Chapter 65: Interlude
A day could have all kinds of expectations. A monotonous start to a workday was different from a holiday trip to the woods, lively and full of promises. Meeting with a lover and catching a whiff of fresh-baked pastry felt oddly the same, and yet, if you could manage a tight enough schedule, you could work them into your day. But this morning, the expectations boiling in the pit of Basil’s stomach were truly one of a kind because, after years of work, he'd finally completed his First Trial.
He felt it in his chest, a burning ball of excitement slowly spreading across his body, taking hold of him just like a rare sunny day in Belgrave. He walked with a spring in his step, a glint in his eye, his suit neatly smoothened, his chin cleanly shaved. He walked with such haste that he even managed to catch the first omnibus of the day, paid the coachman generously and, poured himself over to an empty seat in the back, sat there like a giddy kid on his way to a circus.
The start of the rest of my life. New life! In the Warden’s Library! I’ll be working with real Scribes, not with those hopeless fools thinking a job in a bank is good enough for them. A job! In a bank! I would’ve died a thousand deaths if I were to spend another month in that dark place!
The omnibus creaked to a start as the horses pushed forward with the early morning’s rigor, four of them pulling the straps bound around their bodies as if their lives depended on it. One station after another, the buildings passed by in a blur beyond the windows, men and women crowding the interior of the carriage.
A middle-aged man huffed his way to the back, pushed himself through the crowd, and squeezed barely between a pair of tall handymen until he found that last empty spot by Basil. He sat down grumbling with one hand over his top hat, his moustache waxed stiff, drops of sweat from the effort dotting his clear forehead.
On any day, Basil would’ve turned his back to him and lost himself to the scenery beyond the dirty windows, not risking a conversation with a grumbling man who was clearly troubled with his demons. On any day he would do his utmost to mute the hum of voices in the carriage, but this was not any day.
“Good day, Sir!” he said with perhaps the widest smile he ever had on his face. “What a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
“Dimwit,” the middle-aged man huffed, and scowled, and gave him a look as though he found Basil an annoying fly buzzing right by his ears.
“A beautiful morning…” Basil smiled, scarcely offended, hardly affected by the cold response. He couldn’t help it. He was a famed Warden’s Scribe now, and there was no way he would let anyone take this particular day from him.
…..
“It has come to my ears that you’ve completed your First Trial just shy of ten years,” the Head Scribe said, his voice thick with authority. He commanded the little hall with his very presence, dressed in a deep, midnight-blue robe that fell to his ankles, lined with subtle velvet trims. The hem and cuffs were embroidered with the golden strands of the Blessed Father, forming spheres of radiance in different sizes. His wrinkles tightened when he gave a weighing look at Basil. “That is no easy feat.”
“I’ve always been a fast worker, Sir,” Basil quivered under his gaze but still managed to keep his voice straight as he nodded. “And a fast learner, too, I’ve been told.”