When Richard woke up, sunlight was streaming through the east window. It was already noon.
The ache that seemed to seep from his very bones hadn’t faded completely, but it was much better than when he had staggered upstairs last night.
Breath Healing had quietly done its work overnight.
His throat was no longer tight, the scabs on his fingers had formed cleanly, and the frostbite on his skin from working outdoors had almost completely healed.
He rolled over and sat up.
A white porcelain saucer sat on the table, an envelope tucked underneath it.
A small blue butterfly was drawn next to the recipient’s name.
Richard’s unpleasant mood, soured by a dream the previous night, gradually softened.
’Those plump, round letters... that has to be my sister’s handwriting.’
He slid the envelope out from under the saucer. A letter opener had been thoughtfully placed beside it.
’The postman must have delivered it this morning. The landlady probably saw I was sound asleep and just left it on the table for me.’
He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the letter.
Four sheets of paper fluttered out of the envelope. All four were filled with talk of food.
How much powdered sugar Mother had sprinkled on the apples;
How Father had snuck a few canned cherries but stubbornly refused to admit it;
Why the first red bean pie she made herself hadn’t been sweet...
In the center of the third page was a yellowish stain, and next to the stain was a drawing of a grinning rabbit.
The rabbit’s ears were lopsided, one long and one short. Beneath it was a line of small text:
"I drew myself. Brother, don’t you laugh."
Richard didn’t laugh. He blinked hard, twice, then rubbed the yellowish, blotchy stain with the pad of his finger.
The smell of red bean paste was long gone, but it felt as if a trace of sweetness still lingered in the paper’s fibers.
On the bottom half of the fourth page, Evelyn’s handwriting suddenly changed.
The dense, tiny script was gone, replaced by large, deliberate letters, each stroke penned with the care of a child tracing a copybook:
"Happy New Year, Brother!"
"I’ll make you a red bean pie when you come back."
His sister hadn’t written a single word urging him to return soon, yet every sentence seemed to be full of longing for his homecoming.
Richard refolded the four pages along their original creases and placed them back in the envelope.
He then tucked the envelope back under the white porcelain saucer and returned the saucer to the corner of the table.
Outside, the sunlight caught the edge of the saucer, its glaze reflecting a soft, gentle white.
When he went downstairs, only the proprietress was in the main hall, wiping a table.
"You’re awake?" The proprietress looked up at him.
"Yeah."
"There’s porridge warming in the pot. Help yourself."
Richard walked to the kitchen doorway and ladled a bowl of oatmeal from an iron pot on the stove.
It was simmered so thick a spoon could stand straight up in it.
He carried the bowl back to the hall and sat at the table beside the fireplace.
He was halfway through his meal when footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Theodore came downstairs, three tufts of his hair sticking up, his eyes still not fully open.
"...What time is it?"
"Twelve-thirty," Richard said, glancing at the wall clock above the bar.
"Twelve-thirty!" The boy from the stables yelped in surprise.
"I’ve never slept in till twelve-thirty before!"
"You fell asleep in the carriage last night," Richard reminded him.
"...I did?" Theodore scratched his head.
"You were asleep on Maggie’s shoulder."
The stableboy’s face flushed crimson in an instant.
"She... she didn’t hit me, did she?"
"No."
"That’s good." Theodore breathed a sigh of relief and ran to the kitchen to get some porridge.
He returned with his bowl and sat down across from Richard.
The two of them ate in silence for a while.
"Oh, right. Your hand from last night..."
"Hm?"
"Did you wash the silver ink off?"
Richard held out his right hand for him to see. The silvery traces were still visible between his fingers.
Theodore leaned over to take a look.
"What did you use to wash it?"
"Soap."
"Soap won’t work," Maggie’s voice called out from the stairs.
She walked down, wrapped in that wool cloak that was a size too big for her. Her red braids had been re-done, and her freckles were distinct in the sunlight.
"Use Pine Turpentine." The girl walked over to Richard’s table and glanced down at his fingers.
"The silver ink has seeped into your skin. Soap only cleans the surface."
"How do you know that?" Theodore asked.
"My uncle is an apothecary," Maggie said matter-of-factly.
"How to handle getting silver ink, mercury ink, or lead powder on your hands... I’ve known how to deal with that stuff since I was eight."
She turned and rummaged around in the kitchen, pulling a small brown bottle from a cabinet under the stove.
"Pine Turpentine." She handed the bottle to Richard.
"Pour a little on a cloth and scrub between your fingers."
Richard did as she said.
The smell of the Pine Turpentine was overpowering—acrid and pungent, as if someone had shoved an entire pine tree up his nose.
But it worked well. As he wiped, the silver ink began to dissolve.
"It’s working."
"Of course it’s working." Maggie sat down across from him and snatched a spoonful of porridge from Theodore’s bowl.
"Hey!"
"You’ve still got half a bowl left. Don’t be so stingy."
Theodore hugged his bowl closer, looking as protective of his food as a hound pup whose bone had just been stolen.
Maggie paid him no mind, simply going to the kitchen to get a bowl for herself.
After they finished eating, the proprietress came in through the back door carrying a stack of clean tablecloths. She paused by their table as she passed.
"Young Sir," she said to Richard, "Mrs. MacNeil is in the small lounge in the back. She asked that you stop by when it’s convenient."
"Alright. Thank you, ma’am."
Richard took his bowl to the kitchen, then headed for the small lounge at the back of the first floor.
The door was ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Mrs. MacNeil was already there.
The lounge wasn’t large, containing only a two-seater sofa, a pair of armchairs, and a small fireplace.
Mrs. MacNeil was seated in an armchair across from the fireplace, a cast-iron poker in her hand.
She used the poker to shift the logs in the hearth, causing the flames to leap higher.
"Sit."

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