The delivery comes to Ailova Smith a day later. Blort is, if anything, efficient; he'll let no coin burn too long in his pocket without a reason for having earned it. Money, after all, is only as reliable as the work tendered in return. But not being a man of unnecessary words, the folded parchment is only a map of Myrkentown proper with a few spots darkened by kohl.
One spot at the intersection of Dyer Avenue and Ravensridge.
Another at the general store along Merchant's Row.
Tinier marks pepper the page at various places: the teahouse, where ladies of particular reputation are purchased and enjoyed; the shore along the East Mavoiir, where the word FISHING
is unceremoniously scrawled; three dots mark the fields south of Lothbury, all three of them marked HORSING
But the biggest mark rests amid the gravestones of Lychfield, and Blort's handwriting is as curious as the question floating nearly off the page:
SEVERAL VISITS PER DAY. FAMILY PLOT? LOST LOVED ONE? QUESTIONABLE DESIRES?