Clayton had paid a rare visit to his shop.
The moment Charlotte saw him from behind the counter, her eyes popped wide.
"Mr. Bello, you have finally come back. I have been wondering when you would return."
Clayton never thought that anyone would miss him. Even though it was his employee, he still felt very moved.
"Well, I...."
"Please concern yourself with the shop a bit more!"
Charlotte uttered with sternness, "Only after the weekly edition of Black Ribbon was released did I find out our shop's ad had expired. A new quarter has begun. Due to market trends, it is now more costly to take up as much space in the newspaper as before. In line with our business strategy, I have already repurchased our previous ad placement. But I have paid for it out of my own pocket, for you hadn't left me any cash when you left. Now that you have come back, please settle the bill. By the way, I can't even ask for leave when you are absent, because there is no one to fill in for me."
Clayton stiffened as he reached for his wallet.
"Got it. You've been granted a month's holiday, now you can pack up your stuff and head home to enjoy your time off."
After due consideration, he thought it necessary to allow Miss Charlotte an extended holiday.
This way, even if the Holy Grail Society assaulted the shop, he needn't worry that she would fall incidental victim to it.
As for the business, well, he had a few aides in other parishes. He could exchange letters with them, which, though, was a little inconvenient.
However, Charlotte, without a second thought, flat-out refused.
"No, it is too long; all I need is three days."
"Paid holiday."
"Oh, please don't do that, or I will take it that you're courting me."
Though a stud by general aesthetic standards, Clayton was never Charlotte's cup of tea.
Moreover, there was an age gap of ten years between them, something unacceptable to Charlotte.
Clayton gaped at her bluntness.
"I don't mean that, but I have encountered some trouble, that's why I have to close the shop for a while."
"Anything I can help with?"
"No."
"Anyway, you don't have to shut it down for an entire month, right?"
"You like your job so much?" Clayton couldn't get his head around her reaction.
Jamming her fingers into her hair, Charlotte groaned, "I don't want to stay at home too long. My parents would think I have been laid off."
"Then go keep your lover company and consider when to get married."
As times changed, people got married later and later, but Clayton seemed to have still one foot set in his Bartnu countryside days.
Over there, a betrothal at fourteen or slightly older was no rare occurrence.
He climbed the stairs to the first floor. Charlotte did not follow him.
She pondered for a while the necessity of a marriage, then left the antique shop carrying her handbag.
Meanwhile, Clayton found a desired thing in the first-floor workspace.
A silver wire birdcage.
It wasn't a commonplace item, for bird owners were few and far between, and even fewer would splurge on a silver birdcage.
Clayton had long since forgotten how he had acquired it. Anyway, seemingly ever since he had taken over the business, it had been here and wanted by no one, so he could only mothball it on the first floor. Only now could it be put to use.
Without it, he couldn't very well bring Clara outside.
Though Clara remembered her home's location, it was impossible for her to describe its details solely by speech.
If she was going to guide Clayton, at least she had to be allowed a glimpse of the outside world.
Clayton envisioned placing Clara in a gauze-wrapped birdcage, so she could see from within but remained unseen herself.
He grabbed some needed tools in the shop, then stepped outside and locked the door, quite delightedly.
He felt like his target was within sight.
.....
Clayton soon experimented with his idea.
It proved an undeniable success.
Swathed in gauze, it offered no view inside. No one out on the streets had questioned whether it held a bird.
None but the landlady had inquired about the cage's purpose.
All Clayton did was shake it before Clara chirped, as had been agreed between them, dispelling the suspicious Madam's curiosity.
To Clayton's stunned awe, his familiarity with the city might bow before Clara's.
Although the city had been reinvented in the past, age-old landmarks had been preserved.
At a first glance of those buildings, Clara could blurt out whether to turn left or right. The growing excitement and decisiveness in her voice quelled Clayton's skepticism about her intelligence and memory.
A whole morning's excursion left Clara's lips dried and tongue scorched.
Nevertheless, after Clayton treated her to a bit of cake, her spirits soared again.
By afternoon, having meandered down another few crooked paths, they arrived at the White Pigeon Square in St. Talos Parish.
Nominally, it was a public square, but no one here was in the mood to entertain themselves.
Clayton saw poor people queuing up for charity food. The line extended from an alley and coiled itself halfway around the square.
"Go right over there. Clara's home is behind that house. It is a beautiful white house," said Clara, gazing into the alley.
Her anticipation bubbled over, yet there was clearly little room for Clayton to squeeze his way in.
Those gaunt-faced people were packed shoulder to shoulder, listening to a dark-green-coated army officer's speech, yet their stares riveted on the food, from which wisps of steam rose.
A few armed soldiers surrounded the stage, making it unavoidable to listen to the boring speech in full and repeat part of it, the precondition for one to get their share of food.
"... the road leading to the Holy City bristles with thorns. With our belief serving as the shoes, we march down the true pathway----"
Blessed with dashing features, a head of blonde hair, and a sonorous voice, the army officer seemed cut out to be a debater and orator, but Clayton found he had selected the wrong audience.
Despicable as it was to subject people to a lecture using food as a threat, it was the most common approach the Salvation Army had taken.
Clayton recognized these people. They were well-known throughout the army.
Some colonies boasted an abundance of mineral resources but also sat amid a heartless environment. The garrisons in those regions lacked the company of chaplains, so they devised their own ways to sing hymns and worship, and then those treacherous places catalyzed their singular, adamant belief.
Back from their service, they assembled and co-founded an organization that they christened the 'Salvation Army'.
They broadcast word of an impending Apocalypse and claimed a perpetual salvation exclusive to those joining the Church.
Clayton had heard of them back when attending middle school. But, so far, they had not achieved much. All they had done was endless propaganda, yet their approach had yielded little fruit, if not showing a lack of wit.
He had seen the Army's members at the Retired Officers' Club, but these on the square were no doubt on active duty.
Perhaps they had been too idle in the infantry barracks.
But renting a private venue for charity was supposedly what best suited their temperament.
Public settings threatened not only conflicts with others but also reprimands from orthodox believers, better-versed in the ecclesiastical doctrines, which would degrade them badly on the spot.
Surveying the head of the lane, Clayton saw an opening in the crowd and inserted himself into it.
Soon afterwards, a rifle with a bayonet blocked his way.
A Salvation Army soldier stood in his way and threw a glance at the birdcage in his hand. "You look like somebody who has got stuff to do. You shouldn't be here."
'Got stuff to do' meant having a job. The Salvation Army's charity was intended only for the unemployed.
"I'm not here for food." Clayton raised a hand and pointed into the alley behind the soldier. "Excuse me, make way."
The serviceman didn't budge. "You're denied there as well."
"Why?"
"Don't ask why. Go look for another route." He snapped impatiently.
Clayton peered at him a second, then dropped the argument and turned back.
When he reached a lonely place, from inside the cage, Clara's voice came out distorted through layer upon layer of gauze.
"Why did Clayton not enter? He looked weak. Clayton could have knocked him down."
"I couldn't. Those guys in green coats are all together and carry guns."
As far as Clayton was concerned, the members of the Army were more or less of abnormal minds. To defend their religion, they indeed had the guts to fire at a pagan.
Clashing with them without much at stake was hardly sensible.
Another possibility had occurred to him: Father Petri had reached out to the bunch of soldiers as a result of Joe's call for help. This explained why they were distributing food in the Square. It was just an incidental event.
Just his current knowledge could not explain why they had come here in particular.
Perhaps the Church was also in the know about the history between the Mani family and the Holy Grail Society?