The Singer's Sad Love Song

Bossia Wislanzo sat in the corner of the stone bed padded with straw mats, leaned back against the wall, and closed her eyes. For a moment she fell asleep, and the soreness in the back of her neck woke her up again. She opened her tired eyes and stared blankly at the small patch of light on the floor cast by the skylight, helpless, but smelled a rotten stench of blood, she stood up and sat down, but the smell still followed her, until she found that it came from a small insect that had been crushed behind her shoulder just now.

She pinched the corpse of the little insect, wiped it disgustfully on the wall, and then shook her right hand, as if that could quickly fan away the stench. At that moment, she saw the man who had eavesdropped on her singing by the river and then twisted her appear outside the iron bars. She hurriedly hid her hands behind her back.

"How did you get in here?" she said.

Jorgen did not answer her question. This was the underground dungeon of the MI7 Headquarters, dedicated to temporarily detaining suspects with sensitive identities, and ordinary investigators were not usually allowed in. He had waited for several days until a familiar jailer came on duty before he could sneak in.

"Are you hiding something behind your back?" Jorgen said.

"Nothing at all."

"Bring your hands out."

Bossia reluctantly extended her right hand.

"I said there's nothing."

"There are some bloodstains on it. Are you hurt?"

"No. Even if there is, what's it to you?"

"Just trying to rule out the possibility of the prisoner committing suicide. This room has housed some noble young men who have done shameful things. Because their actions have disgraced their families or because they know they have been expelled from their homes, they committed suicide in this little room. They took off their socks and tied knots in the skylight."

"I would never do such a thing." Bossia looked up at the skylight, then immediately looked away.

"That's good. Haven't you slept these days?"

"I can only sit. How could I possibly sleep?"

"Isn't there a bed?" As soon as Jorgen finished speaking, he saw graffiti from the previous male prisoner on and near the head of the bed. That would be enough to deter a girl like Bossia. "I see. In fact, you can ask someone to clean up that area, after all, this is a special cell."

"What exactly are you here to do? Mock me?"

"I'm here to help you. Under the orders of your godfather. He believes you are innocent and hopes that I can find a way to clear your name."

"Impossible, how could His Grace the Archbishop..."

"This thing is not stolen by me." Jorgen took out the pure gold badge to show Bossia.

"You...you're called Jorgen, right? Isn't a man of the MI7? I know His Grace the Archbishop will find someone to help me, but how could he..."

"Precisely because I am from the MI7, the Archbishop asked me for help. I don't have time for nonsense. I must leave before the next jailer comes to change shifts. Now tell me briefly and concisely what interrogations you have undergone these days, how you responded, in short, everything."

Bossia sat down on the edge of the bed, lowered her head in silence, her left thumb kept rubbing the place where the insect's blood was on her right hand. "I am innocent," she said, "but I don't know how to speak now."

"Well, let me guide you," Jorgen said. "The deceased was called Neil Jessie, a singer and political prisoner, right? If someone wants to frame you, they will surely not choose completely unrelated people. Do you know him?"

"I...know him."

"What was your relationship with him before? Lovers?"

"No, not that."

"I mean anything close to a romantic relationship."

"I don't know." Bossia shook her head several times in a row.

"Well," Jorgen spread his hands on his knees, "now I know that: Neil Jessie was killed last Friday by a thief named Tortoro in the same cell with a sharpened rusty iron pipe. The direct cause of death was a perforating injury and stomach protrusion caused by the weapon piercing the abdominal muscle, and..."

"Don't say anymore!"

"I haven't told the most critical part yet."

"Don't say any more..."

"So now are you willing to admit you had an ambiguous relationship with him?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was one-sided."

"Good, that's some progress. According to the information I have, Neil was killed on Friday, and he was scheduled to marry a commoner woman named Katie Uwell on Saturday. The ceremony was held in prison. Do you know?"

"I knew they were getting married. But I never thought about asking the date."

"So now this case is defined as a crime of passion. You are accused of instigating that man Tortoro to commit the murder."

"I've never heard of such a person."

"He confessed that you threatened his family if he did not cooperate."

"There's no such thing at all," Bossia stood up, "why would I run into this? I had advised him not to sing those songs, but he just wouldn't listen...The second time he was caught, I couldn't do anything anymore, ready to face terrible things...but..." She covered her mouth and tried desperately to suppress the sadness and resentment that was about to gush out.

"You can cry if you want to. I'll just pretend I didn't hear it." Jorgen said.

Bossia sat down again, turned her back to Jorgen. "I won't cry for him. He hurt me and dragged me into this place."

"Are you ready to tell me your story then? This is necessary for both of us."

"Two years ago," Bossia opened her mouth, "two years ago I first saw him. At that time, I was just a guard, and had not yet passed the selection of the church guards. He and other street performers went to perform in prison, arranged by His Grace the Archbishop."

"The Archbishop arranged it? Why?"

"Asking the performers to perform hymns praising the Light. It was a plan to give the prisoners spiritual peace."

"Then why not use the church choir, but hire street performers?"

"For safety, I guess. Everything was fine until Neil went on stage..." Bossia lowered her head slightly, "As he played the guitar and sang some songs he shouldn't have sung. The melodies were very good, but the lyrics were noisy, mainly the lyrics...He was using songs to tell stories."

