Alan placed a plain ceramic plate on the table, followed by a knife and fork. He reached for the loaf of still-warm bread resting on the counter, its crust golden and crisp, steam barely rising from the cut edge. As he sliced into it, the soft interior yielded with a faint hiss.
Wait… Didn't I buy a few loaves yesterday? Why am I cutting into this one?
He paused mid-slice, set the knife down, and stood. The chair scraped softly against the floor as he walked to the cool cabinet wedged beneath a low shelf. Cold air brushed his fingers as he pulled the door open and reached in.
His hand found the familiar texture, stale but dense, wrapped in a thin cloth. He pulled out the half-loaf from yesterday and looked at it thoughtfully.
This'll do. No sense wasting Lady Amber's gift when I've got this one still good.
Returning to the table, he replaced the warm bread in the basket with the older slice. He unlatched the small jar of onion jam, thick, deep purple, with little flecks of charred shallot floating inside. The scent was savory, faintly sweet.
Alan frowned as he used the edge of the knife to scoop out the jam. It smeared unevenly across the rough bread.
A spoon… I really should've bought one. But apparently those are 'refined utensils' now. Middle to high class only. Ridiculous standards.
He brought the slice closer, fingers curled around the crust, jam-side up, careful not to let it drip. He took a bite, bread crunching slightly, jam bursting with a tangy sweetness.
He spoke to no one in particular. "This is… honestly delicious. I didn't even know Lady Amber could bake. Sir Adam's a lucky Guy."
His gaze drifted up to the cracked ceiling, where a faint line of coal smoke had once traced a path from the old wall-lamp hook.
Even if I had the chance to marry, what kind of life could I offer her? Scraps, shifting homes, a haunted city… No. I wouldn't curse someone with that.
He sighed, picked up the worn metal mug, and took a sip of yellow tea, bitter with a floral aftertaste. He leaned back in his chair, head tilted, shoulders sinking into the moment's quiet.
Then, a voice. Male. Familiar. Calm, but too casual.
Alan turned his head toward the hallway. A figure stepped into view. Dark brown hair, the ends fading into a striking yellow, like candlelight caught in soot.
Elias Ashford.
Alan stiffened slightly.
Why is he here?
Expression flat, brow furrowed, Alan asked, "Why are you here?"
Elias raised one eyebrow, the corner of his lip quirking. "You do realize the headquarters door is literally connected to your house, right? And now you're surprised I'm in your house?"
Alan slapped a palm lightly against his forehead. "Right. I forgot. Still, doesn't it feel a little weird to keep coming in and out of someone's kitchen like that?"
Elias shrugged, palms open. "It was the captain's call, not mine. Better than stepping in and out of that blinding bookstore every time. My retinas are grateful."
Alan snorted under his breath.
I mean… yeah. The bookstore lights feel like staring into a furnace.
As he reached for another bite, Alan noticed Elias' eyes fixed on the jam-slathered bread. A faint thread of drool glistened at the edge of his lip before Elias wiped it away, feigning composure.
"You want some?" Alan asked. "I've got plenty."
Elias gave a sheepish smile. "Wouldn't feel right saying no now."
He made his way to the sink, an old brass spout with coal-filtered water dribbling from its tip. He washed his hands quickly, shook them dry, and took a seat at the table.
"Where'd you get this?" he asked, sniffing the air. "Jam's expensive these days."
Alan glanced at the half-filled basket, a crooked smile playing on his face. "Neighbor gave it to me. Lady Amber. I just asked about tea leaves and maybe a scoop of jam. She handed me this whole setup instead."
Elias let out a low whistle. "That's… generous."
Alan leaned back again, mug in hand. "Too generous. Makes me nervous."
Elias chuckled, already reaching for a slice.
Alan swatted Elias's hand just before it touched the sliced bread.
"Wait," Alan said firmly. "I'll get a plate first."
He stood and moved to the counter, grabbing a spare plate, fork, knife, and an empty mug. The kitchen's dim light flickered slightly, casting faint shadows on the wooden walls. The air still smelled faintly of roasted grain and boiled tea. He returned, placing the utensils neatly in front of Elias.
Alan picked a few dry tea leaves from the tin, dropped them into the mug, and poured in boiling water from the kettle. The steam rose between them as he slid it over.
"This is my lunch," Alan muttered, glancing at the nearby wall clock. The brass hands pointed to 3:40 E.L. "Well, late lunch or early dinner. Take your pick."
Elias stared at him, raising a brow. "You say that like it's weird. I've eaten at worse hours. Honestly, this feels normal."
Alan leaned back against the counter with a smirk. "You look like the kind of guy who eats lunch and dinner at breakfast."
