《A Ledger of Souls》


 Chapter 1: An Interrupted Tea

    All things in their place, inkwell near full to overflowing, and not a speck of dust upon her desk, Remoulade let out a sigh of weary boredom. Normally, she valued the uneventful nature of the graveyard shift, yet at the moment, Remoulade could barely stand it. Her last client had been a near-unbearable boar, so insistent that they knew how things should go.


    But no, she''d sorted out the awful fellow and had him and his particulars stowed away, forms filed all to protocol. It was at times like these that she pondered the strange dichotomy of her profession. The rewards were rich and many, but at times, when faced with the silo-faced parishioners that so often formed a near-endless line before her desk, she felt that perhaps those same said compensations were a barely sufficient salve to such irritants.


    A second sigh escaping her lips, Remoulade''s eyes darted to the small clock kept at the back of the kiosk that was her workspace. Moment by moment, its hands ticked ever on. Impatient, she pushed on those limbs, willing them to pick up their pace and let her shift be done.


    The weight of her focused gaze seemed to do the trick, and with a tick-tick-tick, they jumped forward a bit. Satisfied with the visual progress, Remoulade pried her rear from the confining cage of her chair. As she rose, she was assailed by the needles that were the all-too-common consequence of her extended sedentary existence.


    Bracing herself against her desk, she stretched in relief, waiting for the moment of discomfort to pass. Barely a few moments were left till the end of her shift, and then she could disappear deep into the catacomb of high-walled bookshelves she called home. She needed rest¡ªa reprieve of sorts¡ªbut the office had been short-handed as of late.


    The reasons had been all hush-hush, a matter for upper management, obviously, so Remoulade had cleared all concerns regarding the lack of manpower from her plate and simply focused on her day-to-day. Shaking off the momentary introspection and consideration of office politics, Remoulade reconfirmed the empty queue and decided to take a chance.


    Tempting fate, she turned to her fine tea set and, scurrying behind the back of her chair, began to arrange things just the way she liked to enjoy a celebratory late tea. Crouching down to reach under a pile of precarious books, she began to inch out the fine imported tea that served as a potentially vital support for the tower.


    Carefully, slowly, breath held, she slid it out from the prodigious weight, breath catching a moment as the books wobbled to and fro. For a moment, she felt real concern raise its head and wondered if she''d be buried beneath the hardbacked bodies of her trusted friends. Yet her concern passed as the impending literary landslide settled.


    It was precarious, true, but the tower of volumes still stood. Following suit, Remoulade rose to her full and inconsequentially negligible height. Prying at the well-stoppered tin of tea, Remoulade nearly overbalanced as it came free with a pop of force. Regaining her balance before she went careening into the well-disguised clutter of her cubicle, she scanned the immediate vicinity to make sure none of the remaining coworkers on the graveyard shift had noticed her.


    Her quick survey complete, Remoulade brought the tin to her nose and breathed in deep the rich and heavy flavors of the dried leaves, intoxicating somehow, both bitter and sweet. Quickly moving about the tight confines of her workspace, she crossed to her burner and, twisting a knob, heard the click-click as a spark caught and the fire lit. A smile split her lips as she set her kettle upon it.


    Her mood feeling improved, Remoulade called out to her sleeping assistant, an uncustomary sing-song lilt in her voice. "Wing-Gyatt! Care for a cupper, old man?" Hearing no response, Remoulade began to turn the corner where the old buzzard slept, only to stop mid-turn as a man suddenly appeared before her booth, letting loose a ghastly scream.


    Quickly tucking the jar of leaves into her pocket, disregarding the bulge created, Remoulade smoothly slipped back into her seat, adjusting her glasses, and spoke. "Name, nature, and relevant claims." The words, having become rote by now, flowed easily in spite of the sudden appearance of the client before her.


    By all appearances, the young man was human, though it was hard to tell with his features frozen in a horrified rictus as they were. "Sir, no need to be distressed. Just step up to my desk, and I''ll have everything sorted for you in but a moment, I swear." Words clearly unheeded, the man stumbled back, a palsied trembling working its way through him. Remoulade did not like the look of it, and, in all honesty, she didn''t like the look of him either.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    His clothing may have been fine, but it was hard to tell under the wine stains and what she hoped was mud. Blonde hair, cropped in what she would have to guess was fashionable for the time, the man was young, at least as far as Remoulade could guess, the range narrowing as she inspected his still-boyish features to something in the ballpark of twenty years, though maybe a smidge less.


    If she had to place the young man''s nationality, Remoulade bet on him being from somewhere between Etilan and/or Hallosian border and found herself wondering if a new bout of clandestine intermittent warfare had broken out in that region once more. She supposed she''d find out in due time if it mattered at all. Regardless, the boy was clearly out of his depths¡ªunsurprising, considering this seemed to be his first death.


    Gathering her patience, Remoulade addressed the recently dead and departed ghoul that stood before her once more. "Sir, if you would kindly step up to my desk and give me your name, circumstances, and if any greater or lesser power has a claim on your soul, I would be more than happy to assist you." Glassy-eyed, he just stared at her as silence stretched, only at last breaking as her kettle reached the proper heat and began to shriek in protest.


    With a shuddering jolt, the young man leapt back. A misplaced foot sent him stumbling, tumbling, falling ass over teakettle. It felt almost practiced, the sort of performance born of years of effort¡ªperhaps he was a juggler, a professional fool, a performer of some kind, though she doubted he was a proper bard. Fighting back the unprofessional smile, Remoulade turned to address her assistant.


    "Winnie, be a dear and help the man up. He''s clearly having a rough time." Peeking through from between his dust-draped wings was the gimlet eye of a wakeful vulture, who was seemingly struggling as manfully as herself to hold back laughter. The old buzzard, her true and tested assistant of more years than were worth counting, hopped down from his perch where he had previously been resting.


    Winnie, as she called him¡ªor Win-Gaytt, who whispers all your dirty secrets, as he was properly known¡ªhobbled across the ground, his sharp talons scraping on the stone firmament beneath his feet, closing in on the young man. Winnie''s voice came flowing out from between his beak¡ªit was fitting, age-ravaged and mischievous. "Well, well, don''t keep her ladyship, the clerk archivist, waiting. Up, up, boy, get up. You have legs for walking still," he said to the petrified parishioner.


    By way of congenial chiding, the charismatic old bird was able to convince the clearly traumatized apparition to uncurl from the fetal position and approach Remoulade''s kiosk. Reaching it, the young man seemed to grasp at the edge of Remoulade''s desk with a near-desperate fervor, as if it were the last bastion of normalcy to which he could hold in the face of the absurd.


    It probably wouldn''t have done the lad any good to know that the fine ivory of the countertop had been carved from the discarded molar of one of Remoulade''s former coworkers, who had retired perhaps one or a hundred summers ago.


    The man took in a few slow and calming breaths¡ªthough ineffectual, they seemed to do the trick¡ªas, raising his eyes to meet her own, he clearly prepared to speak. But before he could gum things up any further, Remoulade beat him to it.


    "Hello and welcome, sir. I am Miss Remoulade Marmalade, who doesn''t murder the poor," she said, gesturing to her assistant, "and this fine gentleman beside you is Win-Gaytt, who whispers all your dirty secrets. May I assume this is your first time here? Clearly, you have questions, and we will answer them all in due time. But first, sir, I must know your name, circumstances, and whether or not there are any claims on your soul. Quick, quick, tell me your tale. I''ll get you squared away, and then you can be on to whatever god or demon you prefer, if that''s your inclination."


    "What? I''m... demon?" said the man at last. "But I''m not... God?"


    "Well, yes, sir," Remoulade replied. "A place for your soul to rest. It seems only fitting. Now, sir, please, your name or affiliation, if you would."


