Skeeny

Elin sat on the backyard stone bench, tilting his head for Dalia to apply ointment to the swelling on his left eyebrow.

"Be gentle," Elin said, "it still hurts."

"A little bump like this, and you're complaining," Dalia retorted.

"Wait, wait, it seems the ointment got into my eye. I can't open my left eye now. What if I go blind?"

"Don't be ridiculous; nothing got in there." Dalia set down the ointment and wiped her hands with a handkerchief. "And think about who caused this trouble."

"Is it my fault again? You're the one who hit me like this."

"I have every right to defend my home from someone scaling the walls." Dalia sat down. "Moreover, I wasn't aiming for you."

"Helping with the ointment doesn't absolve you of responsibility."

Dalia sighed, resting her hands on her knees, looking at Elin. "Since you brought Elaine, you've become more like a child."

Five minutes earlier, Dalia came to the backyard to water the plants and bumped into Elin, who had climbed over the wall. Startled, she instinctively raised her right hand, hitting Elin on the forehead with the watering can. Elin's explanation was, "Long time no see, wanted to give you both a surprise."

"Such a pity," Elin said. "You're up early, and Jorgen's not around. I used to love playing a game like this: sneaking into inn rooms, lifting the covers off couples, and then running away. Those were the good old days, harder to catch as you grew taller. When you can't play such games anymore, you know you're getting old. At least in front of old friends like you, I want to appear younger."

"The spout not blinding you is a bigger pity."

"So, how have you two been during this time?"

Dalia thought for a moment. "Quite smoothly... I guess. The most important thing is someone plans to take over my charity organization."

"Really? Who?"

"Bishop Lindy Lortleek. He manages a hospital."

"Oh, I know him. The short cripple who's taller sitting than standing. Every time I see him carrying those two big books, sweating profusely, I can't help but want to give him a hand..."

"Shut up. Do you have no conscience at all?"

"Alright... my bad, don't be mad. He's a good person, really, I admit that. He's well-known for being a gentle reformist in the church. If someone has to replace Benedictus now, I'd pick Lindy without a second thought. What's his plan, buying your organization?"

"No, transferring ownership for free. But he'll handle all the debt issues."

"That does sound like something he'd do. Have you settled everything?"

"Almost. We agreed to meet here tomorrow to finalize the details. The rest is just official business."

"You'll talk to him alone? What about Jorgen?"

"Jorgen will be there, of course. It's not just my affair."

"Right, Jorgen should be there. No matter how good Lindy is, you always need to be cautious. With Jorgen around, everything will be better. Are you planning to invite him for dinner tomorrow?"

"That's the plan. We have to thank him. I've already asked Daisy to prepare something today."

"Sounds like there will be a tempting feast. Can I join as well?"

"...If you have a legitimate reason."

"Just kidding. Actually, I brought the blueprints of those houses mentioned in the letter today. Do you want to take a look?"

"Of course."

Elin unbuttoned two buttons, pulled out a roll of drawings from his clothes, and laid it on the table. Dalia suddenly realized she wasn't mentally prepared. She felt such an important matter deserved at least an introduction, but that clearly wasn't Elin's style. The verbal decisions to leave this place slowly transformed into tangible blueprints. In that moment, Dalia found herself captivated by the subtle lines on the back of the paper. They resembled intertwining paths on a meadow or a gentle stream transporting fine sediment. When Elin unfolded the blueprints, these lines would magically traverse to the front, leading her to the only place that might be a long-term home for her and Jorgen.

She held her breath.

"All right, this is..." Elin placed his hand beneath the rolled-up paper and started to unroll.

"No," Dalia halted Elin's hand, "put them away for now."

"Why?"

"Wait for Jorgen to come back; we'll look at them together."

"Okay." Elin swiftly rolled up a small section of the blueprint even tighter, as if stealing it, and tucked it back into his clothes. "Sure, let's wait for him. These drawings aren't anything new for me anyway; it's your thing. Does this count as giving me a reason to attend the dinner tomorrow?"

"Not at all. But I didn't say you couldn't come."

Elin looked into Dalia's eyes, saying nothing. It was unusual for Elin to remain silent while staring at someone.

"Why are you staring at me?" Dalia said. Elin, who usually observed people in silence, was quite unusual.

"You're worried, aren't you?"

"I'm not."

"When you held my hand just now," Elin said, "your hand was trembling a bit."

Dalia averted her gaze, looking at the nearby pond. In the center of the pond was an artificial fountain. Although it wasn't running now, the water around it remained clear. Dalia stayed silent for a while, but the inner lip she had bitten down gradually unfolded, turning upward. She turned to Elin and said, "Yes, of course, I'm worried. There's so much to consider. But I don't think there's anything to be afraid of."

