The strange expression on his face blurred Furen's perception of the world. He couldn't help but touch his ears, colder than others', as if he had been drinking, to check that he wasn't too drunk.
It was one of his habits at Furen's house. And when, jokingly with friends, he was caught doing it, Furen was mortified. He thought the habit would eventually disappear with time since, after all, everyone is different, but he never imagined it would become even more problematic.
Furen placed his left hand on his forehead and his right on his earlobe. This strange behavior astonished the two people present. As for Quevedo, he immediately wondered if he hadn't taken the joke too far. But upon reflection, he convinced himself that he hadn't: he hadn't said anything too inappropriate. So he remained there, slightly embarrassed, watching Furen.
After calming down and shedding his awkward shyness, Furen regained his usual composure. To be honest, he found Quevedo and Erich's company rather pleasant: he didn't need to play a role or force a discordant smile. He could choose to be quiet or cheerful as he pleased.
Her cold hands rubbed together, right in front of her stomach, in one of her favorite sitting positions because it was so relaxing: "Uh... haha, that was just a joke. I thought I was the first one there, honestly! I wasn't expecting that."
Seeing that his friend was alright, Quevedo let out a sigh of relief: "How is that possible? I wouldn't have let you arrive before me, hehe. A proper host has to prepare everything before the guests arrive. Although I'm not the host, as your guide, I prefer to wait for you rather than keep you waiting."
Once their conversation was over, Erich also chimed in: "Yet, I think I arrived first. I'm a regular at the Scarlet Café. I like the atmosphere for reading here: very calm, very lit by candles... well, rather by lamps."
Upon hearing this, Furen looked up at the café's light source. They were only oil lamps, not electric ones. Clearly, Roselle hadn't yet jumped into the electric age and remained stuck in the steam era. This was understandable, since an electric age presupposes the existence of fossil fuels, and this world has no oil. No electricity without oil. And even if some scientific genius tried to propel technology directly into an "electric coal age," it would probably lead nowhere.
Furen reflected on his twelve years of study. Oil wasn't just a fuel; it was also the raw material for many industrial products. One could say that oil had enabled the Earth's progress. As for coal, frankly, its performance as a fuel was not only inferior to oil's, but it also lacked its versatility. But who knows? After all, this world, thanks to supernatural forces, might well take a different path.
Nearby, Quevedo, who was beginning to get bored, sat up straight as soon as he spotted a kerosene lamp. He immediately began to rattle off his words at breakneck speed: Roselle this, children of steam that, governance, and so on. Furen and Erich pretended not to hear. But Quevedo, without pity, continued his explanations in the hope of "converting" his two friends, essentially proselytizing about Roselle, a person who, objectively, had nothing to do with them.
Fortunately, even when he started exaggerating, he never went so far as to pull out a teapot full of "rat tail juice." Furen and Erich simply had to endure his speeches in silence. To be honest, Quevedo was a true Roselle fanatic: every time he tried to convince Furen, he came up with new arguments. Furen trusted his erudition, so much so that he considered him a kind of walking radio station, a living documentary channel—which, in short, made things less irritating.
Time, which usually seemed to drag, became surprisingly short during Quevedo's impromptu lesson. And it was only when Erich caught sight of Karl stepping down from his carriage out of the corner of his eye that he interrupted him, not without difficulty. One could truly say that Quevedo was a "Roselle expert."
Once stopped, Quevedo realized he was thirsty, emptied his cup of coffee in one gulp, then accompanied Erich, who had finished his a long time ago, and Furen to go and welcome Karl.
Karl, for his part, was much more perceptive. After checking that the street was empty, he easily spotted Quevedo, visibly nervous, and behind him, Furen and Erich, who were watching him without a word. Seeing that his behavior had been observed, Quevedo immediately straightened up, looking a little sheepish, while the other two continued walking at the same pace.
Before Quevedo, still brimming with enthusiasm, could open his mouth, Karl took the initiative:
"Good morning, my friends."
He spoke in Intisian, with a very marked aristocratic accent, a complex style, little used among the people, but prized by the nobility: the more sophisticated it is, the more it proves the distinction.
"I thought you'd be here a while longer. Arriving a little early is part of perfect protocol. But arriving too early would be considered an impolite act..."
Unlike the nobles of Loen, who preferred to arrive slightly late, the custom in Intis was to arrive a little early.
In truth, on the Northern Continent, Intis and Loen were like Germany and France in Europe: different customs, but they considered each other models to imitate and surpass. Feysac was like Russia, and Feynapotter like a less greedy England.
Karl was still a nobleman, and noblemen often have a gentle, yet irritatingly sharp way of criticizing behavior they deem inappropriate. But Quevedo, apparently, didn't hear the irony in his words. He burst out laughing and responded with a warm embrace.
Karl instinctively took a step or two back. But his impression of Quevedo was that of an impulsive and sincere friend, almost touching in his simplicity. So he dropped the pretense and returned his embrace.
Furen, reflecting on his image of Quevedo, had to admit that he had someone truly charismatic in his midst. Perhaps he wasn't particularly strong, nor perfectly educated… but he was a friend one didn't want to disown.
Warm without being intrusive, polite but genuinely enthusiastic. Furen thought that a friend like him could be trusted.
To be honest, Furen had long been wary of Quevedo: an old friend he hadn't seen in years and of whom he retained few memories… but who had suddenly become close to him. Even with his supernatural abilities, Furen couldn't help but be on his guard.
He was a cautious boy, perhaps even fearful, and anything that didn't make sense immediately alarmed him. But now he could be sure: Quevedo was a true friend, and a precious one.
(End of chapter)