    "Stop, stop, stop," cut in the young man. "Listen here, Remoulade, or whatever your name is, I''m not signing up for whatever you''re selling. Just point me back to the main street, and I''ll be out of your hair."


    Remoulade had tried to extend what little patience she had left to the young ghost before her, but that patience was growing thin. "Sir, I understand this can be difficult for your sort, but I would suggest you mind your tone."


    "My sort?" said the man.


    "Mistress," cut in her assistant, a tight word of warning, reminding her to at least try to maintain, even at the end of her shift, a modicum of respect¡ªrespect for the lesser spirit that was an unawakened ghost. "Sir, I suppose this is your first time¡ªfirst time, yes, dying."


    "Well, yes," stuttered out the young man. "I suppose... wait, no, I am certainly not dead. How would I be talking to you, then?"


    She said, "Ah, I see. You''re one of those."


    "Those?"


    "Stupid."


    She had tried; she truly had, to be patient, thought Remoulade, as Wingaytt let out an exasperated sigh of commiseration.


    "Anyways, sir, if you could just confirm," she said, pulling a heavy book and placing it on the counter, watching words flow to fill its vellum, "that this is your name," she said, pointing down to a script that wriggled and flowed in a way that caught her interest even as much as she wished it did not, for there were a few languages she did not know.


    "My name?" he said.


    "Yes. Is this your name, your name and story? I am required to at least initiate a recording of them before you can be processed, sir."


    Looking up into her eyes, the man said, "I don''t think so."

 Chapter 2: The Dim Light of the Kiosk

    Dread dogged him, so close Crispin could feel it snapping at his heels. It was the type of terror that runs a man down with fury and glee, knowing its prey won''t escape it. Almost as if living, fear mocked Crispin. Hiding in the mists, a swelling sense of unease plucked at his sense of direction. Misdirection¡ªthis awful sensation¡ªit felt as if Crispin''s heart might just burst. Was this his doom? No, he saw it now, through the heavy fog that had seemed to chase him through tight alleys and back streets all the way to the city''s outer limits. His last words were a howl; incomprehension cursed the cow that ended him.


    Sudden weight, like a vice gripping him, caused Crispin to scream at the suffocating force. The force drove the breath from his lungs. No, it was worse. It was as if his very soul were evacuating his body, caught on hooks that pulled it on and on and on, not through darkness but rather indescribableness, a rejection of sense and his senses.


    And then there was silence¡ªnot perfect, just a subtle pause in all the excitement. Hands held defensively out like claws, ready to rake at any assailant, Crispin took in the mists that seemed to collect about him. His heartbeat had somehow absented itself, as if it were shy and apologetic of the noise it would normally bring forth. Crispin breathed out, his breath visible though it wasn''t cold. Focus shifting as he regained his bearings, his eyes flicked up and settled upon the dim light of the kiosk he now found himself standing before.


    Cutting his way through the thick fog, Crispin felt almost drawn, like a moth to the light. Reaching the desk proper, he found it seemingly unattended and so began to take in its interior. At first glance, it seemed tidy and well-kept, but as Crispin peered closer, he saw the lie. Its disorder could be most charitably described as homey or well-lived-in. This, in turn, informed the young man that whoever worked this station clearly did not have much of a life.


    He could see a precarious pile of books that seemed about to topple. In one upper corner of the booth, he also spied a ghastly oversized stuffed buzzard or vulture. Crispin had never been all that clear on the difference between the two and hardly cared. Peering back at him, the foul thing''s eyes felt unnatural, almost aware. Unnerved by the stuffed bird, Crispin shifted his gaze away.


    Letting himself lean against the rich ivory-inlaid counter of the kiosk, Crispin began trying to untangle his thoughts. *Am I drunk? No, currently not*, he thought, unable to find the sweet notes of wine nor the sour bile that so often followed its indulgence on his tongue. He remembered bits and pieces¡ªlights, sounds, and voices¡ªsome primal directive that had told him to run, but beyond that, not much.


    Clearly, he was lost. He¡¯d been somewhere near the edge of the city proper, past its canals¡ªat the very least, so he must have crossed the grand bridge that connected its many tiny islands to the mainland. But why had he been running? Crispin tried to force his thoughts closer to that seemingly blank spot, yet it was far too hot, as if it were a burning brand; his mind snapped away from the thought.


    He realized now he was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. His hands on the counter shook. The ghost of terror laid its long, misjointed arm over his shoulder and whispered in some arcane tongue that he was doing something he ought not. It seemed that fear had followed him to this liminal moment. On instinct, Crispin moved his hand to his chest, as if to comfort his own beating heart, yet he couldn''t find a pulse.


    Nothing¡ªnot even the slightest murmur, it was still, silent. Crispin felt his lips stretch in a smile. Things must not be that bad after all. He knew his heart; it was honest. It always told him the truth. Crispin regained some modicum of composure, at least enough to reach a hand forward for the silver bell upon the desk, only to freeze.


    Suddenly, the ghostly apparition of a young woman stood behind the desk. Her eyes were haunting; in many ways, she felt like a cousin to the fear that had so recently been breathing down his neck. As far as he could tell, she was human, yet something in him screamed, denying it. As the moment stretched, Crispin realized that scream was not some silent thing inside his head, but instead something that had rolled past his teeth, bursting wide open the portcullis of his mouth so as to stride out in a gallant charge against the previous oppressive quiet.


    He couldn''t stop it, so committed were his lungs to this auditory cavalry charge. Crispin simply let it happen as he was silently scoriated by the kiosk attendant''s regard. The attendant in question, with her ghostly eyes, quickly tucked her displeasure away behind a mask of professional courtesy. Taking a seat, she quickly swept away non-existent dust from her desk and began to speak. "Name, nature, and relevant claims."


    Her deadpan tones carried an unearthly quality to them. It was as if she spoke in another language. Oh, Crispin could understand her, but it was more by way of violence. Each word she spoke tore into him, cutting through flesh and bone to his brain, and pulverizing that soft thing until comprehension was obtained. "Sir, no need to be distressed. Just step up to my desk, and I''ll have everything sorted for you in but a moment, I swear." Again she spoke, her words rocking through Crispin no softer than before. He staggered back a step, shaken to his core.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    "Sir, if you would kindly step up to my desk and give me your name, circumstances, and if any greater or lesser power has a claim on your soul, I would be more than happy to assist you." This time, the woman''s words truly possessed force. Crispin found himself pushed back by them, tumbling across the shockingly smooth stone floor, his limbs tangled and repelling in all directions from his still-addled brain.


    Panting from his place on the floor, Crispin thought he saw the flicker of a smile grace her face. Though not cruel, it felt, given the circumstances, in poor taste. Whether it was due to no longer being the target of her words or simply the space now between them, her next words were far easier to bear than what had preceded them. "Winnie, be a dear and help the man up. He''s clearly having a rough time."


    Eyes tracking to the recipient of her words, Crispin began to scramble back as what he''d taken to be taxidermy began to move. Taking wing from its perch, the bird cleared the booth. Its wingspan was absurd. Lending somehow both grace and not, it¡ªno, he, realized Crispin¡ªbegan to hobble across the ground towards himself at an alarming rate.


    Curling into a tight ball, Crispin shut his eyes, hoping against hope that when he opened them, he would find himself in some dirty, squalid alleyway, covered in his own sick. But no¡ªhe could hear the scrape of the bird''s long talons on the smooth stone. Crispin couldn''t blame his current predicament on the effects of some strange imported powder or smoke.