"Right," Elin said. "You have nothing to fear. Neither you nor Jorgen has anything to fear. Honestly, these houses on the blueprints may not necessarily suit you. Or whether Lakeside Town is suitable for you is hard to say, right? But now you have to try. Don't overthink it, just try. Without trying, there won't be any good results. And there's another reason not to be afraid, and that's me. I'll do everything I can to help you try. Anyone trying to interfere, trying to stop you from trying, will have to step over my dead body first, Dalia. No exceptions. Do you understand?"

"Your body?"

"Yes. A decaying, swollen, and fly-infested corpse."

Dalia laughed. "Thank you." She leaned forward and kissed Elin's right cheek.

"What about this side?" Elin pointed to his left cheek.

"No."

"Oh, then I'll change my mind. Well, not a corpse, but they'll definitely have to think twice before stepping over my various traps..."

Elin continued to talk, but Dalia didn't pay attention. Her mind wandered, thinking, "It's right not to bring up the prosecutor's matter." Her focus relaxed. She looked at the pond again; the scattered gleams on the water resembled a dancer in golden shoes, leaving whimsical poses on a transparent stage. Dalia recalled doing something similar once, many years ago, on a fishing boat on the Minahel River. She hoped there would be more opportunities in the future, even if not on the Minahel.

Jorgen stood at the entrance of the Canal Morning News office, examining the modest two-story building.

He knew Dalia didn't want him to trouble the newspaper reporters, but he had to. He couldn't bear Dalia leaving a "fled due to a bad reputation" impression on the people of Stormwind. He considered handling this matter his primary responsibility, just like Dalia dealing with Lindy discussing the details of the charity organization handover.

The only hesitation that made Jorgen reluctant to take this step was the conversation with Deza Gallmont. The former prosecutor seemed to have accepted everything the newspaper said as true, fervently demanding Jorgen to take action. Although Deza seemed more inclined to have Jorgen first separate Dalia and Ivanov rather than focus on the reporter, standing in front of the newspaper office now made Jorgen feel like he and Deza were on the same side—of course, nothing had happened between Dalia and Ivanov, so it was just an illusion. It was an unnecessary pride that made this illusion crawl out of the mud like a beetle, extending its antennae.

Regardless, what needed to be done had to be done. Jorgen entered the newspaper office, not caring if his actions were justified, and directly approached the editor's office as a SI:7 agent. Of course, he didn't reveal his name.

"Do you... have something?" The fifty-year-old editor hunched on the right side of the desk, as if there was an invisible person sitting on the left. Because of this, he looked at Jorgen from a tilted angle, as if unconsciously avoiding something on his left.

"You recently published two very questionable articles—these two." Jorgen spread the torn newspapers on the desk. "They maliciously defame Mrs. Dalia. I understand that as a tabloid with little substance, you have to find ways to attract attention... but the negative impact of this may be more than you can handle. I want to talk to the author named Skeeny."

"Oh..." From the editor's sluggish gaze, he seemed to be uninformed. But after a second, he furrowed his brows tightly. "You mean Skeeny?"

"Yes. What, you don't even know your own writers?"

"Skeeny is dead."

"...Dead?"

"Yes, just recently. Skeeny didn't show up for a week, didn't inform anyone. Later, when we sent someone to his place, we found out he had... hung himself."

"Know the reason?"

"To be honest, no idea at all. He had no family or friends. I guess a middle-aged loner who was always gloomy committing suicide isn't that surprising. I'm very sorry that his articles caused you the trouble you mentioned... You also know, we're a tabloid, and sometimes the editorial process isn't that strict..."

Jorgen pressed his thumb on the desktop, remaining silent for a while. The editor also kept quiet.

"He had no friends? Not even a colleague who knew him?"

"You can ask around, but I have no reason to lie to you. His only virtue was that he worked without bothering anyone. Otherwise, I wouldn't have kept him employed for over twenty years."

"Is his desk still there?"

"Yes. I planned to wait until we found someone to fill the vacancy before cleaning out his desk."

"Take me to see it."

The editor led Jorgen to a corner office with an old desk. It was in the most inconspicuous part of the room, almost invisible from the entrance, and the adjacent wall had no windows. When Jorgen entered the room, everyone stared at him, but as he stood next to the desk, their gazes shifted away.

On the desk, there was only a penholder, a stack of dusty papers, and nothing else. Jorgen opened the drawers, finding only miscellaneous office supplies, a dictionary, and a few explicit pictures. He shifted his focus back to the desktop, noticing numerous densely packed circular burn marks at the edges.

"What's this?" Jorgen pointed to the marks with his index finger.

"Oh, Skeeny had the bad habit of being a heavy smoker." The editor explained. "For instance, he liked to casually put out cigarette butts on the table. This is the property of the newspaper."

Jorgen nodded. He remembered seeing similar burn marks on the only table in Gythra's room.