Lord of The Mysterious Realms Chapter 984

"Are you free Sunday evening? I'm looking for some help."

She was straight to the point.

"You found Femishue?"

As he spoke, they both sidled toward the shadows along the wall, melting into the darkness.

"Of course not," she replied, "but I did find a small pirate hideout in Nolan. I was going to ignore it, but the lead Miss Skylark provided tonight was intriguing. I want to look for clues, see if I can connect the pirates' offshore activities to Femishue."

Jenkins thought for a moment. He was, in fact, completely free on Sunday evening.

"How many enemies will there be?"

"Fewer than ten ordinary men, plus a level-three Enchanter. Don't look so surprised. I'm only asking for your help to speed things up. You know how things are in Nolan right now—the last thing I need is the Church taking an interest in me."

"So you just need me to stand watch."

At that, Jenkins met her gaze. She had dropped her disguise during their conversation and was now speaking to him with her real face revealed.

"Alright. So what's in it for me?"

"We'll split the spoils fifty-fifty. On top of that, I'll owe you a favor."

Jenkins agreed with a nod, already wondering if he had any pressing matters that could use her help.

And so, an exhausting yet fulfilling day came to a close—a safe one, at that. Once home, Jenkins didn't sleep by the hearth again, instead returning to his bedroom on the second floor.

Chocolate was throwing a tantrum, unwilling to leave its familiar sleeping spot. After finally managing to carry the cat from the sofa to the second floor, it still maintained an air of defiance.

When Jenkins lay down, the cat relentlessly pestered him, batting at his face to keep him from sleep. Fed up with its antics, Jenkins was forced to find a small blanket and swaddle his pet like a mummy, leaving only its head poking out. He was careful not to wrap it too tightly, of course; the cat could easily wriggle free if it struggled.

When he woke on Saturday morning, Chocolate was, surprisingly, still sound asleep in its "cocoon." This made Jenkins worry that its limbs might be stiff from being confined all night, or that it might have even suffered permanent injury. But the cat squirmed out of the blanket, as lively as ever, and promptly reminded Jenkins to make breakfast. The writer, admittedly a novice cat owner, could finally relax.

He dashed off his speech during his usual breakfast and newspaper routine, then donned a suit and tie and headed out. Jenkins wasn't sure if the art gallery allowed cats inside, but Chocolate would never agree to wait for him at the antique shop. He had no choice but to bring the cat along, sternly warning it not to sharpen its claws on the artwork.

The exhibition wasn't an official state affair, so the crowd was sparse. The speakers before Jenkins were a renowned young Nolan painter and a city official from the cultural affairs department.

It was clear the first two speakers were not eager to waste their time; they offered a few perfunctory remarks and stepped down. When the host announced Jenkins, it caused a minor stir, but the audience's interest in the dull speeches quickly waned once more.

Once the speeches concluded, the exhibition officially opened. The crowd in the entrance hall began to disperse into the different galleries. Jenkins's obligations were fulfilled, but since he was there, etiquette demanded he at least browse the collection before departing. Besides, he had just spotted Grant, the old painter who had invited him.

Mr. Grant's main occupation was teaching painting to noble families. Last year, he had agreed to collaborate with Jenkins to pay off his son's gambling debts. The debts were likely settled now; when Jenkins saw him at the beginning of the year, the old man's spirits were much improved, and today he was positively beaming.

He wore a taupe overcoat and a small, flat-topped cap, an outfit that made him look several years younger. The old painter was delighted Jenkins had come and didn't seem to care that his guest's true purpose was simply to attend the opening ceremony.

It seemed Jenkins had a few fans in the crowd; to escape the enthusiastic young women, he eagerly joined Grant and headed for a more secluded gallery.

It was a small gallery, partitioned off by heavy, black curtains. Located in the center of the building, the room had no windows, and with the gas lamps on the walls unlit, the space was exceedingly dim. Fresh chapters posted on novel•fire.net

But the space was not entirely without light. A small, dimly flickering kerosene lamp sat beneath each painting, providing just enough illumination for visitors to vaguely make out the works on the wall.

The theme of this gallery was 'Death and the End,' so most of the displayed works featured dark palettes and were filled with bizarre fantasies and inscrutable imagery.

Jenkins lacked the artistic sensibility to appreciate this style of painting, so he simply listened quietly to Grant's commentary, offering the occasional "Yes" or "I see" to show he was paying attention.

"...So the value of this painting is far lower than the one that was auctioned a few days ago. After all, the artist is still alive and can produce more similar works. Merchants won't set an exorbitant price for this kind of painting."

"So you're saying paintings by deceased artists are usually quite valuable."

"Paintings by famous deceased artists are usually very valuable."

The old man remarked, then added with a sigh that after his own death, his works would surely gain appreciation and perhaps even find their way into auction houses.

The statement sounded rather morbid, and after a moment's thought, Jenkins tactfully said as much. But the old man was unfazed. He had a very philosophical view of death, considering it a day everyone would eventually meet—merely the beginning of another great adventure.

After a full tour of the gallery, Jenkins began to wonder if some of the artists were mentally unhinged. The thought brought back the memory of the young painter he’d shot on a rainy autumn night last year. As the two of them were leaving the gallery, Mr. Grant excused himself to find a restroom, asking Jenkins to wait for a moment. Jenkins found a seat near the entrance with his cat.

An art exhibition wasn't a carnival. The atmosphere was elegant and quiet, with no food stalls to be found. Consequently, Chocolate had little interest in the proceedings. It squirmed in the writer's arms for a moment before its eyes widened, fixated on a decorative painting on the opposite wall of a cat pouncing on a butterfly.

"I know you have wicked designs on that lost butterfly," he warned, stroking the cat's little head. "Forget it. You're not eating it."