By the time he actually opened the letter, he was alone in his rented room at the ‘Dagger. He had tried to read it over supper, which he ended up having none, due to the fact that some girl was… not herself. His evening ended with the boy by name of Elliot Brown in his arms while he taxed his mind as to whether it was legal in Myrkenwood to arrest someone of magical capability. There
had to be a way.
He was weary, having been sober for days now (his training as a street constable allowed little time for his fire water), and when he opened the missive, his eyes widened, squinted and then the hair above his eyes scurried above his brows.
“Detective?” he asked, looking over the paper and across the room. “But I’m not a detective.”
It was delegation. Scutt work. Grunt work. Seniority, the thing he had not yet earned, ruled him. The thing about these kinds of tasks were that he would be fired if he failed, promoted if he succeeded. It was presented as if he had a choice. Tomias was not a detective, but this Lentham forced him away from his comfortable street duties.
Even worst, he didn’t know this “Cherney.” It was yet another child, something this town seemed to be plagued and infested with. He needed someone who would know children. He needed…
“A know-it-all.”
He wrote quickly, his handwriting a river of scribbles but legible enough:
Mes, Gloria,
I wondor if you would be willing to return a faver. I helped you bury some papers. Would you help me and tell me if you know a child by name of Cherney? I would need to talk to him. I would appresheate your asistance with this constible matter.
She would ask something of him. And he would give it to the portly one, because if Gloria liked to do anything, it was talk.