Chapter 37: Chapter 37

One night, Jenkins carefully examined the object. It was a black metal block, its surfaces crisscrossed with fine silver lines that formed fifty-four small squares across its six faces. If it weren't for the fact that it couldn't be twisted, Jenkins would have mistaken it for a puzzle cube.

To his disappointment, he couldn't figure out what purpose a simple metal cube could possibly serve. It was difficult to imagine finding such a perfectly formed cube in this day and age. Jenkins even felt it wouldn't be out of place as a standard piece of laboratory equipment.

He had no choice but to hide the cube under his bed, alongside Mr. Hunt's Fruit Platter and the unidentified blue feather, hoping he might stumble upon a clue in the Church's archives in the future.

As for the two remaining minor explosive charms, he continued to carry them on his person with extreme caution.

"Goddess preserve me," he prayed, "please don't let these shoddy things just go off on their own!" Follow current novels on novèlfire.net

No one noticed that an item had gone missing from the scorched ruins. The fire and explosion had obliterated most of the clues, including any traces Jenkins might have left in his haste.

He still had no idea what the purpose of the contested statue was, but three days later, Papa Oliver informed him that the confiscated harmonica had been identified in their records. It was B-10-3-0123, The Suicider's Final Chant. Furthermore, the church's great underground library was now partially accessible to him, and as soon as he advanced to a level-one Enchanter, he would be allowed to select one of the church's exclusive divine arts. This gave Jenkins a faint inkling of the statue's value, but the object that had caused such a disaster was no longer any of his concern.

Life settled back into a peaceful rhythm. As a secret, non-combat, semi-clerical staff member of the Church, matters involving cultists and illegal gatherings were outside his purview. He and Papa Oliver had merely been the ones to trigger the event; its aftermath was no longer their responsibility.

The situation off the coast of Nolan remained unresolved, and the city's Orthodox Church combat personnel had yet to return. The malevolent spirit at Nolan Public Hospital No. 5 had been temporarily contained, but reinforcements from the royal capital were still en route. Meanwhile, the great octopus appearing at night had begun to sow panic among the citizens. While they didn't know the truth, the sharp rise in Nolan's nighttime disappearance rate was an obvious and unsettling fact.

A week had passed since the fire in the docklands slums. The event hadn't caused much of a stir in the city; the deaths of a few dozen paupers were not enough to shock the populace.

One day, Jenkins took a carriage to Pops Antique Shop, just as he always did. Papa Oliver greeted him with two pieces of good news.

First, by following clues discovered during the incident a week prior, the Church had completely dismantled the local stronghold of the Club of Light Chasers. The man Jenkins had shot and killed was finally identified, earning him a bounty of one hundred gold pounds—a surprising development, considering the man's corpse had been burned to a crisp, making it impossible for anyone to recognize him.

Second, the publisher Papa Oliver had contacted had finally come through with an offer.

Although their true identities had to remain secret, it was common knowledge among the neighbors that Oliver of the antique shop was a devout follower of the Legacy Sage. Therefore, using Church connections to find a publisher wouldn't arouse any suspicion.

"This is Mr. Brough, from Robin Press."

Papa Oliver introduced him to Jenkins. The impeccably dressed publisher offered a polite handshake, and then he and Jenkins retired to the lounge on the second floor to discuss the details.

"Mr. Williams," Mr. Brough began, "I have the greatest admiration for talented young men such as yourself."

Mr. Brough seized the initiative, his brilliant white teeth even more dazzling than his sleek, perfectly combed hair.

With the Church acting as a guarantor, their negotiations didn't last long. After a few pleasantries, they got straight down to business.

Mr. Brough stated plainly that he found Jenkins's fairy tales "quite interesting" and was willing to publish an initial print run of three hundred copies for distribution in Nolan City. As a publisher, he not only owned his own printing press but also had strong connections with the city's bookstores. Even for a new author like Jenkins, he could guarantee a certain amount of promotion.

Jenkins knew that as a new author, simply getting published was a victory. After some haggling, he agreed to put up thirty pounds as an initial investment, but with two conditions: the first print run had to be increased to five hundred copies, and the book must include illustrations.

From Mr. Brough's perspective, this was preposterous. The cost of creating engraved plates for illustrations could very well exceed the cost of the movable type itself. This wasn't some tawdry novel that could be printed by the thousands, justifying the expense of elaborate plates; Jenkins was proposing a very small print run.

Because he wanted illustrations, Jenkins also demanded high-quality paper, which meant the final price of the book would inevitably be quite high. This would limit the potential readership to the middle class and above—families with spare cash and children. And no one could predict whether his book would appeal to them.

In Jenkins's view, however, a children's storybook without pictures was doomed to fail. Besides, he had the money now. He ultimately proposed to fund the production of the engraved plates himself, on the condition that his author's fee be paid as a percentage of the sales—a royalty.

"Very well, very well," Mr. Brough conceded. "That does reduce my risk considerably."

Mr. Brough nodded with a resigned air.

He quickly got in touch with several professional illustrators, and Jenkins took a half-day off from the shop to meet them. To his surprise, one of them was the same young man who had come to sell the ring on his very first day of work.

"So he really is an art student," Jenkins thought. "Papa Oliver was wrong."

He didn't choose him, however. The young man's style leaned toward the abstract and grotesque—the sort of art that would drive a sane person to seek a psychiatric evaluation after prolonged exposure. His asking price was also rather high, so he failed to meet Jenkins's requirements on every front. Perhaps if Jenkins ever decided to write a Cthulhu-esque storybook and didn't mind being hunted down by the Church, he might consider hiring him.

The artist he ultimately settled on was an old painter named Grant. He typically taught painting to the daughters of nobility but had been forced to seek extra work to support his household after his good-for-nothing son fell deep into gambling debt.

He adored Jenkins's fairy tales and had no trouble grasping the "warm, innocent, childlike, and not overly realistic" style Jenkins was looking for. Most importantly, his fee was very reasonable.

The two of them spent several days collaborating before finally deciding on one illustration for each story. Mr. Brough considered this utter madness, but since Jenkins was footing the bill himself, there was little he could say.