Clayton was in the mindset to roast Joe, but didn't get the chance.
When Clayton arrived at the chapel in St. Melon Parish, the volunteer wasn't there.
He learned from a priest that Joe was preparing for his baptism and couldn't have contact with any outsiders.
This was something unsurprising. Clayton had expected that Joe would play this sort of trick, but, whatever, Joe had to shoulder the responsibility.
The way Joe kept holding back the truth displeased Clayton.
What the Holy Grail Society claimed in the letter spelled their confidence that Joe would definitely not seek help from others. Clayton was very familiar with such a confident tone, which was typical of a lender.
Clayton went to the Mercy Street once more, planning to leave a note in Joe's mailbox. But the house was now vacant, and the landlord told him that the renter had already moved away.
With no clear alternatives, he could only head for home to handle his own business and wait until Joe reached out to him, or go ask the chapel's priest again a while later.
Perhaps Joe could leverage the Church's power to do away with the Holy Grail Society.
Nonetheless, after his frustrated attempt, Clayton calmed his anger.
What the Holy Grail Society could bring about was not only losses, he mused.
During these few free days, he had made contact with an insurance company, insuring every item with a certificate of authenticity in his shop.
At any time this year, as long as Rusty Silver Coin was looted or set on fire, Clayton wouldn't suffer the slightest bit of loss and might even profit from it.
The insurance's terms were relatively lenient, courtesy of Sasha City's long-standing safe environment.
Nonetheless, despite the possible compensation, he would have to spend extra time and money reconstructing the shop, while his debt resulting from his ill-advised investments in ocean trades and other businesses wouldn't allow him much time.
After a hackney carriage whisked him home, Clayton checked his mailbox.
His business partners had been searching for valuable items across the city all year long, and he had kept in contact with a lot of friends. Thus, almost every day, new letters arrived in his mailbox.
The landlord's maidservant informed him that she had carried all the fresh beef, ordered by Clayton, to the cellar. Therefore, he planned to enjoy tonight systematically and thoroughly.
When the nightfall had descended, he would be feasting on tasty chunks of the delicacy down in the cellar.
As a werewolf, he could regain his strength by dining; Clayton could even stay up all night, unaffected.
A werewolf's strength and shape-shifting ability could be honed through exercises. That's what he had been occupied with in the evenings.
In the early morning, he would return to human form and chew up some natural spices to dispel the odor in his mouth. Then, he would take a bath before reading through the letters involving Rusty Silver Coin's business in Sasha or its adjacent areas.
In the previous years, he had been plagued by old injuries from his service days, his muscles and joints haunted with sour aches. However, once he had awoken as a werewolf, those injuries healed immediately without any treatment.
Objectively, aside from the Holy Grail Society's menace, most aspects of his life were changing for the better.
Nevertheless, the Society had canceled out his good mood.
The Society's eccentric-looking underlings had been transformed from Sasha City's locals, suggesting the Holy Grail Society envoys' ongoing attack on ordinary folks. They were far more treacherous than expected.
Thus, he persuaded Cuitisi, in the letter, to reconsider or to further negotiate with him whether to move with Donna to Sasha City.
His meeting with his blood relative was postponed once again, if they could ever make it happen.
If Clayton captured those Holy Grail Society bastards in the coming days, he wanted nothing more than to cut them into pieces, to say the least.
Clayton was neck-deep in writing back to every letter at home.
By the afternoon, he hired a hackney carriage and conducted a systematic search.
Last time, he had collected a useful scent from the eagle-bodied demoness, which differed from that of the cheap perfume in Broken-Winged Angel, the strip club.
The refreshing scent called to mind an untouched stretch of fabric. That was his first and only time smelling it. But because of the little heed he had paid it, he couldn't recall what it belonged to.
But he speculated it could be from some dye.
As long as he searched through all dye workshops throughout Sasha City, he would obtain a clue.
Given the two watchers' successive demises, the Holy Grail Society would not dispatch new ones against Clayton in a short period. This allowed him time to track them down.
However, unbeknownst to him, his reputation among coachmen had undergone a small twist.
