A New Beginning

Jorgen scattered a small shovel of dirt on the dark brown coffin in the grave pit and said "Rest in peace". He then passed the shovel to the next person and left the queue. He did not know who had taken the tool from him, or what relation they had with the deceased in the coffin. In fact, he did not recognize most of the people present.

This was the funeral of the blacksmith Holmyr Stone. After their last meeting, Holmyr had survived another three months, exceeding the boldest prediction of the doctor. It was hard to say whether this was a good or bad thing. Perhaps it was the overly long dying process that numbed people's sensitivities, as very few tears were seen throughout the funeral. The funeral was like hosting a troublesome and finicky guest - the hosts were on tenterhooks when it first stepped through the door, and could finally breathe easy only after sending it off, hardly caring what exactly made the guest so detestable. Jorgen looked up and felt it was about to rain soon. Among the crowd waiting for the shovel to be passed to them, hushed voices had been continuously heard since just now; Jorgen thought some must be privately expressing the wish to return home before the rain. Behind him in the queue, a pair of young girls were smiling and murmuring something softly, one of them showing the glittering chain on her wrist to the other.

In any case, the attendance was very high for the funeral of just a blacksmith. Compared to formal funerals at the cemetery, Jorgen was more familiar with burying the dead on site, or taking the useful parts and throwing the rest into the sea. By those standards, Holmyr's body should feel well treated as it was now. Jorgen unconsciously placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger, then released his grip - he had heard that Holmyr had not left any will, leading to fierce contention over the inheritance, which made him strangely suspect that even his dagger might have become an object of desire at some point. 

Jorgen was initially inclined to decline the invitation to attend, so this morning he had simply told Dalia, "Holmyr's son asked me to attend the funeral." But when Dalia asked, "Do you want me to go with you?", Jorgen casually replied "No need," and suddenly realized that he ought to make the trip on moral grounds. Dalia had never met the old blacksmith; if she immediately felt it was the proper thing to do and assumed Jorgen had already agreed to attend, then it would be awkward for Jorgen to decline now.

This conversation happened around nine in the morning when Jorgen was putting a water jug into a box. The box also contained some other odds and ends, all from an empty guest room on the second floor of Dalia's house. Other than large furniture, the two of them and the maid had cleared out the room completely. In fact, except for Dalia and the maid's bedrooms and necessary large furniture, many things had been removed from all the rooms, filling over seventy boxes. She planned to sell everything off. 

Once Dalia was no longer Madam Shawl, changes happened much faster than Jorgen had imagined. The MI7 and the Council cancelled her stipends almost simultaneously. The number of nobles hiring her to teach etiquette also greatly decreased. She no longer had the income to maintain her past lifestyle. After the news spread, her charity organization also struggled to continue; no one was willing to provide sponsorship, and fundraising to aid war orphans and relatives saw little response. After having to terminate the charity's activities, Dalia even found that she had to spend her own money to resolve some leftover issues, like unpaid orphan subsidies.

No outsider knew exactly what had happened, but the public had accepted the notion that Dalia was expelled by the MI7 - she must have done something detrimental and frightening to the MI7, right? Those who had copies of her portrait hanging in their living room wanted to return them but could not; they had no choice but to burn them, all because of the underground whispers that the MI7 watched anyone showing sympathy to Dalia. Under such circumstances, maintaining such a massive residence was unnecessary and impossible. Jorgen's savings could probably sustain them for a year or two, but they both understood that was not the solution. Dalia had dismissed most of the servants already, no longer hiring temporary helpers. The next step was selling off unneeded items, especially ornaments. And the step after that? Selling the house itself? The two had not formally discussed this yet, but an unavoidable conversation was drawing nearer and nearer.

So how many would want to buy the house previously inhabited by "the woman who betrayed the MI7"?

Jorgen realized that while he was not completely unprepared for these developments, he had indeed overlooked one thing: by cutting ties with Dalia, the MI7 had also absolved themselves of any responsibility for the consequences that might ensue. As the most prominent member of the MI7, if Jorgen wanted to use any power beyond his personal authority to suppress these negative impacts, it would be overstepping his bounds. He did not care about overstepping, but others did. Others were watching him. In recent days, whenever he recalled the fleeting gratitude he felt towards the Elder for releasing Dalia, a hesitant anger would well up; but over the past few weeks, he had slowly convinced himself: this was indeed for the better. Dalia never wanted to be a gaudily dressed slave, she just needed to weather the storm. What Jorgen regretted was not pressing the Elder in a timely manner to provide Dalia some protection. If it had been on the very day Farad left, he would still have had the standing to fight for such things; but the longer time went on, the more impossible this became. He had tried to broach the topic when reporting on missions, but either inappropriate people were present, or the Elder explicitly indicated he would no longer involve himself in the matter.

