Visiting Taylor

Number Twenty-five, West Avenue.

The location of the Taylor residence differed from that of the Lord's estate.

The decorations here were noticeably more grandiose; even the carriages of various sizes parked by the entrance bore elaborate crests painted upon their side panels.

Roland couldn't help but feel as though the floral fragrance carried a subtle hint of warm, freshly rolled printer's ink.

Of course, what this place shared in common with the other was the profound quietude.

"Loud voices, pitiful wares"—those residing in the West End were never plagued by the differing pitches of match-sellers, box-makers, and castrating tinkers.

Especially the peddlers of paper matches; recently, Roland had even entertained plans of rendering them mute with poison.

Who gave them the audacity to hawk their goods right beneath the window of his bedroom?

And then there was the itinerant tinker.

During his time in Falk County, he had never encountered someone who could elevate street-crying to such an art form:

"Any tables needing repair?"

With a low, resonant baritone, it always carried a melancholic, soul-stirring elegy of despair.

Amidst the harsh and vexing clamor of the streets, this lingering, profound, and sorrowful tone stood out with striking independence. Often, just as Roland was holding his breath to forge holy water and lowering his gaze in prayer, a deep and husky greeting would suddenly drift in from outside the window:

"Any tables needing repair?"

Whereupon his uncle would throw open the window from upstairs and roar at him to bugger off.

"Neither a good nor a bad city."

Such was Roland's verdict.

As the carriage wheels transitioned from rattling to steady, and the road surface from uneven to smooth, the vehicle entered the West End and turned left onto the main avenue.

A few shops lined this thoroughfare, but all maintained a strict stillness. Whether it was the tobacconist or the tailor, the ladies and gentlemen coming and going strictly observed a silent decorum. Aside from the creak of carriage wheels, not even the sound of footsteps could be easily heard.

Even the newsboys lost their clamor, hurrying along with cloth bags on their backs and frayed caps upon their heads, yet moving like mutes, signaling the passing ladies and gentlemen merely with their eyes.

Only when someone brushed past them, or intentionally cast a glance their way, would they mutter under their breath:

"New Post..."

"A copy of the New Post..."

An interesting people, an interesting city.

If cities were not flat, this one would surely resemble a spiraling tower ascending into the clouds.

"Sir, we have arrived."

The horse snorted up ahead.

Number Twenty-five had been reached.

The Taylor Residence—

The place Roland was visiting today was enclosed by a series of black, silver-tipped pointed iron railings.

The main gate mirrored this design, arching in a wavy line, both grand and tall. The walls were a shade of gray ivory, bearing a house number alongside a rather trendy inscription carved beneath it in small letters:

"Taylor," accompanied by a sequence of numbers representing a date.

The servant at the door quickly spotted the carriage and the gentleman's cane extending from the doorframe.

He hurried back inside in a flurry, and just as Roland traversed the narrow path and the neatly trimmed dwarf hedge, Randolph, dressed in a waistcoat, happened to lead a few people out from the house in brisk strides.

He smiled at Roland from afar, slightly tilting his head and bowing in greeting.

"My friend," he stepped forward swiftly, grasping Roland's shoulder and asking with gentle concern, "How are your injuries? Please, spare me any further shame, Father of All Things! Won't you tell me some good news?"

Roland reached out to give him a light embrace in return: "I am as healthy as can be, my friend."

"Call me Randolph."

He cast a cold glance at the servants, instructing them that Roland was the dearest friend of the Taylor family, before joining them in escorting Roland into the house:

Personally taking his overcoat and removing his hat.

Holly-green wallpaper dominated the interior, lending the overall atmosphere a composed and understated elegance.

Yet even with Roland's meager discernment, he could perceive the weighty ghosts of countless golden pounds lurking within the decor and furnishings—the gas lamps had been fitted with exquisite custom shades, the armchairs featured curved contours entirely devoid of straight lines, and the upholstery was crafted from soft silk adorned with a blue pattern of snowflakes and stardust.

The ceiling was a pale green, elaborately painted with intricate grids and lines, while oil paintings hung upon the walls. One of them depicted a family of three:

An elderly man, alongside Randolph Taylor and his sister, Beatrice Taylor.

The living room fireplace was unlatched, flames roaring fiercely within the gaps.

The hearth was paved with slate, topped by a small mantel clock with gilded edges, a mirror, and porcelain vases.

The carpet was plush, and the interior was overwhelmingly warm.

Everything reeked of expense.

"Do sit down, please do. I see you've hurried over; have something warm to drink first."

He directed the servants to busy themselves, urged Roland to take a seat on the sofa, and personally took his cane to set it aside.

A small table stood beside the sofa, laden with an assortment of scattered silver utensils.

"It is truly wonderful to see you unharmed." The emaciated man rubbed his hands together, his dressing gown sleeves rustling softly as they brushed against one another. "I went myself twice afterward, and even sent things over to your place. You didn't receive any of it, did you?"

Seeing Roland nod, he opened his mouth to speak, then brushed it aside with a careless wave: "It wasn't meant for you anyway, Roland."

"I simply wanted to let those black-robed women know that Roland Collins is no ordinary man; he has powerful people watching his back. For the sake of those dozens of pounds in gifts, I hoped they would take your injuries a bit more seriously."

"As long as you recover, what are a few dozen pounds?"

His eyebrows danced continuously, though the indoor heat seemed unable to warm that sharp, pale face.

One had to admit, when it came to reading human hearts, this Randolph Taylor was truly exceptional.

At least, that was how Roland interpreted everything he was saying at the moment.

"I must thank you once again, Randolph."

"Then I suppose I shall have to thank you once more after you've finished thanking me." Randolph joked, clapping Roland warmly on the shoulder. "I know your eyes are troubling you. I originally meant to show you some..." He shifted his weight on the cushion and pulled the nearby table closer.

Only then did Roland notice that the legs of the table were all fitted with small wooden wheels.

"Lunch will take a little longer to prepare."

"You know what our family business is, don't you?"

He pushed open the delicate latch, revealing a silver box carved with climbing vines, neatly lined with numerous implements.

Beside it lay an open wooden box.

Inside rested several cigars, thicker than a thumb, crossing over one another.

"Care to try one?"

He handed one to Roland, took another for himself, and recited in a theatrical, aria-like tone:

"The solace of the thinker, the imaginative architect's intoxication with the air and frankincense-like fragrance beside marble, the eleventh finger of the benefactor."

Roland stroked the slightly oily wrapper of the cigar in his hand and gently shook his head.

"How can a gentleman not know how to smoke? It is a hundred times more precious than cigarettes."

Randolph snipped the cap with a small silver knife, lit a wooden spill, and leisurely toasted the head of the cigar.

The servants brought in black tea and coffee, accompanied by a small porcelain jug of milk.

The aromas of milk, tea, and tobacco mingled together, blending further with the scent of burning wood from the fireplace.

Roland twitched his nose.

Unlike the cigarettes smoked by the gentlemen at banquets.

This scent...

Smelled wonderful.

"Try it, come on and try it, our little angel." Randolph raised his voice in a whimsical tone, teasing Roland as he waved his cigar-pinched hand back and forth, the ember glowing a fiery red.

He gently bit down with two rows of teeth, tightened his cheeks, took a draw, and after rolling the smoke back and forth across his palate, exhaled a thick, gray-white stream toward the other side.

Instantly.

The room was filled with a delicate fragrance of cardamom mingled with dill.

Much like a brand-new leather jacket rubbed with honey.