    Upon reaching him, the bird looked up at Crispin. His eyes were not unkind; they carried a summit of grandfatherly mischief that couldn''t be denied¡ªan intelligence unburdened by age but instead enhanced. The bird, now moving, seemed almost human and far too wise. "Well, well," said the bird. "Don''t keep her ladyship, the clerk archivist, waiting. Up, up, boy, get up. You have legs for walking still."


    The congenial cajoling of the old buzzard triggered the habit of courtesy and manners that had been beaten into him as a child, and so Crispin found himself standing and being led back to the booth by the dusty old coot. Standing once more before the desk, Crispin now took in the form and countenance of its attendant in full. Crisp, clean, and professional, he guessed her age to be not too distant from his own. To Crispin''s eye, the young woman was one of those quill-scribbling sorts that always tended to look down their nose at him, as if they could clearly see that he wasn''t serious folk. It wasn''t untrue, honestly.


    Still, no need to be so blunt about it. Taking a slow series of calming breaths, Crispin lined up his numerous questions and prepared to voice them but was cut off as the woman spoke. "Hello and welcome, sir. I am Miss Remoulade Marmalade, who doesn''t murder the poor," she said, "and this fine gentleman beside you is Win-Gaytt, who whispers all your dirty secrets. May I assume this is your first time here? Clearly, you have questions, and we will answer them all in due time. But first, sir, I must know your name, circumstances, and whether or not there are any current or prior claims on your soul."


    A talking bird was one thing, thought Crispin. He''d seen this parrot once that seemed to know every possible foul word, but this talk of souls¡ªnow that was ghoulish, to be sure. "Quick, quick, tell me your tale," said Remoulade, evidently unaware or unconcerned by Crispin''s growing discomfort. "I''ll get you squared away, and then you can be on to whatever god or demon you prefer, if that''s your inclination."


    "What? I''m... a demon? But I''m not... God?" Spluttering at her last offhand comment, Crispin began to consider which way to run, only to reconsider as he quickly glanced back at the bird¡ªnear half his height standing and easily double it in wingspan. "Well, yes, sir," Remoulade replied. "A place for your soul to rest. It seems only fitting. Now, sir, please, your name or affiliation, if you would."


    "Stop, stop, stop," said Crispin, at the end of his rope. "Listen here, Remoulade, or whatever your name is, I''m not signing up for whatever you''re selling. Just point me back to the main street, and I''ll be out of your hair." There was a shift in Remoulade''s expression¡ªsomething cold and hard flashed over her features just for a moment, and then it was gone, once more covered by her professional facade. "Sir, I understand this can be difficult for your sort, but I would suggest you mind your tone." "My sort?" replied Crispin, though unsure what she meant, still he felt the sting and intent behind her words.


    "Mistress," cut in the buzzard Crispin now knew as Win-Gaytt. Chastised, the clerk adjusted her tone as she continued. "Sir, I suppose this is your first time¡ªfirst time, yes, dying." "Well, yes," "I suppose... wait, no, I am certainly not dead. How would I be talking to you, then?" replied Crispin, feeling his forehead throb. Remoulade considered him a moment and then spoke. "Ah, I see. You''re one of those." "Those?" "Yes, stupid." At this, Crispin clearly heard a weary sigh escape the bird.


    "Anyways, sir," continued Remoulade, as if she had not just insulted Crispin to his face. "If you could just confirm," "that this is your name," she said, as she slammed a heavy book down onto the desk and, opening it, pointed to a writhing line of text. Slowly, the letters began to swim into focus¡ªsome he knew from the smattering of half-learned languages he''d picked up from less-than-reputable dockside establishments he''d patronized in his free time.


    As the words coalesced into something he could read, finally, one thing settled into place¡ªa name, a name. "Sir," prompted Remoulade, waiting for him to speak the word, to acknowledge that thing that floated on the page as his. "Is this your name?" she asked again. As Crispin stared at that one singular word, his eyes tracing over each letter that somehow came together to form a name, his eyes burned. It screamed at him¡ªat the man¡ªthat he acknowledge it, that he let it pass his lips, that he confirm and take ownership of it. But no.


    Looking up from the parchment into Remoulade''s eyes, Crispin spoke. "My name? Yes, is that... this your name?" said the clerk, tapping the page, her polite smile strained. Finally, struggling through the lancing pains that seemed to shoot from the page directly into Crispin''s core, he spoke a simple word. He said, "No."

 Chapter 3: An Unclaimed Soul

    "No," said the ghost, a simple and clear refusal of the name displayed on the page. It was such a little thing, barely a syllable, yet it carried much weight. The ghost''s pronouncement was bound tight in barbed wire-like complications, the sort that would see Remoulade buried under a barrow''s weight of paperwork, she realized with growing consternation.


    Grave and silent, Remoulade pulled a slow and steady breath in through her nostrils, letting the cold air that wafted in from beyond her booth settle her rising impatience and fraying nerves. Lips parting, she spoke. "No," posed as a query¡ªalmost call and answer¡ªa chance for the ghost to clarify and, unwittingly, save them both.


    It wasn''t to be, though. With a firm shake of his head, he confirmed it a second time and then a third, as he spoke that simple word once more: "No."


    "You''re absolutely sure, then?" cut in Remoulade.


    "That''s not my name," continued the ghost, heat entering his voice. "Look, I just need some directions, and I''ll be on my way," concluded the ghost, shrinking back as Remoulade leaned over her desk, hands pressed hard to its surface.


    Her nose was a scant few centimeters from the ghost''s own. He continued to splutter, his face turning sheet white. "I''m lost, miss. I don''t mean any trouble, really. Just point me to the nearest thoroughfare, and I''ll be out of your hair."


    Remoulade''s nails scraped along the smooth surface of the counter. The sharp sound elicited a shuddering squeak from the young man, causing his panicked entreaty to come to a whimpering halt. Realizing she was almost falling out of her booth¡ªbody leaning past the counter, a clear infraction of policy¡ªRemoulade quickly glanced about herself and, letting out a long sigh, slumped back into her chair to regard the ghost.


    Filtering out the sounds of the hyperventilating, disembodied soul, Remoulade let her eyes trail over the misty darkness above, considering what to do. At this moment, the ceiling was indistinct, ever-shifting, seeming to reach through layer upon layer of reality. Inscrutable as it was, the swirling mists above provided the junior clerk with no remedy.


    Normally, the graveyard shift was quiet, allowing Remoulade to avoid office politics while still providing her with the occasional opportunity to converse with particularly unique or interesting clients. Thoughts rolling about, Remoulade picked one that would suit the moment, and then dressed it in words and posed it to the unfortunate ghost.


    "Sir, I still need a name," Remoulade said, quickly raising her hand to forestall complaint. "I understand you''re lost. By profession, I am bound to help you, but there''s really very little I can do for a nameless ghost."


    "Crispin," the young man muttered quietly, a name, clearly his own, for with its utterance, a bit of warmth returned to his form.


    A name¡ªshe had a name to call the ghost at last, thought Remoulade. It was a good sign. Although it did not fix things, at least it meant that the ghost had an identity, a reason anchored and bound, perhaps enough to slow the deterioration of the soul. Still, the name wasn''t enough. Remoulade needed to know more.


    Considering the young soul she now knew as Crispin, Remoulade spoke. "Crispin," she said, with just a touch of force¡ªnot much, mind you, but enough to more firmly anchor the man in the moment once more. It seemed to work, for as Remoulade named him, his color grew stronger once more. It seemed that his identity truly had been fraying. In spite of herself, Remoulade found her curiosity beginning to emerge.


    Form no longer distorting and seeming far less like a ghoulish apparition, Crispin spoke as he flashed Remoulade a bashful grin. "I''m sorry, miss. Ah, Remoulade, wasn''t it? Unique¡ªI''ll be sure to remember it."If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "Regardless, I was raised better than to run up to strangers and just start making demands. It''s just that I''ve had quite a night. I''ve lived in the city all my life, yet somehow I don''t recognize this corner of it," he finished, gesturing to the shifting fog that concealed the deeper world from his unready mind.


