𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓚𝓷𝓪𝓿𝓮 (𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓱𝓵𝓮 𝓧 𝓐𝓻𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓷𝓸)

Chapter 4

"Another One"

Sophina's voice, a symphony of composure, echoed through the room. The air hung heavy with the remnants of crumpled papers, their once-promising recommendations now discarded, strewn like forgotten dreams in the trash can.

"Miss Arlecchino, that was all of the recommendations." Sophina intoned, her tone as delicate as a porcelain teacup balanced on the edge of a precipice. A bead of perspiration traced a hesitant path down her temple.

Arlecchino, arms folded across her chest, regarded Sophina with a displeasure that rippled through the room like a tempest. "Really? Well, that's a shame." she retorted, her words a velvet blade slicing through the air.

Sophina's eyes, twin pools of curiosity, held a certain bewilderment. Why had Arlecchino suddenly requested an array of male portraits? It seemed an unnecessary diversion from their usual business. "I find myself surprised," Sophina confessed, her voice a gentle ripple in the otherwise still room, "that you've developed an affinity for men so abruptly."

The younger lady, ensconced in her chair, returned to her book—a tome of arcane knowledge. Her gloved fingers, like dancers on a grand stage, turned the pages with a grace that bespoke years of practice. "Oh, it's not for me, darling," Arlecchino murmured, her gaze never leaving the printed words. "I still harbor an abiding disdain for men."

Sophina, undeterred by the revelation, pressed on. "Even when you have a throng of suitors vying for your favor?" she inquired, her tone as casual as a whispered secret.

"They may attempt proximity," Arlecchino replied, her eyes still fixed on the book, "but if their presence wanes into silence, one can only assume they've met an untimely demise." Sophina couldn't discern whether her colleague's words were steeped in sarcasm or chilling sincerity, but given Arlecchino's enigmatic nature, the former seemed the safer bet.

Sophina, a silent witness to this cryptic exchange, nodded in understanding. "I respect your perspective," she conceded, her words a fragile bridge spanning the gap between them. "In any case, your request has been fulfilled. I've found the Burnedead family profile." She retrieved a paper from her spell book, its inked secrets waiting to be revealed.

Arlecchino accepted the document, closing the book with a single, deliberate motion. Her pupils, ever vigilant, darted left and right, a testament to her prodigious reading speed. But one detail halted her—a fissure in the narrative.

The grandpa, it seemed, had no grandchildren. Questions swirled like autumn leaves: Who was Mash to him? Was he an adopted scion, a clandestine branch on the family tree? And what of Mash's extraordinary strength an anomaly beyond human bounds? wouldn't be sure about a three liner mark. She would have to put that to the test when the times comes.

"Orter would be skeptical regarding your sudden reappearance, Miss. I refrain from being an informant, but he consistently insinuates that you harbor nefarious intentions."

"That characterization fits me perfectly. The unfortunate man adheres to rules with unwavering loyalty, akin to a faithful dog. However, rest assured, I hold a measure of respect for Orter, albeit in my own enigmatic way." Her expression feigned sadness, masking the underlying complexity of the relationship between her and the seasoned visionary, Sophina. She keenly observed the subtle nuances when they were together.

Despite his occasional severity, there lingered an inexplicable longing in Orter's eyes whenever they locked onto her. A puzzle she couldn't quite decipher.

Returning the paper to her colleague, the younger woman rose from her chair. "Miss, Orter's strict adherence to regulations is unwavering, but he still-" she explained.