Chapter 33: Chapter 33
Of course, the people he treated were not only members of his own church; all five of the orthodox god churches were involved in the hospital incident. Jenkins was simply following the orders of Captain Bincy and an old gentleman, healing whomever they directed him to. Although the orthodox churches were on good terms with one another, his services were certainly not free.
He still thought often of Mr. Barnard, the man who had saved his life. Since becoming a Scribe, he had been so busy that he hadn't had a chance to thank him. He had specifically asked the injured from the Church of the Unlit Moon about him, but was disappointed to learn that Mr. Barnard had not been involved in the events at the hospital.
When his daily life finally returned to normal, Jenkins received a bonus of twenty pounds and was also granted permission to study dozens of rituals that had previously been beyond his clearance. This was merely permission to study them; if he wanted to practice any of them, he would have to purchase the materials himself.
As August—the Month of the Craftsman and Sweet Rain—began, the summer winds gradually weakened, and the familiar ochre sky and pungent air once again settled over Nolan City.
The factory owners and nobles called this phenomenon the "mark of progress," a symbol that Nolan City was on its way to greater things. Jenkins, however, only worried that it was shortening his lifespan.
This was the city’s normal state. Although it didn't bear the title of a "city of fog," the smog that shrouded it was nearly identical.
And amidst this fog, Jenkins encountered a mystery as hazy as the air itself.
Sitting in the carriage, Jenkins frowned at the letter in his hands.
At first, the family had assumed the sender had simply been careless and forgotten to write the name. But upon opening it, they realized it had been delivered to the wrong address. The letter was a simple greeting to a pen pal, and not one of the four members of their family had one.
Since Jenkins's daily commute took him right past the post office, Robert had asked him to mail the letter back on his way. With nothing better to do on the ride, Jenkins hesitated for only a moment before he began to read it.
Dear Potter, It was a delight to receive your letter again. The little poem you wrote was truly beautiful. I do wish the weather in Ruen could be like spring all year round, just as in your poem.
Regarding our last matter, I'm sorry to say I still haven't found the book you need. However, I have asked a friend to look for it in the High Tower's library. I believe we will have results soon.
Mrs. Tiffany's etiquette lessons have become even more boring, and I can't understand the arithmetic class at all. Only riding lessons get me outside. My "Little Red Date" is also looking forward to running with me. Potter, do you understand arithmetic? I've attached some of the homework Mr. Warren assigned at the end of this letter. I hope you can help me. Read full story at novel✶fire.net
P.S.: May the Spirit of Nature bless you. If you really do understand, please reply as soon as possible. Otherwise, Mr. Warren will surely kill me for my foolishness!
Yours faithfully, Mary
The letter was written on fine snow-white paper, its edges traced with gold thread to create the illusion of a slightly curled parchment. From what Jenkins knew, paper of this quality was sold by the sheet in Nolan City. His entire weekly salary probably wouldn't be enough to buy the few pages he held in his hands.
The handwriting was elegant and graceful, suggesting that "Mary" was a well-bred lady of high society. Since he was riding in an open-topped carriage, Jenkins refrained from the ungentlemanly act of sniffing the letter for any lingering scent.
Following the letter were two full pages of mathematics problems, written on the same expensive paper.
"These are simple classical probability problems. You don't even need calculus."
Jenkins analyzed the questions with a flicker of interest. He had no idea of the academic standards of this world, but if a private tutor was already teaching such complex probability, then surely the top universities must have at least an early form of calculus by now?
Even though, in his previous life, this was merely high school level work.
For reasons he himself couldn't quite fathom, Jenkins didn't get off at the post office. Instead, he rode all the way to Pops Antique Shop. During his lunch break, he borrowed a pen and some paper from Papa Oliver. He began by writing a sincere apology, explaining that he had opened the envelope in an attempt to discover its rightful owner. Then, he solved every problem, sealed his answers along with the original letter in a new envelope, and planned to mail it that evening.
"Your math skills are impressive, but your handwriting is terrible."
Papa Oliver offered no opinion on Jenkins's actions, but he didn't hesitate to deliver a merciless critique of his penmanship.
"Perhaps Miss Mary will think I'm some kind of math maniac, one of those eccentric mad scientist types," Jenkins mused. "Besides, I'm just doing a good deed. Isn't Ruen the capital of the Hamparvo Kingdom? If I don't help her, the young lady probably won't have time to send another letter for help."
Jenkins shrugged, having taken care to explain the mathematical symbols from his past life in plain language. Papa Oliver simply watched him with the weary expression of a man thinking, "Young people are always ."
After mailing the reply, a small part of Jenkins hoped to receive another letter, but the capital of the Hamparvo Kingdom lay in the far north of the continent, and he had used the regular, cheaper postal service to save money. If the letter even arrived safely, and if the young lady who called herself "Mary" replied immediately, it would be next month at the earliest before he heard anything back.
A few days later, "math genius" Jenkins had all but forgotten the matter.
He looked down at the black flintlock pistol on the counter before him.
"Papa Oliver, what's this about?"
"Get yourself ready. You're coming with me," Papa Oliver said quickly, tossing Jenkins the coat he had worn to work. "I got word that a good shipment came in at the dock warehouses. We might find some real treasures."
"But why the pistol? Is this some kind of gang deal?"
Jenkins was still baffled, especially by the casual way Papa Oliver had produced a fully loaded gun from beneath the counter.
"Don't be ridiculous. It's just for self-defense."
As he spoke, he tucked away a similar pistol and counted out several brass bullets, placing them in the inside pocket of his coat.
"Relax, young man. It's just for protection. By the way, I told you to practice at the Oil Ink Mister Club. You have been keeping up with your shooting, haven't you?"
A smile spread across Papa Oliver's face.
With his heart pounding in his chest, Jenkins followed Papa Oliver down the main road toward the Dock Area. Just as he'd expected, they soon ducked into a narrow alley. Ten minutes later, they stood before a dilapidated, single-story house.
A young man dressed like a ruffian, wearing only a short-sleeved shirt, squatted listlessly by the door, watching a line of ants. He glanced up as they approached.
"Papa Oliver, you're a bit late this time, eh?"
"My young apprentice held me up."
Papa Oliver greeted him with practiced ease, while the doorman made a point of memorizing Jenkins's face.
"Go on in. A lot of the regulars have already had a look around."