    As Crispin spoke, Remoulade''s opinion of him began to grow¡ªnot in regard, no. She just found that she could confirm her initial bias more thoroughly. The man¡ªthough, in truth, he was closer to a boy in thought and deed¡ªwas through and through a fool. And the dangerous kind, too: the sort that convinces you, in the heat of things, to go along with the absurd things that fools do.


    "Sir Crispin," she began, "if we could return to business, as it were¡ª"


    "I''m no sir, Madam Marmalade. Just a simple carpenter. If I''m honest, a poor one, at least by my family''s standards," the man countered, the past few seconds of familiarity seemingly loosening his tongue regrettably.


    "Crispin," Remoulade said, words clipped, barely keeping a grip on the reins of her flagging professionalism. "Your family and lack of peerage notwithstanding, would you pardon me if I take a closer look at you?"


    "Miss Remoulade, I''m flattered, really, but I''ve just ended a romantic entanglement, and I''m simply not¡ª" Whatever words he''d been about to loose upon her, like a continual barrage of nonsense, died quickly on the sharp point of her glare. And lips finally sealing, Crispin gave Remoulade the confirmation she required with a short nod.


    Taking a step back from her desk, Crispin spread out his arms wide, inviting her to inspect. With a single finger, Remoulade slid the bureau-issue spectacles down the bridge of her nose. With the obstructing shields of her glasses removed, Remoulade peered deep into the disembodied soul.


    Focused on the task at hand, Remoulade disregarded the sharp intake of breath from Crispin as he felt her full regard burrow into him. The single moment seemed to stretch as she pulled apart his identity until she reached that spot where there should be a brand. The secret point at which the body was welded to the soul¡ªthat point where a seed of identity would flourish and grow. It was what tied the soul of a man to the flesh that most began as.


    What Remoulade found made her jaw clench, her stomach drop, and her palms become slick with sweat. It was a ruined thing, torn and rent. It leaked essence, identity, sense¡ªwhatever you wished to call it. Based on faith, culture, it mattered not. The man that stood before her had been ripped from his body, a ghost made early, without consent.


    There was no fate-touched hand on the scales here. No, it was beyond aberrant. The damage was so severe that Remoulade could not tell if the wound had been inflicted through cruel malice, disinterest, or lack of skill. The clerk''s inspection had made one thing abundantly clear: with the soul so savaged, no rightful claim could be made on it.


    Setting aside the bureaucratic hellscape that might be split open by the young man, Remoulade felt what antipathy she had formed for the lesser spirit drain away as she realized his predicament. It would be one thing if he was simply stuck with nowhere to go, but as an unclaimed soul, it was so much worse.


    Quickly following behind Remoulade''s unexpected bout of empathy came her well-developed instinct for self-preservation and interest. Having already gained the unfortunate ghost''s name, she could technically place her own claim on it¡ªat least she could if she weren''t still on the clock and that were her inclination.


    The thought only sat on her shoulder a moment before it took wing and joined the flock of other things that beat around in the back of her skull, its temporary roost robbed by a much darker thought. The requirements for filing such an unusual occurrence and the required reports would see her stuck shuffling between offices and bureaus. Long enough that by the time everything was resolved, it would be the start of her next shift. Unacceptable, clearly. She would have to solve this.


    Mind spinning, plans knitting together quickly on the spot, Remoulade locked eyes with the till-now silent Win-Gyatt. And with a practiced and subtle gesture, she indicated that the vulture should prepare to grab young Crispin up. Returning her glasses to their proper place, Remoulade put on her best face and smiled with all the reassuring grace she could muster.


    "Crispin," she said, "I think I now understand your problem, and if you would just come a little closer¡ª" Unfortunately, it seemed that though Crispin was clearly not the sharpest sheep in the herd, he had an uncanny, if misguided, sense for self-preservation. Somehow slipping past Winnie, the young man, eyes wild as if she were some wild witch woman, ran into the dark and swirling mists. With barely a pause, Remoulade gestured for Win-Gyatt to give chase.

 Chapter 4: A Fools Flight

    You''re a fool, my sweet boy. Those stern words were said so sweetly, as a rough, wrinkled thumb wiped away tears and a hand held an unstained hanky to his nose, the once-white linen soaking in a mucusy, rose-tinted mess.


    Gran''s hands were rough and strong¡ªnot an uncommon trait, considering the family profession and the old woman''s habit of tanning the hides of disrespectful brats with abandon, thought Crispin as he manfully fought back tears of frustration.


    The boy felt a slight pinch at the bridge of his nose. It pulled his attention back to Gran''s words. "Lad," she said, "You''re not much of a thinker. No, I''d say, like me, you''re a feeler. So learn to listen well. Your brain will get muddled. But your heart," she said, poking that spot with a thick finger, "your heart is true and honest. There''s no deception in it. So listen closely and let it set your direction, child."


    Crispin wasn''t sure he agreed with the appellation of ''fool'' that his grandmother had placed on his shoulders, but that one piece of advice¡ªto listen to his heart¡ªhad stayed with him through the years. Even now, closing in on a decade since that dim, golden memory, Crispin did not hesitate when his heart beat a staccato entreaty to bolt.


    Some would say that Crispin''s heart had led him astray far too often to trust, but he just didn''t see it that way. Besides, any who doubted his grandmother''s wisdom could take it up with the woman whose stern and fearsome love had shaped him into the man he was.


    Putting the strange booth attendant and her eastern homunculi behind himself, Crispin pumped his limbs with a fervor as he sped into the mists. His heartbeat was strong and steady, almost martial, with renewed vigor. Crispin set his mind on finding his own way home.


    As Crispin ran, he realized with some shock that his feet were unshod, and he had been sure that he had not had anything to drink. He once again considered that this might all be a fever dream born of a depressive bender in light of recent heartbreak.


    Crispin''s mundane thoughts came to a horrific halt as the voice of Miss Remoulade cut through the fog. "Winnie," she said, her tone as sharp as any constable he had ever heard, "get him." Crispin felt a particularly heavy jolt from his heart, almost as if it were screaming to duck, and so he did, just in time to avoid the blade-like talons of Remoulade''s demon bird.


    Still moving, scrabbling across the far-too-smooth firmament of the floor, Crispin rose quickly, a panicked sweat coating his form. She''s a witch, or close enough, thought Crispin''s fevered mind as he continued to race on. The mists no longer seemed benign and inviting; instead, they wrapped around his feet, rising to his shins like tendrils, as if to pull him into the gaping maw of an insatiable creature.


    Feet slapping on the cold stones, each impact seemed to drive home that things were not as they should be. As Crispin ran, he thought he could see glimpses of the moon from between pillars, yet it was all wrong. Its hue and shape seemed to shift with each glance, going closer and then more distant.


    Hearing the whistling, near-silent sound of wing beats once more, he rolled to the ground and barely avoided the gripping talons of Win-Gaytt, who whispers all your dirty secrets. What type of name was that, anyway? Demon or alchemical creation from some far-off land, Crispin didn''t care. The bird''s piercing stare unnerved him. Even as he put the foul thing behind him, he could feel its near-luminescent eyes bore into him and knew that the chase was far from over.


    Spotting a nearby corridor, Crispin made a sharp turn for it, staying close to the nearby wall if only to make it harder for Win-Gaytt to grab him. The narrow passage provided Crispin a blessed moment to catch his breath. He realized that what he had taken for the high walls of a building were, in fact, shelves overflowing with parchment and filings¡ªsome paper, true, but others clearly vellum, their skin soft and shockingly supple, not dissimilar to his own.