Elias sighed, ignoring the jab. He reached for a slice of bread, dipped his knife into the small jar of onion jam, and spread it over. The jam was a deep purple, rich and sticky, with visible specks of caramelized shallot.
"This looks like something Iris would make," Elias said. "She's experimented with jams before, some were great, others... dangerous. Mostly flower-based stuff. She used Graham to test them. Poor guy."
Alan blinked, unsure if he was supposed to laugh.
Thanks for the warning... I was actually curious about her cooking. Guess that curiosity's gone now.
He asked anyway. "So? What's it taste like? Good?"
Elias nodded, mouth full. "Mmh-hm. Yeah. Really good. Can I have another?"
"Nope," Alan replied flatly. "And finish chewing before talking. You sound like a chained mutt trying to bark."
Elias chuckled, swallowing, then took the steaming mug and downed the tea in one go.
"Ahhh, ow! That's hot!"
Alan stared, palm to his face. "Of course it's hot. It's tea. Why the hell would you drink the whole thing in one gulp? Now I'm gonna be blamed if your tongue melts."
Elias wiped his mouth with his sleeve, exhaled slowly, and suddenly his tone turned serious. "Forget that. We're going shopping, for weapons. Skip the clothes. You'll get your proper gear after your first mission anyway."
Alan narrowed his eyes.
...Did his personality just flip?
"Wait. Weapons? Like revolvers?"
"Exactly," Elias said, glancing out the nearby window. "We'll stop by Ironmark Bureau to get your license too."
Alan hesitated. "Aren't revolvers expensive? I heard you need permits, paperwork… the whole thing."
"About ten Gold Pounds," Elias replied casually.
Alan froze.
Ten? The captain only gave me a hundred silver shillings, that's barely a tenth!
He looked at Elias, hesitant but honest. "I don't have enough..."
"How much are you short?" Elias asked calmly.
"Umm... about 900 silver shillings," Alan said sheepishly, voice barely above a whisper. "Or… nine Gold Pounds."
Elias slowly turned to face him. His movements were stiff, and when he stood, the chair legs screeched slightly against the stone floor.
"WHAT!?" Elias shouted, slamming his hand into the wooden table. The utensils jumped.
"Nine Gold Pounds?!"
Alan winced and waved his hand at Elias. "Hey, you're too loud," he said, glancing toward the window. "And here I thought it was cheap for you. Guess I'm not the only one broke."
Elias dropped his hand from his face, exhaling through his nose. He looked more annoyed at himself than Alan. "Yeah, well… never mind." His voice softened. "I'll give you my old revolver. I'll pick up ammo for it too."
Alan shifted awkwardly in his seat, scratching the back of his neck. "Thanks… I guess. But what about the license?"
Elias crossed his arms and leaned against the table, calming his tone. "We'll head to the Ironmark Bureau now. Your first mission is tomorrow."
Alan raised a hand, palm out toward Elias like a stop signal. His eyes were firm. "Why the rush? We're Night Clerks. We operate at night, remember?" He stood and began collecting the dishes. "Let me clean up first."
Elias tilted his head, confused. "Getting a gun license at night will look suspicious. Daytime makes it legit."
Alan paused, gripping the side of a tea-stained cup.
Right… I forgot. Even though we're tied to the Bureau, showing up at night makes us look like smugglers.
He sighed and turned his gaze back to Elias. "Alright, alright. Just let me clean these first. I don't want flies or mold growing all over them."
Elias nodded and stepped away from the table. "Fine. Just hurry. Oh, by the way, have you met Madam Cinder yet? The pigeon I summoned the time we met?"
Alan's brow twitched. "Yeah. She was furious at me for no reason. I asked her to deliver a letter to my sisters in the capital."
Elias groaned and flopped onto the couch, one hand over his eyes. "She's a piece of work. Acts like she's the only Night Clerk courier in existence."
Alan chuckled as he rinsed the mugs. "I just gave her one letter and she pecked me like ten times. I didn't even get a warning."
"Well," Elias said, eyes still closed,
"you asked her to go all the way to the capital. That's two cities away. She's probably going to break another rooftop flying at one thousand kilometers an hour."
Alan froze mid-scrub, eyes blinking slowly.
Wait… one thousand? That fast?
That explains those soft sonic cracks every time she leaves. But if she's going that fast… shouldn't it be louder?
He turned toward Elias, drying his hands on a cloth. "Hold on, if she's flying that fast, doesn't she cause sonic booms? Why are they so quiet?"
Elias cracked one eye open, then sat up slowly. "She's cloaked. It's part of her Summoned Courier shape. The sonic pressure gets absorbed and rerouted, like a built-in sound dampener. Pretty advanced stuff, actually."
Alan raised a brow. "So she's not just fast, she's smart?"