"Like folk stories. Treasure, dragon, good and evil are predestined."

"No, not that. I can't remember the words, but I'll always remember the expressions of those prisoners. They really went crazy for him. One prisoner jumped onto the stage, seemed to be the head of the prison, and hugged Neil's shoulders tightly, saying 'he sang our story, he's our good brother' or something. Then the whole room was boiling. Whether it was jailers or us, we were all scared. The prisoners sang along with him, those who were always dirty and gloomy, looked so excited...excited. The jailers and us guards were a little scared. "

"Were you afraid of him?"

"Yes. We were all afraid, afraid the scene would get out of control. Afraid the prisoners would riot under such singing...So we cleared the scene by force, and then caught Neil. We didn't dare catch him in front of the prisoners. I pressed him into solitary confinement with my own hands...That was the first time I spoke to him. He was sweating profusely from his energetic performance. He smiled at me and said, 'Did you like those songs?' I..."

——Did you like those songs?

——You'll get into trouble singing this stuff. You already have.

——They all liked it. These poor brothers, as long as they like it.

——Don't look back. Walk the road ahead, you're going into the cell now, not going to the beach for a vacation.

——I knew people like you wouldn't like my songs, what a pity.

"His last sentence made me very sad. I pretended not to like it. What he sang, according to His Grace the Archbishop, was all vulgar and unpresentable. But I felt that those songs were very real. And our hymns praising the faith, day after day, lost their power before him. The stubborn prisoners we couldn't inspire in decades were crazy for him in just twenty minutes. I never knew there were things in this world that could move people far more directly than the doctrine of the Light...I wanted to understand this unfamiliar world a little more, so I did something willful."

"Did you ask the Archbishop?"

Bossia nodded. "If he wasn't released immediately, he would surely be punished. Those jailers hated him to death because the prisoners were hard to discipline. Then...I spent some time with him."

"Was the song I heard you sing by the river taught to you by him?"

"It's rude of you to ask so many questions."

"I apologize," Jorgen said, "this question is unimportant. Just curious."

"Yes, he taught me to sing it. No lyrics, very beautiful, really fascinated me...It's not the same type as the songs that drove the prisoners crazy. But he said the song wasn't finished."

"This was two years ago. What happened after that?"

"After that...he went to Moonbrook, saying the people there needed him. I couldn't convince him to stay...When I saw him again, it was already in Storm Prison. I heard that his lyrics had become secret signals for illegal public gatherings, and they gathered to protest against the high taxes levied by the town mayor, eventually leading to bloodshed. I knew I couldn't ask His Grace the Archbishop for help this time. Just in that one meeting, he said to me..."

——Let's not meet again.

——What nonsense are you talking about?

——Vossia, we were never people from the same world to begin with, we shouldn't be like this. This will make me waver.

——Are you giving up? Don't talk nonsense, Neil. I'll find a way to get you out sooner, and then your head will be clearer...

——I can't accept your favor anymore...to be precise, the Archbishop's favor. It makes me feel like I'm betraying all those people I sang for. You and I are two sides of the same coin. No, that's not right either, because we can't support each other back to back.

"In terms of position, Bossia," Jorgen said, "you and he were in an adversarial relationship. Revolutionaries and maintainers of church order. I'm not attacking your faith, you can understand, right?"

"I'm not stupid," Bossia said, "I know what he meant. What really made me sad was that he concealed his engagement to Katie. She was the country girl he met in Moonbrook. A friend who participated in the crackdown on the rally in Moonbrook told me."

At this point, Bossia turned to face Jorgen. She seemed to feel tears in her eyes, deliberately raised her chin to prevent them from falling, but did not want to wipe them away neatly with her hands.

"Isn't that ironic? To 'break down barriers' and 'equality'. That's what he sang. But he couldn't do it himself, ha! Leaving me just because I'm a...believer in the Light. A believer who is no longer devout..."

"Calm down, Bossia."

"I'm calm!" Her tears finally fell. "But now I know the only thing that can calm me down is no longer the Light, but him. But he..."

Jorgen regretted leading the conversation to this point. Bossia's thoughts were far more complicated than he had anticipated. He realized the jailer's shift change time was coming soon, and it would be difficult to stay longer.

"I have to leave, Bossia, listen to me carefully. Aside from Tortoro's confession, they have no evidence, and you haven't confessed anything to them, have you?"

"I've always been silent with those people."

"You've done very well. Without physical evidence, coupled with your special identity, they can't keep you locked up for too long. I will notify His Grace the Archbishop of this and ask him to negotiate. Although even if you get out for now, you can't escape investigation and control, at least get out of this dungeon first. Remember, keep your mouth shut, don't be intimidated by them, I will immediately go to investigate the man named Tortoro. Understand?"

"Understand."

"Good."

"Wait, Jorgen. There's one more thing."

"What?"

"Why do you MI7 people treat me like this?" Bossia raised her voice, "Is it because of His Grace the Archbishop?"

"My mission is to have you released without charge. Explaining these things is not critical. You must be psychologically prepared to never know the inside story - perhaps that would be better for you."

"But," Bossia shook her head, "I don't trust you."