    Placing a hand against one such document, he felt its warmth. It seemed to move, almost, and then quieted, settling with a gentle murmur. He could almost hear the words printed upon that skin. Deep inside, at this moment, something tore. It was not his flesh, but still, it was a real injury all the same. World inverting, Crispin wished to retch, yet nothing came as he fell to his knees, perception spinning.


    This was wrong, so very, very wrong, thought Crispin as he struggled to pull himself to his feet. Despite the protection of the narrow passage, Crispin decided he could not bear to stay here among the shelves of living paper. Following the passageway deeper, Crispin eventually came back out into the swirling mists. Whatever was concealed beneath them, he prayed it was better than what he now left.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Walking now, careful and quiet, his heart still hammering, urging him to run, Crispin listened for the thin but notable flap of wings, but he heard nothing. It was silent¡ªat least, that''s what he thought at first, but as Crispin walked through the shifting mists, he realized that was not it at all. It wasn''t silent¡ªno, it was deafening; surrounding him was the sound of an infinite number of quills, scritch-scratch-scritching, somehow flattening all other sounds.


    The now-discovered, ever-present sound of writing followed Crispin and deadened his footsteps. Soon, coming to an intersection and finding himself without any clear idea of what direction to take, Crispin settled upon a gamble. Pulling books from a nearby shelf, Crispin made himself handholds and began to climb its steep surface. As he had hoped, the quills¡ªand to some extent, the mist¡ªseemed to absorb the sound of tomes striking the floor. As he made his way up, layer by layer, of the giant bookshelf.


    Even with his gamble seeming to break even, Crispin winced as each volume was gripped by gravity and slammed to the ground. At each book''s impact, Crispin''s body tensed, as if anticipating the thwack of his grandmother''s cane. He could hear her voice, her tone and accent tight with outrage, for the way he was treating the doubtless painstaking work of an illuminator''s life¡ªknowledge carefully collected, a fortune often worth its weight in coin. If the old woman was here now, she''d surely cane him. Even Crispin''s sweet and soft-spoken mother would have helped hold him down for the deserved beating.


    Still, eventually, Crispin reached the top of the bookshelf. Winded, arms like noodles and legs trembling from the strenuous climb, he tried to stand. His first few steps were stumbling things that nearly sent him tumbling from his hard-won perch. Hands braced on his knees, Crispin drew in a deep, heaving breath as he once again could confirm his general distaste for physical exertion. Head clearing, Crispin stared out onto the vista that spread out before him and realized how truly screwed he was. Taking it in, Crispin felt disembodied, as if he were a ghost caught in some liminal space. He wondered if even now his body was lying in some filthy alleyway, unattended, his foolish luck having finally abandoned him. But no, his heart said it wasn''t so. Crispin knew he was no ghost.


    Letting the steady, if weary, beat of his heart calm his nerves, Crispin peered out into what could only be described as a library of sorts. What Crispin had at first taken for tight alleyways, criss-crossing large thoroughfares and walkways, turned out only to be outrageously large bookshelves, some seeming to be self-contained buildings, small palaces upon rolling hills, the mists still hiding the majority of the haunting landscape from his eyes. Even through the thick fog, Crispin could spy flickering lamplight.


    Scanning his surroundings a little longer, eventually his eyes alighted upon a series of shelves that seemed to be organized in a sort of procession, almost like a staircase for a giant. His gaze following the shelves'' progression, Crispin thought, you could see upon the highest shelf a door. With little better to do, he began walking along his own shelf in that direction. Perhaps, he thought, the greater vantage might allow him to make sense of where he was. There was some vain hope that somehow he had not strayed so far from his home.


    Where Crispin was, it was little surprise that he did not hear the final outcry of his heart nor the beating of wings that signaled the return of Win-Gaytt. The bird came swooping down from the ephemeral mists that stretched high above, and this time, Crispin was too drained to dodge the creature''s wicked claws. Struggling to pull himself free, Crispin overbalanced, his feet losing traction on the edge of the shelf, and much like the books he had cast down not long ago, gravity, with glee, claimed him. The man and bird went tumbling down.


    A squawked protest, a sobbing cry, voices intermingling, feathers obscuring eyes¡ªeach possible sharp corner that could be hit seemed to strike and catch as the two plummeted into the misty depths, their bodies only arresting as their flesh met the ground and gravity relinquished them. Crispin had expected pain, yet its absence was almost worse. Without a doubt, he knew the stone beneath him was hard enough to shatter all his bones, crack his crown, and leave all the thoughts it contained to leak out onto the floor.


    Seeing as this had not happened, Crispin tried instinctively to gain his feet, but he could not. A weight bore him down. Comfort only partially, he felt the slight prick of pain as sharp, blade-like claws were pressed against his throat, and a gimlet-bright eye, amused, stared into his own. Sensing his desire to struggle, Win-Gaytt spoke. "Now, now, boy," said the bird, "none of that, none of that. We''re all friends here, or at least we could be, if you''d just be quiet." His heart beating, Crispin bit his tongue to hold back any hot words. He was captured at the mercy of the demon bird.


    Eyes darting away from his captor''s piercing regard, Crispin watched as the mist at the end of the row of shelves where he lay shifted and then began to part. First, he heard footfalls¡ªweighty, implacable¡ªapproaching. Just behind them came a breathless panting. Unfortunate but not unexpected, what emerged at last was Remoulade, the witch¡ªas Crispin had begun to think of her. Reasonably, what else could she be but some eldritch horror, or demon worshipper?


    He wondered if she was bound in some dark compact or if it was simply her favored pastime to find young men on late-night crossroads and take their name and soul from them. No specific tale that Crispin could conjure up told him of a demon, witch, or fiend that went by the name of Remoulade. Pinned as he was, all Crispin could do was await his dark fate at the hands of Remoulade the Cruel.

 Chapter 5: A Pleasant Conversation

    Breath burning in her lungs, Remoulade stopped for a moment. Try as she might, she could see very little through the fog. Thick and billowing, it obscured the higher shelves of the departmental archives.


    The urge to call out to Wingyatt was strong, but concern for the attention that might draw crushed the thought.


    Stretching her senses out through the layers of reality that surrounded her, Remoulade strained her identity, searching for that point at which it intermingled with that of her assistant¡¯s own.


    Finding the connection point at which their souls touched, Remoulade pulled in a sharp breath of the cold air that surrounded her and once more began to run.


    Her sense of Wingyatt now acting as a compass, Remoulade navigated her way through the back shelves and aisles of the archive, avoiding the main thoroughfare.


    Taking a sharp turn around a corner, Remoulade came out into a narrow intersection of aisles just in time to witness Winnie and Crispin come tumbling out from the mists above, a mess of limbs and feathers.


    Thankfully, the mists at this time seemed inclined to deaden the panicked screams of the ghost.


    Regaining some of her composure, Remoulade quickly crossed over to where the two had seemingly crash-landed.


    Pulling aside the mist that obscured the narrow aisle, as if it were the heavy draped linens of a window curtain, Remoulade took in the tableau before her.


    Pinned beneath the obsidian and gold talons of loyal Wingyatt lay the unfortunate soul of Crispin.


    Choosing to ignore the troublesome young man for the moment, Remoulade stalked deeper into the aisle.


    The light that leaked in from the end of the aisle pierced through the undulating tendrils of mist and stretched Remoulade''s shadow.


    Ink-black arms began to stretch and rise from the outline of her form cast on the floor. They climbed up the shelves, fingers lazily caressing the silent and sleeping tomes where they lay still.


    As her shadowed appendages continued their work, Remoulade came to a halt and placed her hand on the spine of a book deeply ensconced on the shelf.