This one, now in his employ, was eyeing Clayton with a strange gaze.
"Sir, excuse me for being forward, but I have heard from my peers pieces of gossip about you."
Clayton circled around the carriage to the rear before hopping in. He could not remember ever clashing with any coachman.
"Just rumors, I guess?" he replied casually.
The coachman said with a laugh, "I think so. Otherwise, how could a man suddenly strip himself and jump off a horse carriage?"
Clayton's smile froze.
It abruptly dawned on him that till now, he was far from one who had suffered no losses at all in his struggle against the Society.
........
A black wide-brimmed top hat was first pressed down on her brownish short hair, then a matching black padded cotton jacket was wrapped around her torso.
High-heeled boots and a basket-hilted rapier were indispensable, followed by a short musket that was holstered at her hip.
Mary Eata examined herself in the mirror, with no narcissism. She was checking whether the laces had been tied correctly.
Before leaving the bedroom, she cast one last glance into the mirror.
In the mirror, the silhouette clad in military gear bore a semblance to her father's image from her childhood.
Today was another day for her to uphold the city's justice.
Mary Eata had a job during the day, writing and reading letters for illiterate people, which yielded a yearly salary of sixty pounds.
Perhaps such an amount seemed humble for decent folks, but she didn't live on it. She had inherited her father's legacy that guaranteed ten years of worry-free, non-working life, and that was more than enough as her dowry.
"I'm heading out, Mom."
She spoke to a woman resting on a recliner in the living room.
The woman looked like Mary in ways big and small. No one would doubt that she must have been a beauty in her early years. Nonetheless, overly thick woolen clothes were swathed around her in layers, and her face appeared unhealthily pallid, making for a presence of someone a decade older than she actually was.
She opened her listless eyes and turned her face upon Mary. "Are you leaving again?"
"I will return, I promise."
Mary Eata pulled open the door and glanced outside before turning back to hug her mother.
"Aunt Faye is coming. She makes a better stew than I do."
Deadpan, her mother pushed her away as though she were a stranger to her mother.
"Well. Better take your leave right now."
Mary offered a nod and left her home at last.
As the daughter, she held dear everything her father had left behind, including the city boasting a colorful, distant history.
Maintaining Sasha City's adorable image was something she took for granted and saw as a must-do, just like tucking cheese and bacon between two slices of toast.
Her father had been an army ranger in his time. He had taught her how to wield guns and swords, which, in turn, made Mary excel as a constable.
In the Chief Constabulary, no one would mock her for her gender or spout things like 'Wielding weapons is beyond women's ability' ----- for, now and then, she would serve as a shooting instructor, a job she had done better than most men.
Besides, she had a good teacher---also her reliable partner.
Despite her face blindness, the man had never complained about it.
Toward sunset, Mary made her way into the plush Chief Constabulary building, where a fully armed male constable was waiting for her at the front desk.
"Mary, the patrol schedule for today has been set. Go to the stable and lead a horse over."
"Understood, Mr. Gilead." Mary elatedly responded.
Though an order, it hardly wearied her. It was a sign of recognition that a superior gave orders to his subordinate.
Actually, the Chief Constabulary didn't have enough horses, and Mr. Gilead never rode one. The order was Gilead's care for her writ small.
As she brought the horse out, in the midst of hoofsteps, she asked, "Sir, where are we headed today?"
"St. Suliac Parish." Holding the dog's leash, Gilead strolled off without a turn of his head. "Be sure to protect yourself. Today, we may encounter those patients as well."
Yes, 'patients'.
Mary Eata felt a squeeze around her heart, growing alert.
Recently, a strange disease had been spreading across this city. Those affected, though dressed, didn't look like humans and had something aggressive in them.
If not for Mr. Gilead's explanation that it was a horrifying pandemic from the colonial region, she might have taken them for monsters in legends, left scared out of her wits.
Anyway, muskets and swords remained capable of bringing them down.
However pathetic they were, the malignant infectious disease was incurable. The only way to guard the city was to kill them before sending their corpses to a crematorium.
To avert a stir, all these had to be handled in secret.