Chapter 6: Miss Candy

Three days later in the afternoon, Roland drew a vial of blood early and handed it to the butler.

The man looked somewhat surprised.

“You’re becoming more skilled at this, Master Collins.”

“Isn’t this what I’m supposed to do?” Roland scratched his arm, feigning discomfort. “Seth, you’re going to arrange for someone to help me bathe again tonight. These past few days, my sister has grown increasingly foul, and I feel unwell myself.”

He scratched with such force that his pale, sickly forearm bore red scratches.

Seth looked down at the boy with disdain, yet his voice remained gentle.

“Not today, Master Collins.”

“But I feel terrible!”

“Not today.” Seth lifted the syringe and inhaled deeply at its tip, his eyes glazed with delight. “Today, your father and I have important matters…”

“Maybe you could have a servant—”

Roland suddenly felt the man bend forward, his head swiftly drawing near.

It reminded him of a serpent.

“Master Collins,” the butler’s voice turned icy.

“You should have at least some respect for the Father of All Things…”

“Especially on days of prayer.”

Roland lowered his head and fell silent.

“The pain of losing a child is not something easily soothed. I, along with all the servants, am working hard on this matter. Surely you can understand, can’t you?” His tone suddenly softened, as if a supple tentacle wove its way into Roland’s ear.

“I’ve heard you’ve been spending too much time in Miss Nina’s room lately…”

“Could that be why you’re itching all over?”

Roland shivered and stepped back two paces. “...I’m sorry, sir.”

The flames burning in the fireplace no longer provided warmth.

The room grew cold and damp.

“I expect you to focus solely on the tasks assigned by the master.” Seth clenched the syringe tightly, his tone indifferent. “Miss is tormented by illness, her mind growing more unclear—if you were to become like her, the master might be even more disappointed in you. I suppose that’s the last thing you want.”

“...I understand.”

“Good. I will place cheese, meat patties, and bread in your room.”

“Enjoy your supper.”

Light footsteps drifted away across the carpet, turned the corner, and the door slammed shut with a heavy thud.

Roland stood silently in place.

Until only the crackling of the flames tearing at the wood remained in the room.

‘So that means I have quite a bit of free time.’

The sunlight shifted by a quarter of an hour, but Roland’s calls went unanswered by the servants.

He stood up promptly, buttoned his jacket, took up his cane, and, dressed in a black suit, walked out to the backyard.

The chair where he used to sunbathe was now a footstool for climbing over the wall.

“May the Father of All Things bless me with wings to fly over the garden wall…” The boy clasped his hands and offered a devout prayer beneath the sunlight. “Or maybe just make the wall shorter…”

Apparently, the Father of All Things was not listening.

…

Snake-tail grass, sapphire, oil lamp, cat whiskers.

As he stepped onto the main street, Roland rolled down his sleeves, brushed off the dust and dirt from his arms, and silently repeated the list of required materials in his mind.

The easiest to obtain was snake-tail grass.

There were many herbal shops in the county—mostly frequented by young ladies. Currently, the most popular trend was to squeeze juice from fragrant peachwood onto one’s hair, said to make it softer and emit a scent under sunlight that attracted males.

At least, that was what was said.

Roland visited two shops.

The good news: half a crown could buy ten grams of freshly arrived snake-tail grass.

The bad news: he didn’t have enough money to buy a gemstone.

“Pointed pure sapphire, oil from lamps that have burned through a woman’s tears, mother cat whiskers…”

Roland muttered the items back and forth, found a bench, leaned back, and pulled his hat down over his face.

His ears, like rabbit ears, quietly unfolded and stretched out from beneath the hat’s brim.

Come up with a plan, Roland. Think of a way.

He overheard men chatting about pocket watches, work, and women; women talking about clothing, hair accessories, and lip makeup: who in the capital had designed a new petticoat, or what short socks were made to showcase slender feet.

Newsboys muttered as they hawked some “gossip paper,” keeping to a reasonable volume. The women selling paper matches and milk were somewhat more annoying—their shrill voices nearly pierced Roland’s eardrums as he passed by. He quickly guessed this noisy selling tactic was deliberate.

Because someone had already paid for the quiet.

Luckily, the “master’s district” didn’t sell radishes; otherwise, amidst the heavy rumbling wheels and resonant male voices, Roland would have heard nothing—the carriages navigating these narrow streets had muffled wheels.

Yam had said these gentlemen’s carriages were even polished.

Too bad Roland couldn’t see it.

Just then, a peculiar conversation drifted over.

Roland tilted his head and spun his ears.

“I’m the first, Mary’s the second, and Isa is the third. Got it?”

“You’re the first, I’m the second, Mary’s the third?”

“Damn it! You’re the third!”

“Then which are you?”

“I’m the first! You idiot! There are only three names; can’t you remember?”

“I just can’t remember the order…”

He heard a woman scolding and another mumbling an explanation.

Both voices were very young.

“Alright, now it’s changed. You’re the second, remember. Once you get it, give it to Mary.”

“Got it, give it to Mary, give it to Mary, give it to Mary…”

“You have no idea how high the prices are on the newly arrived jewels in this shop. I heard many people are waiting for them…”

A skirt brushed past Roland as the three voices became clearer.

It reminded him of what Yam had told him about “what he’d seen”: or rather, a certain ancient profession not native to this place but always active in the wealthy world.

Perhaps this was an opportunity.

Roland thought.

I don’t have to wait until nightfall to smash the jewelry store windows anymore.

He discarded that thought and formed a new plan. Leaning on his cane, he stood up, adjusted his hat, and followed them at a distance neither too close nor too far.

They entered a jewelry store.

A crowded jewelry store.

Roland followed inside—it was like stepping into a beehive: not only crowded but filled with a choking fragrance.

“Come here, darling!”

“Let me see…”

“Please hand me that gilded earring, thank you.”

Roland lowered his head and weaved through the crowd, straining his ears to locate the three girls. He pulled his hat brim down and strolled to a counter—if he stayed still, the busy saleswoman would be hard-pressed to notice an almost penniless blind man among the cluster.

At least he dressed the part.

“Let me see that ruby brooch, yes, you’re right, it’s perfect—I just need something red.”

He heard the woman deliberately squeeze her voice into a sticky, sweet tone—like the triangular milk candy Yam had given him last New Year. After the saleswoman handed over the brooch, the woman began discussing its design and craftsmanship with her two friends, until someone called the saleswoman away.

Roland listened as they quietly whispered, passing the brooch back and forth; then, subtle movement occurred near where he stood.

Soon, the saleswoman was summoned back.

“Let me see that necklace.”

Miss Milk Candy seemed to have completely forgotten about the brooch and commanded the saleswoman imperiously—confirming Roland’s suspicion about their identity.

The wealthy would never speak like that.

If the lower classes could detect sarcasm and arrogance, how would the upper class maintain their distinct language?