    Hand placed upon the unmarked volume, Remoulade set her will against it, wishing that it were a specific volume.


    In her mind, she waded through the shelf before her and still further she went, in hope of finding answers at least partial to her current predicament.


    With the weight of her identity backing her hope, Remoulade pulled the book she desired from deep within the archival stack.


    The shift was near instantaneous, as the previously unmarked book came free of the shelf with a staggering weight.


    Holding the tome to her chest like a swaddled babe as she regained her balance, Remoulade ran a finger down its spine, noting its fresh embossment.


    Balancing the weighty volume precariously upon her slender arm, Remoulade began to scan through the arduous and intricate listings of policy and protocol it contained.


    Eyes darting across the page, she seemed to snatch up each letter like a jealous magpie. Eventually Remoulade found what she had been searching for: a solution, at least a partial one.


    The information she gained provided her with a series of options, not full solutions, but something close enough to suit her, considering the time constraints.


    Placing the volume back into the shelf, it was soon reabsorbed into the greater body of the library collection that was currently accessible to her.


    At last, as ready as she was likely to be, Remoulade turned to face Wingyatt and Crispin, only to find her loyal friend in casual conversation with the nominal captive.


    ¡°Haha,¡± laughed the accidental ghost. ¡°She didn¡¯t!¡± ¡°You¡¯re not serious!¡± ¡°She absolutely did,¡± replied Wingyatt. ¡°Ten gallons of jackal piss,¡± ¡°and her barely even a speck of dust,¡± concluded the bird, as the two began to laugh once more, their voices warm, almost in abjuration of the cold mists.


    Unsure of the contents of the current conversation, still, Remoulade had the unnerving sensation that somehow she had been the focus of whatever diabolical tale her assistant had been recounting.


    Letting out a sharp cough to call the seemingly friendly duo to attention, Remoulade quickly crossed the distance between them and crouched down to inspect Crispin.


    With barely a thought, Remoulade reached out for Winnie and, taking his beak in her hand, silenced him as she slipped her glasses down her nose to peer into Crispin.


    As far as she could tell, the recent excitement he had put them all through had not worsened his precarious condition. This was good, if somewhat surprising.


    Remoulade had been considering that his erratic behavior, evidenced by his sudden decision to run, may have meant he was too far gone.


    Finishing her quick inspection of the soul, Remoulade let her gaze drift up to meet the pinned young man''s eyes and couldn''t help but frown as he flinched.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    It hardly seemed fair; the forlorn soul before her was acting as if she were some bandit who had waylaid him some dark night as he made his way home.


    Looming over him, her shadow billowing and the mists creeping back in now that the momentary imposition of laughter had ended, Remoulade felt near insulted.


    Yet, with dedication and a heart of service, Remoulade found her patience and reminded herself, as she stared into Crispin¡¯s fright-wild eyes, that as she had said in their first meeting, he was clearly very, very stupid.


    Regaining her feet, Remoulade took a step back from the man so as not to loom over him and drive him any further into fear¡¯s embrace.


    Letting out a single, solitary sigh¡ªan early scout of the many likely to be produced before all was said and done¡ªRemoulade gestured for Wingyatt to let the man up. It was time to have an honest conversation.


    As Crispin began to untangle his limbs and clamber to his feet, Remoulade felt her professional smile once more spread its wings.


    Casual as can be, Remoulade reached up her sleeve and, with absolute ease, withdrew an intricate and obscenely large blunderbuss, which she pressed against the young man''s chest.


    Words careful, somewhere close to kind, Remoulade spoke, ¡°You¡¯re dead.¡± Hands trembling Crispin gripped the shelf behind him, what color he had seeming to drain quickly, Crispin tried to speak, yet Remoulade was not done. ¡°Oh, sir, to be clear, not by my hand. But by all practical regards, Crispin, you are dead. Well, at least sort of.¡±


    Words careful, somewhere close to kind, Remoulade spoke, ¡°You¡¯re dead.¡± Hands trembling, Crispin gripped the shelf behind him, what color he had seeming to drain quickly. He tried to speak, yet Remoulade was not done. ¡°Oh, sir, to be clear, not by my hand, but by all practical regards, Crispin, you are dead. Well, at least sort of.¡±


    ¡°Sort of? What does that even mean?¡± said Crispin, his tone free of fear, simply seeming anemic, as if the man''s terror had bled away in the face of his absurd and liminal state.


    ¡°Well, as I was saying before your rude interruption, I am willing to try and help you, but if you make my job any more difficult than you already have, then,¡± said Remoulade, leaving the rest to Crispin''s imagination.


    From behind her spectacles, Remoulade tracked the subtle shift in Crispin''s features. Taking the slow nod he provided as both comprehension and confirmation of the situation, Remoulade removed the hand cannon from the ghost''s chest and let it rest upon her shoulder.


    ¡°Well then, Crispin,¡± struck up Remoulade, continuing the one-sided conversation, her tone brisk and a touch less formal, ¡°It seems we have an accord, so let me try and answer a few of your questions.¡±


    Remoulade considered a moment, thinking how to package the information Crispin seemed to be seeking in a way that would not entangle him deeper into the fabric of the truer world.


    The more he knew, understood, and perceived, the realer all this would become for him. His reality, as it stood, was now liminal, undecided, and that was good.


    Still, she had to tell the man something. Her disparate thoughts reaching a consensus, Remoulade spoke. ¡°Crispin, some things I can tell you, and some things I won¡¯t or you just don¡¯t need to know. But as simply as I can put it, there¡¯s been an accident, a terrible and awful accident, and you are its unfortunate victim.


    ¡°You are, in fact, a disembodied soul, which is fairly close in terms of classification to being a ghost. Your mortal coil, the thing that binds you to your body, has been unceremoniously disconnected, but it was done poorly, so strands still linger.


    ¡°If we move quickly, we can stuff you back where you belong, and nature should do the rest. But the clock is ticking. I need you to listen: no more running, screaming, and drawing attention to yourself. If we hadn¡¯t caught you, something else may have, and with no specific claim on your soul, there¡¯s none to advocate for you save for myself.¡±


    ¡°You said that before,¡± cut in Crispin. ¡°Claim? What do you mean, like in a parcel waiting to be picked up from a post office?¡± Remoulade felt her smile broaden as the young man showed an unexpected spur of wisdom.


    ¡°Yes, exactly. You¡¯re like a brown paper package, all tied up in string. Currently, your postage stamps are scuffed, so we can¡¯t even properly file you. And if some less-than-scrupulous individual were to find you left out in the cold, well, not much could stop them from tucking you under their coat and running off to their home.¡±


    ¡°Wingyatt, by Jove, is that you?¡± A jaunty voice broke through the mist and put a pause to Remoulade and Crispin¡¯s hushed conversation. Stationed at the far end of the aisle, where he had clearly been keeping watch, ever-faithful Winnie took a series of hopping steps to address the unmistakable voice of Charles, aka Nasty.


    ¡°Charles, what are you doing skulking in the mists?¡± ¡°No such thing,¡± replied the disembodied voice. ¡°In fact, in a roundabout sense, I was looking for you, old boy.¡± ¡°Truly?¡± ¡°Indubitably. Here I was, all on my lonesome on a misty day such as this. So lonesome and weary, but then I thought of the best of remedies: kindness.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± inquired her assistant as he stepped deeper into the mists, wings spread wide, covering Remoulade and the ghost. ¡°Well, I heard you and your mistress got the short end of the stick and were stuck with the graveyard shift.


