The Society of the Eleventh Hour

New Faces

The morning after my mother's ill-fated tea party and our investigation with Petra, I decide to drop by the bakery on a whim. Really, I should visit more often, and I do feel bad for treating Ben so brusquely earlier. I owe him a letter or two of explanation, and make a mental note to pen one tonight.

He's not in the bakery when I drop by, having already gone back to school— but Mrs. Crawford assuredly is, and it appears that I'm here right on time. My instincts are rarely wrong, as usual.

The first thing she does is hand me my sword, which is wrapped up in a rough, cheap fabric, a note in calligraphy pinned to its side.

"Your mother visited just an hour or so ago— she was spitting mad, and I'm glad I could honestly tell her that you didn't live here anymore... because I think she might've killed you otherwise. What happened, lass?"

I squint at the note attached to my sword. It says, in brief, "Please refrain from destroying the ballroom. If you must ruin everything you touch, I simply request that you stop touching things that are mine. I don't want to know how you got this damned thing stuck in my nice hardwood flooring, or why every orifice of our home smells like bleach. It would be for the best if you just tried to stay out of the way and be silent, until the wedding."

I stuff the note in my pocket and unwrap my sword, frowning at the way the blade's been scuffed and chipped ever so slightly. My fault, or the work of whoever carelessly removed it from the floor?

"Thank you, Mrs. Crawford. It's nothing to worry about, really," I respond cordially, trying to ignore the aching feeling in my heart. I didn't realize how attached I was to the sword, until I saw it like this.

"Another visitor came here shortly afterwards— blonde fellow? Real... fancy-looking?" Mrs. Crawford laughs to herself. "He needed my help to drag this enormously heavy trunk up to Ben's room, after I confirmed that you used to live here."

I thank her graciously again and spend the rest of the morning running the register for her during the morning rush, despite the fact that I don't really work here anymore. Apparently her new hire is just as bad about calling off for random errands as I always was, between my endless noble drama and detective work.

I'd be concerned, if Mrs. Crawford didn't seem so amused by it all. She's a strong woman, after all, and she likes to be reminded that she can do it herself.

I end up leaving sometime after noon, as planned, but I do make a short detour to my old room in the Crawford's flat to check out Javier's mysterious trunk. At least, I assume it's he who left it. The only other blonde gentleman I know is William, and I've never told him about the bakery before.

The trunk is full of what must be more than a dozen intricately made Pieromalian gowns. I take one out from the trunk and examine it, and realize very quickly that I don't know how to put anything like this on.

I've seen them before, of course. The silhouette is very different from what is in fashion here. The flowing sleeves that fall to the bend of the arm, high necklines clasping all the way up at the woman's neck, thin skirts wrapped tight to the hips without the need for petticoats , and most bizarre of all— the strings of jewelry clasped from collar to the opposite shoulder in marching lines all the way down to the diaphragm.

It is far too elegant for me to wear. But a thoughtful gift, I think, if Javier brought them to me because he noticed I had few garments appropriate for winter. If nothing else, it's a gift that will sell for a fine price on the market, so long as I can break the pieces down enough to be unrecognizable as something originating from Pieromal.

Javier has a knack for sincerely thinking of other people, even when most don't bother to know him half as well. Hell, it's why I like him so much, and why the fiercely noble-hating General of Pieromal feels the same. He's just... different, than most of us.