a little, then continued, "Doesn't she worry about the trustworthiness of those under her employ?"

He gave me a keen smile. "She has a way about her, I think, of knowing someone's character without even having met them. My guess? She probably looks up your record and if'n you don't meet her criteria, she cuts you loose and finds someone else. 'Spose you'll find out after a few days, won't you?"

"I suppose so," I said wearily. This had not satiated me, and the more I thought about it, the wilder my interest in my new employer became.

I knew the name 'Eizenstrauss'. Everyone did. They were one of the oldest names of Nevaryn City, and perhaps even the whole of Svietsylvania. My lack of deeper knowledge on them was likely due to the fact that the name had dwindled to almost nothing within the past few decades, no doubt caused by the outbreak of the Gray Fever a few years before.

There was something else, though. Something I was forgetting, though for the life of me I simply couldn't place it. Nevertheless, I bid my friend a final farewell and he offered me luck in my new enterprise, towards which my mind was occupied with for the better part of the evening.