    ¡°And, well, I thought to myself, Nasty, there can¡¯t be more than a couple of ticks left to old Wingyatt and Miss Remoulade¡¯s shift. Why not head over and interrupt it a bit?¡±


    ¡°So you thought to come visiting, then? Perhaps bringing with you a gift?¡± ¡°Oh, you know me well, bird.¡± Deep into the mists, there was the slight sloshing sound, unmistakable, clearly a bottle of spirits.


    ¡°Well, well, Nasty, my friend, never let it be said you are not a gentleman. That being said, you know how the miss is about regulations. Why don¡¯t you and I sample that fine thing you¡¯re holding while the young miss closes up her station?¡±


    ¡°Oh, you want this all to yourself, then?¡± asked Charles in a conspiratorial hush as he once more shook whatever he held. ¡°No, not at all, but I would like to share it with you. Besides, I simply can¡¯t let you lead my mistress from the path of dedication and duty.¡± ¡°Oh, such sacrifice. What a loyal and true friend you are.¡± ¡°This is true,¡± replied the bird, as the two voices began to grow faint, swallowed as they were by the mists as they walked away.


    Letting out the prophesied long sigh, Remoulade concluded to trust in Winnie to catch up with her as soon as he could and turned her attention back to Crispin.


    ¡°Sorry about that, sir. Did you have any other questions before we proceed?¡± ¡°Ah, no, not really. It¡¯s just, well, Miss Remoulade, I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m a bit overwhelmed, is all. I don¡¯t mean to make more work for you, truly.¡±


    Though no master of mortal expressions, Remoulade judged Crispin¡¯s words and facial expressions to be genuine.


    ¡°The apology is appreciated, Crispin, but this is my job, after all, though maybe a touch outside of usual protocol. I¡¯ll admit I¡¯m a touch surprised; you seem far more trusting all of a sudden.¡± ¡°Truth is, at this point, this is either a dream or all that¡¯s happened is absolutely real. My heart tells me to trust you, so that¡¯s what I¡¯ll do.¡±


    Honest and seemingly possessing a trusting nature, Remoulade looked Crispin square in the eyes. Though still uncertain, he smiled. It was a silly thing, carrying with it much. Somehow, the man had been able to keep that bright and shiny thing so often found in the possession of children intact: hope.


    It was with this realization that Remoulade matched Crispin¡¯s expression as she lowered the gun from her shoulder and shot him, cutting the pleasant discussion short.

 Chapter 6: A Return To Normalcy?

    A soft smile and eyes full of mischief sent Crispin stumbling back. It was as if the bookshelf he had been braced against no longer existed. Rather than falling, he felt as if he were flying¡ªpulled like a lure on a string. His vision blurred, the book aisle among the mists where he once stood becoming dim, black, then nothing.


    A scream ripped its way out of Crispin¡¯s chest, raw and guttural, like a revenant rising from its grave. Cold, wet mud soaked into his back. Eyes swimming, stars above spinning, Crispin tried to stand. His hands scrabbled at the side of the shallow ditch he found himself in. With a grunt and more effort than he''d like to admit, Crispin finally dragged himself out.


    Hands braced upon the loamy soil, Crispin felt himself gag. Hot, bitter bile bit at his already sore throat. Hands shaking with adrenaline''s charge, Crispin reached for his chest to learn what had been done by Remoulade¡¯s firelock. Yet he found no hole, no ruin of burnt flesh or broken bone. His honest heart was still whole.


    With no life-ending wound to be found, Crispin began to take stock of himself. The air felt different; the deeply natural but unsettling atmosphere of Remoulade''s domain was gone. Crispin felt his lips wiggle as a rebellious smile crawled onto his face. He gripped the green grass and shoes that sprang up from the ground like defiant little emissaries of life.


    Shoes? Time''s flow had felt loose, true, but as the luckless carpenter wound back to that observation, he felt his senses realign. The back of his neck suddenly cold, Crispin¡¯s eyes traveled up the fine pair of shoes until they eventually met Ms. Remoulade¡¯s own. Cast in night''s shadow, her gaze was cold. With a start, Crispin realized he was fondling her shoes.


    Springing away, hands thrown out to his sides, as if the unseelie woman''s shoes were hot coals, Crispin went tumbling back into the ditch he had just climbed out of. A light sound joined the hushed sound of crickets; an uncustomary streak of annoyance raising its head, Crispin realized it was laughter.


    "Crispin¡ª" asked Remoulade, her tone inquisitive as she observed him in his pig¡¯s palace of mud, "can you sing?"


    "I beg your pardon?"


    "I suppose that''s a no, then." The odd woman seemed to pick up on his deepening confusion, and as she offered him her hand, she continued, "It''s just¡ªyou said you''re a carpenter by trade, though a poor one, but with all the tumbling you seem to get up to, I thought you might have a future on the stage. If not a singer, then surely a tumbling fool."


    It was strange; her words were spoken without rancor or insult, as if she were genuinely offering a heartfelt consultation. Letting go of embarrassment and the heat it lit beneath his ego, Crispin took Remoulade''s hand, resisting the wicked urge to pull her into the mud with him. The woman''s hand was neither warm nor cold. The only sensation he could extract from it was a paper dryness that soon was gone as she pulled him from the shallow grave.


    Now standing on firm ground, Crispin took in his surroundings more fully. He and Remoulade seemed to be situated on a low-rise hill obscured by a copse of trees. To his left, he could see the sharp outline of a city, bright and sparkling even this late, and to his right was the growing wilderness that formed at its natural limits.


    Questions upon questions assaulted Crispin. When all this madness had started, he was certain he had still been in the city proper. Though even that felt uncertain now. Thinking to demand at least some form of explanation from Remoulade, Crispin was brought up short.


    He heard a rustling sound of snapping twigs, followed by a low, piteous moan. It was haunting, ghostly even. It seemed to travel up through the darkness, growing closer, the sound of a wagon''s cartwheels coming behind it. Crispin''s heartbeat quickened. Only now he was wondering how he could even feel it, if he was nearly a ghost as Remoulade claimed.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    From the darkness, ever-watching yet unknown, came a shambling beast. At the sight of it, there was recognition. Crispin knew it by name¡ªit was his doom. Wild-eyed, the cow that had run him over came shambling out into the starlit clearing. She dragged with her the cart that had been her charge and the mutilated form of its driver.


    Crispin felt his gorge rise with horror as he took in the ox-cart that had caught him unaware as he had fled an unnatural terror. It was an old, rickety thing, small enough to pass through back streets and alleys.


    A new coat of bright red painted its frame. It almost seemed to steam in the night''s cool air, the copper of it hitting Crispin''s nose and working its way down his windpipe to sit heavy as lead in his gut.


    Crossing to the cart, Crispin clapped his hand to his nose to block the scent of the driver''s last indignity. Head twisted to an awful angle, the driver''s guts spilled loosely onto the cart bench. With a closer inspection, Crispin realized it was more than just the head¡ªeach joint was twisted, mangled, and wrong.


    The unreality of this awful night was too much. The otherworldly airs of Remoulade''s office and archives seemed easier to bear, but this¡ªthis was far from the world Crispin knew. For him, violence was a thing of broken fingers, bloody lips, a black eye or two, more often from accident or over-rambunctious roughhousing than violent malice. This was a bad thing done by something far worse.


    Crispin''s panic broke as he felt the warm, wet breath of the heifer who may have caused his death. She was a big thing, truly, with soft brown eyes so wide and gentle. Much like her now-dead master, her body bore numerous wounds. Whatever curses Crispin had once held for the cow were gone. Slow and steady, he turned to meet the weary beast.


    Voice warm spite of all circumstance, Crispin spoke, softly he said, ¡°There, there girl, it''s all right.¡± Eyes glassy, pain clearly overwhelming, the cow turned away, stomping its hooves. Still, Crispin held his courage and placed a tender hand just above her nose. Her long, thick tongue trailed out, leaving a line of goo upon his wrist as she snuffled at his hand. Crispin paid it no mind as he continued speaking, trying to project at least a passable counterfeit of bravery.


