As the distant cathedral bells chimed seven times, Wei Chen returned to his chair, the echoes lingering in the air. He stood, moved to the wardrobe, and pulled out his clothes for the day.
A black waistcoat, matching trousers, and a crisp white shirt gave him a faintly scholarly air—he almost laughed, feeling like a character in a turn-of-the-century Viennese drama. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Not an interview. Just shopping for ingredients… for a luck ritual."
Emil's anxiety about his upcoming university interview lingered in the muscle memory of his hands. Without thinking, Wei had nearly dressed in his only formal suit.
He paused, exhaled, and changed into a brown wool coat and a rounded felt hat—something less conspicuous for the bustling city streets.
He went to the bed, lifted a cushion, and reached into a hidden seam. His fingers found a roll of faded banknotes—eight in all, the family's meager savings. Two were five-krone notes, the rest singles, each worn and soft from use.
In the Free City's currency, the krone was second only to the gold ducat. One krone equaled twelve groschen. The ducat, guaranteed by gold, was worth twenty krone and came in denominations of one, five, and ten.
Wei spread a note, savoring the faint scent of ink and paper. The intricate design, the watermark visible in the morning light, the stern emperor's portrait—all these details felt oddly precious.
He admired the notes for a moment, then tucked two singles into his jacket and hid the rest away, smoothing the cushion to conceal the stash.
He slipped a key into his pocket, grabbed a worn paper bag, and headed for the door. His steps slowed as he reached it, a frown creasing his brow.
Emil's death had been suspicious. Was it safe to simply walk out?
After a moment's hesitation, Wei returned to the desk, opened the drawer, and retrieved the cold, heavy revolver. It was the only weapon he had—intimidating, if nothing else.
He checked the cylinder, aligning the empty chamber left by the "suicide" beneath the hammer—just in case. The gun and his money went into his coat pocket, his hand resting on both.
Feeling slightly more secure, he pressed down his hat and stepped into the corridor. Daylight barely reached the dim hallway, but outside, the city was waking.
Helmsgart's summer was mild, the morning air cool. Streets were slick with last night's rain, puddles reflecting the pale sky. Wei moved quickly, keeping his head down, one hand on his hat, the other gripping his pocket.
Vendors called out in a dozen dialects:
"Fresh river fish! Still wriggling!"
"Hot cabbage soup—start your day right!"
"Bread and cheese, best in the city!"
"Wild mushrooms, picked this morning!"
The mingled scents of coal smoke, baking bread, and wet stone filled the air. Wei kept a wary eye on the crowd—pickpockets, desperate laborers, and ragged children darted through the throng.
He passed a street musician playing a battered accordion, children dancing in threadbare clothes, their laughter bright against the city's grayness. A tired woman paused, her gaze softening as she watched them—a glimpse of her own lost childhood.
Wei turned onto a quieter street and stopped at Frau Wendel's bakery. The old woman, her hair a cloud of white, greeted him with a warm smile.
"Eight pounds of rye, please," Wei said, handing over his carefully counted coins.
Frau Wendel chatted as she wrapped the bread, asking after his family and teasing about his prospects. Wei replied with vague optimism, feeling the weight of her expectations and Emil's fragmented memories.
He left the bakery, crossed to the market for mutton and peas, and soon found himself in a lively square. Tents were pitched at the intersection, and clowns in garish costumes handed out flyers.
"Circus tonight!" one flyer read.
Mira would love this, he thought. But how much would tickets cost?
As he approached, a woman in a pointed hat and black dress beckoned from a tent. Her face was painted, her eyes an unsettling gray-blue.
"Would you like an augury?" she asked, her voice low and hoarse.
Wei hesitated. "No, thank you," he replied, thinking of his dwindling coins.
She smiled. "First reading of the day is always free. My tarot is never wrong."
The word "tarot" jolted him. He remembered the cards from his own world—symbols, omens, fate. But here, the cards had a different history: invented by a revolutionary, woven into the city's own legends.
Curiosity overcame caution. "If it's free, why not?" Wei said, stepping closer.
The woman's smile widened as she gestured him into the tent, the scent of incense and old paper curling through the air.