At this hour, around ten in the morning, the marketplace overflowed with flowers at every corner. Despite the winter chill—which should have made such abundance impossible—the land of Blumen had achieved remarkable scientific feats, crossbreeding varieties to create a frost-resistant species they called Kaltrose.
All eyes were on Gomme. Her deathly pale complexion captivated the villagers of Scott, their rustic gazes equal parts dazzled and uneasy. Mr. Roselet walked ahead, paying no mind to the stares, his face etched with quiet apprehension.
Amid the snow and biting wind, a child knelt begging, eyes closed, an upturned hat before him. Curious, Gomme stopped before the boy.
"Why does this child share my pallor?" she asked, taking his small hand.
Mr. Roselet approached, dropped a few florins into the hat, then pressed fingers to the boy's throat.
"Have you never seen a beggar before?"
"A beggar? I know the term—they taught me at Stein Academy. Worry not, Master."
Mr. Roselet's calm face darkened as he spoke solemnly:
"Gomme... I fear he's left this world."
"His silent heart warned me, sir. Yet his pulse... his rhythm... it echoed yours yesterday, before this child's stopped." She tightened her grip on the cold fingers.
With haunted eyes, Mr. Roselet studied the boy: grimy clothes, a scrape on his left cheek, stick-thin arms visible beneath a red coat. No older than nine. The faint stench of alcohol suggested a drunken guardian, a desperate flight.
Clasping his hands, Mr. Roselet closed his eyes in prayer.
"May angels guide your soul to rest."
That sorrow-laced serenity—as if straddling two realms—fascinated Gomme. When he opened his eyes, he murmured:
"Let's alert the guards. We can do no more here."
A glint caught Gomme's eye: a letter peeking from the boy's pocket. She retrieved it, uncertain.
"Keep it," said Mr. Roselet. "The guards won't bother. It might help identify him... though they'll likely burn it unread."
Gomme tucked the letter into her maid's dress.
The guards arrived, summoned by Gomme. One flinched at her ghostly pallor. She pointed to the small corpse, and as curious onlookers gathered, they slipped away.
Further through the market, the crackle of frying oil cut the cold. A sweet, greasy scent thickened the air. Gomme's ears caught the traitorous growl of Mr. Roselet's stomach.
"Let's stop, Master. That vendor's sugared omelet smells—"
"No time. We must reach the chapel by noon," he snapped, anxiety sharpening his tone.
Gomme ignored him, seizing his arm. "Your stomach betrays you. As your devoted servant, I cannot overlook this."
Mr. Roselet—too weary to resist—let himself be dragged forward.
"Swan will rage... With so many princes attending his funeral... But what does it matter? That nobility turned its back on my family long ago."
Suddenly, he pulled free.
"Very well. We'll eat, then change course. I've no stomach for gloom today." He avoided her gaze.
Gomme nodded. "Where do we go, Master?"
"To my Writers' Guild," he said, already following the greasy aroma.