Chapter 13: How to deal with an artist
The newsman's house was easy to find.
It was the only building in the village that looked like it was trying to pretend it didn't live in the same rundown neighborhood as the rest. The windows were aligned, the roof didn't have any visible holes, and the door — well, the door was still in one piece. And in Ashveil, that alone was worthy of an architecture award.
I climbed the little stone steps like I was about to be announced at a royal court. Puffed out my chest, adjusted the coat that still smelled like fermented cheese, and knocked firmly on the door. Three solid knocks.
From inside, a deep, impatient voice answered:
"It's open. Just come in."
I entered.
And was immediately hit by a wave of old paper, dry ink, and coffee that had clearly given up on life at least two days ago. It was the aroma of wisdom... and someone who refuses to open a window.
The room looked like a mash-up of a library, a news office, and the bedroom of a hoarder with organized OCD. Stacks of newspapers leaned in wobbly columns, dark wooden filing cabinets stuffed to their limits, shelves covered in books with illegible titles, many with tags hanging by string. And in the brightest corner of the room, a globe spinning slowly for no apparent reason.
There was a wide desk in front of the only decent armchair in the place. And behind it — the man.
Gideon Marlow.
Graying hair tied into a short ponytail. Glasses hanging off the tip of his nose. A steaming mug in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other. He didn't even look up at me for the first few seconds.