Jorgen understood that while having him by her side greatly alleviated the pressure Dalia faced in dealing with these affairs, ultimately, this was a personal trial she had to undergo. The various rumors about "why Dalia was expelled" universally shifted blame onto her, rather than the MI7. As for how many rumors Dalia had heard, and how they made her feel, the two never spoke of it, and the one time they did try to discuss it, it led to an argument.

That night, as they were in the bedroom, they suddenly heard the sound of a shattered window downstairs. Jorgen went to the room it came from and saw a palm-sized bust of Dalia had fallen to the floor, surrounded by fragments of glass. He had seen such busts being sold by peddlers on the street for thirty copper each. He picked it up and saw numerous insulting phrases painted on it in red oil paint. Dalia came downstairs in her nightclothes and stood behind him, telling him not to make a big deal of it and just get someone to fix the window in the morning. But Jorgen said nothing, gripping the bust as he moved to walk past her.

"Where are you going?" she asked, stopping him.

"I'm going to find whoever did this, they can't have gone far yet."

"No, it's too late."

"Just fix the window tomorrow? Is that all you can think of?" Jorgen turned to face her. "Aren't you angry at all?"

"Of course I'm angry, but..."

"Then act angry! At least don't try to stop me."

"What else can I do? Tell me what I should do."

"Go back upstairs and wait for me to return." 

"No. You have to come back with me."

"Fine, keep standing here then. I'm sure the culprit has already run off by now."

"What makes you think you can find anyone out there so late? And how will you get them to admit what they did?"

"At least I would have gone out looking, which might serve as a warning if he saw me, rather than you not caring at all."

"Whether or not I care is different from you leaving me here alone.

"Then yell louder. Now everyone knows it's safe to smash things into this house, because you'll protect them."

Afterwards, Jorgen didn't understand why he had spoken like that either, perhaps he really didn't know this side of himself with a partner. Dalia then said "You told me to yell louder" and snatched the bust, wanting to read what was written on it. Jorgen quickly grabbed her wrist, threw away the bust, and hugged her tightly until both their breathing calmed down.

"The house is too empty now," Dalia said. "I don't want to go upstairs alone so late. My footsteps echo through the whole house."

"It's okay," he kissed her forehead, "we'll go back. Let's go back now."

The house was too big, too luxurious. In the past, its enormity and luxury were solemn, because no outsider dared to casually approach. But after the lady's dignity was questioned, it became a beached sea creature, its bloated body continually drawing ridicule and attacks. Jorgen would need two guards just to ensure the house was not harassed, but now he couldn't even summon two - when it came to protecting Dalia. The unpleasant irony was: as an openly known direct investigator and Mardias mentor, he had unprecedented authority and mobilization power when on missions.

This morning as Jorgen was packing things into boxes, Dalia unfolded a piece of clothing to neatly refold before packing it, and the stretching motion clearly revealed to him her thinness. At the same time, the sunlight also accentuated the half-moon shaped dark circles under her eyes. She may not have slept well last night, but Jorgen could only guess, as he himself always slept deeply - unlike the vigilant half-sleeps of the past. A pain and helplessness enveloped Jorgen, and he went up to her saying: "I'm not going to attend any funeral after all." 

"You have to go," she said, "you can't joke about things like this, if you already promised you have to do it."

Before replying, Jorgen inadvertently glanced at the box and saw that Dalia had put one of her favorite teacups in it.

"Dalia," he picked up the cup, "you really don't want this anymore?"

"Hmm? When did I put that in there..." She took the cup and examined it in the sunlight, then placed it aside. "I really don't know."

"Don't do too much today, just rest after you finish packing these things. I'll be back as early as I can."

"But I have nothing else to do." She closed the box and leaned on it with her hands, head lowered. "How could I have put that in there too?"

"Don't think about it anymore."