I need you to understand something about me, dear reader.
I have a problem.
It's not the kind of problem you can solve with therapy or medication. It's not the kind of problem that has a support group. ("Hi, my name is Vex, and I'm addicted to organizing my possessions in obsessive detail.")
It's the Inventory Problem.
And it started with the socks.
After my "training session" with Jenkins—which left me with a bruised ego, a bruised everything else, and a newfound appreciation for not dying—I returned to my room with a mission.
I was going to know every single thing I owned.
Every. Single. Thing.
It started simply enough. I opened my wardrobe and counted the socks again. Forty-seven pairs. But wait—were these all the socks? What about the socks in the drawers? What about the socks that might be hidden?
I found three more pairs in a drawer. That brought the total to fifty.
But then I noticed something. The socks weren't organized by color. They weren't organized by material. They were just... there. Random. Chaotic. Wrong.
I spent forty-five minutes sorting socks.
By color (blacks, grays, whites, and one disturbing pair of purple ones that I set aside for investigation).
By material (cotton, silk, wool, and something labeled "assassination blend" that I decided not to think about too hard).
By condition (new, used, and "why does this have a hole that looks like a knife went through it?").
When I finished the socks, I felt a sense of accomplishment. A warm glow of satisfaction. I had imposed order on chaos. I had tamed the wardrobe.
Then I saw the shirts.
Twenty-three shirts. All hanging in a row. All facing different directions. Some button-up, some pull-over, some with mysterious stains that I chose to believe were wine and not blood.
I took them all off the hangers.
I laid them on the bed.
I examined each one.
Shirt #1: White, silk, expensive. Stain on the collar that looked like lipstick. (Note: investigate whose lipstick. Could be important. Could be nothing. Probably nothing. But what if it's something?)
Shirt #2: Black, cotton, practical. Small tear in the sleeve. Mended poorly. (Note: who mended this? Not a professional. A servant? A family member? A secret lover? Probably not a secret lover. Fourth sons don't get secret lovers.)
Shirt #3: Gray, wool, itchy. Why would anyone wear this? (Note: keep for emergencies. Itchy shirt might be useful for... something. Staying awake? Torture?)
I cataloged all twenty-three shirts. I made notes. I created categories.
Then I found the hidden compartment in the wardrobe.
It wasn't obvious. It was behind the false back panel, accessible only by pressing a specific sequence of knots in the wood. I found it by accident—leaning against the wardrobe while trying to reach a shirt that had fallen behind the dresser.
The compartment contained:
- One dagger (ornate, jeweled, probably worth more than my monthly allowance)
- One vial of liquid (green, bubbling, definitely poison)
- One letter (sealed, unopened, addressed to "Whoever Finds This")
- One piece of cheese (different from the wall cheese, fresher, possibly only a few months old)
I set the cheese aside. I had questions about the cheese, but they could wait.
The letter was more interesting.
"Whoever Finds This," it read, "if you're reading this, I'm probably dead. The dagger is cursed. Don't touch it. The poison is for emergencies. The cheese is just cheese. Don't eat it. Seriously. Don't. —V.T."
V.T.
Vex Thornwood.
The previous Vex. The one who fell off the balcony. The one who was pushed.
He knew. He knew someone was going to kill him, and he left a note for whoever found his things.
I looked at the dagger. I looked at the note. I looked at the cheese.
Then I picked up the dagger.
Nothing happened. No curse activated. No lightning struck. No demons appeared.
I set it down. Picked it up again. Still nothing.
"Maybe the curse is broken," I said to the empty room. "Maybe it was never cursed. Maybe the previous me was paranoid."
Or maybe, I thought, the curse requires something specific. A word. A condition. A sacrifice.
I put the dagger back in the compartment. I'd investigate later. For now, I had inventory to complete.
The pants were next. Twelve pairs. I examined each one for hidden pockets, secret compartments, and mysterious stains. Found two hidden pockets (one containing a key, one containing a button—just a button, nothing special, but why was it hidden?).
Then the shoes. Eight pairs. Boots, dress shoes, something called "assassination slippers" (soft-soled, silent, deeply unsettling), and one pair of house shoes that looked like they'd never been worn.
Then the accessories. Belts (5). Cravats (12). Gloves (8 pairs, including one pair that Jenkins later informed me were "poison-proof" and another pair that were "poisoned"—I had to check the labels more carefully after that).
Then the furniture.
I checked under the bed. Found dust, a lost button (different from the hidden button), and a very old apple core that I chose not to investigate too closely.
I checked inside the mattress. Found nothing, which was suspicious in itself. A mattress without secrets? In an assassin's house? Unlikely.
I checked the pillows. Found one hidden blade in a hollowed-out feather pillow. (Note: who sleeps with a blade in their pillow? Assassins, apparently. Or people who are afraid of assassins. Or both.)
I checked the curtains. Found a window behind them. (Revolutionary discovery.)
I checked the window. Found a view of the gardens, a ledge that someone could theoretically climb (note to self: check for climbing marks), and a bird that looked at me with what I can only describe as judgment.
"Don't judge me," I told the bird. "You're a bird. You don't even have possessions."
The bird flew away. I took it as a victory.
By hour four, I had cataloged:
- All clothing (with subcategories and notes)
- All furniture (with hidden compartments marked)
- All visible weapons (7)
- All hidden weapons (3 more, including the pillow blade)
- All mysterious substances (4 vials, 2 powders, 1 questionable cheese)
- All documents (1 letter, 3 receipts for "services rendered"—assassin receipts, apparently)
By hour five, I had moved on to the smaller items.
The contents of the desk drawers. Pens (12). Ink bottles (3). Paper (a lot). A sealing wax set. A small knife for opening letters (or throats, this family didn't discriminate).
The jewelry box. Rings (4). One with a family crest. One with a blank stone. One that looked like it was made of bone (disturbing). One that Jenkins later told me was a "poison ring"—the stone flipped open to reveal a compartment for powder.
"Why do I have so much poison?" I asked Jenkins when he came to check on me.
"You're a Thornwood, Young Master. Poison is like cutlery. Everyone has their preferred set."
By hour six, I was done.
I had a complete inventory. I knew where everything was. I had imposed order on the chaos of my existence.
I sat on my perfectly cataloged bed and looked at my list.
And then I realized something.
I had forgotten to inventory myself.
The body I was wearing. The skills I had (none). The knowledge I possessed (limited). The advantages I had (questionable).
Who was Vex Thornwood, really?
And more importantly—who was I going to be, now that I was him?
I looked at the list again. At all the items, all the possessions, all the carefully organized chaos.
Then I added one more entry:
"Item #1: One life (secondhand, previously owned, currently possessed). Condition: uncertain. Value: unknown. Status: active."
I was going to figure this out.
One inventory item at a time.