    With his free hand, Crispin began to work free the bridle that held her bound to the broken and bloody cart. It took some time, yet he did not stop, not even as his hand cramped. The latch unfastened, Crispin slowly, patiently, as if he had no other concern, unhooked her from the bridle that kept her bound to the broken cart. Unburdened, the heifer did not run but rather stepped closer into him, nuzzling once more at his hand.


    A calming hand on the heifer as he inspected her wounds, Crispin spoke, tone laced with recrimination: "You shot me."


    "Oh, is that what you were puzzling over?" replied Remoulade, suddenly close as she inspected the cart herself.


    "Well, yes, in part, I suppose," replied Crispin, the edge of his words dulled by Remoulade''s nonchalant retort. "That, and why I can still feel my heart beat if I''m a ghost," he groused.


    "What do you mean?" inquired Remoulade, a note of confusion tinging her words. "It would be strange if you couldn''t. It''s your heart, after all."


    "But¡ª" said Crispin, his protests gaining heat.


    "No," interrupted Remoulade.


    "What?"


    "I said no, Crispin. We have little time to see you right and certainly less for lengthy metaphysical conversations or existential nitpickery. Just accept that you have a heart, and even if you are apart, you can still feel its beat," concluded the clerk as she began her own deeper inspection of the dead man.


    It was ghastly to watch as the woman rummaged around in the cart. At last, she let out an "Ah" of appreciation as she drew out a flask. Disregarding Crispin¡¯s spluttered dismay at her casual act of grave robbery, she jumped down from the cart and upended the contents of the flask onto a fine silk handkerchief. With quick and effective motions, she began to clean what she could of the cow''s wounds, a raised eyebrow speaking volumes.


    Eyes darting away from Remoulade and back to the comforting chocolatey brown ones of the cow, Crispin continued to voice his concerns. "So, about my body¡ªwhat exactly is the plan?" Suddenly, Remoulade¡¯s head popped up from where she had been administering to the cow. Her expression was odd¡ªclearly a smile but lacking any professional guile. Tracking it, Crispin turned just in time to be splattered liberally by blood and viscera as Win-Gyatt, who whispers all your dirty secrets, landed drunkenly upon the unfortunate cart driver¡¯s corpse.

 Chapter 7: A Quaint Carriage Ride

    Sitting in the back of the tiny cart as it made its way deeper into the city, Remoulade fought its gentle swaying. The old wagon seemed determined to communicate every contour of the road. Glancing at the hunched form of Crispin sitting up front and guiding the cart along while monitoring the device she had given him, Remoulade felt the tiniest speck of guilt.


    The young man was clearly out of his depth. Perhaps shooting him without any warning had been a little harsh. But, Remoulade reasoned, time was of the essence, and the shock of her actions had only helped to speed Crispin¡¯s return to his body¡¯s last resting place. Still, there was the tiniest bit of guilt.


    No, Remoulade concluded, if Crispin wished to blame anything, it should be the creature they now hunted. Remoulade¡¯s working theory was that Crispin had caught the attention of some spirit or entity.


    Something in the young man had warned Crispin of the night terror that stalked him. He¡¯d run, fear disorienting him straight into the cart of one industrious Giuseppe the Elder, a well-respected teamster and moonlight smuggler.


    Giuseppe, being a practical working man, decided to relocate his unintended victim to a shallow grave beyond the city limits. Matters may have ended there if not for Crispin¡¯s horror. Following behind the unknowing smuggler, it was just too sweet an opportunity¡ªan unattended body just lying there.


    Why not climb into the young man¡¯s dying form? So what if the soul was still home? Pull it up like a weed, tear the mortal¡¯s coil. Who cared if he had yet to fully grow cold? and the carter, well....


    It was just a theory¡ªa good theory. Remoulade¡¯s curiosity rumbled in her stomach. With some luck, she thought, she¡¯d find out if her deductions proved true.


    Running a hand over the rough, cracked wood of its frame¡ªnow caked in slow-drying blood¡ªRemoulade took in the sights and sounds of the city.


    Late as it was, the city was far from silent. Lanterns kept the main thoroughfares bright. Shoppers and merchants clogged the bridges that stretched over the canals far below. The city was wealthy, undeniably so. This fact beat at its center.


    There was a breeze¡ªa quiet little thing. It carried on its currents salt from the coast and the hint of a rising storm. As if sensing this, Wingyatt, sleeping and nestled at her side, raised his wing to envelop Remoulade in a warm feather-blanket hug.


    So close. She could smell the spirit on his breath. ¡°You¡¯ve worked hard,¡± murmured the clerk, as a wry smile spread across her face. ¡°I have, haven¡¯t I?¡± slurred the bird, eyes foggy with whatever he and Charles had consumed.


    Noting the close embrace he held her in, Wingyatt clumsily readjusted himself before speaking. ¡°So, miss, I was a bit addled when I landed. Care to catch me up a bit?¡± ¡°Wingyatt, the last time I saw you that shit-faced, you tried to fly through a rock.¡± ¡°Well, I¡ªmean, you¡¯re not wrong, but isn¡¯t that a bit off-topic?¡± ¡°It¡¯s shelved for now,¡± Remoulade replied.


    ¡°Anyways, what¡¯s been happening?¡± ¡°Well...¡±


    **


    ~The events that occured while dear Wingyatt was passed out~


    Blood and far less pleasant things splattered over Crispin. Remoulade herself barely managed to dodge the sanguine shrapnel. Cackling at the look on the half-ghost¡¯s face, Wingyatt took three wobbling steps forward before collapsing into an inebriated heap.


    Remoulade was glad Wingyatt had been able to break away from Charles and make his way to her, but it would have been nice if the vulture hadn¡¯t gotten so sauced first. At the very least, he could have brought a little bit of Nasties¡¯ fine brandy with him, Remoulade thought as she shrugged off the night¡¯s cold.


    Thinking to let some work warm her body, Remoulade jumped up onto the cart and began to lift the driver¡¯s corpse, only to be interrupted by Crispin.


    ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± said the young man, unexpected heat in his tone. ¡°Since we could use the cart to catch up with your body, so...¡± she replied with a casual shrug as she hoisted the dead smuggler over the side of the cart.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it your job to take care of the dead, though?¡± ¡°Process,¡± Remoulade corrected. ¡°No care required. Even says so in my contract. Besides, I already saw to him.¡± Noting Crispin¡¯s confusion, Remoulade clarified, ¡°I think his name was Giuseppe the Elder or something. Anyways, he showed up in my line well before you.¡±


    ¡°He was surprisingly polite and concerned for the state of his eternal soul, considering his line of work.¡± At this moment, it dawned on Remoulade that the driver¡¯s concerns might have to do with the unintentional murder of the young man glaring up at her.


    Letting out another long, prophesied sigh of agitation as Crispin continued to glare, Remoulade bent down and threw a bundle of clothes at him. ¡°If you¡¯re not going to help, the least you can do is put something on.¡± ¡°What? Oh, Lady bless me! Where are my clothes?¡±


    With the mists of Remoulade¡¯s office no longer there to lend Crispin a modesty cover, the unfortunate young man had finally realized he was naked as the day he was born¡ªat least, Remoulade assumed humans were born naked. It said so in one of her books.


    Grabbing the garments she had flung at him, Crispin dashed toward the nearby copse of trees, already trying to slide on the pants as he made his retreat.


    Remoulade wondered if the young man realized how lucky he was that old Giuseppe had been kind enough to undress him before dumping his seemingly dead corpse in a shallow grave, but judged Crispin might not be in an appreciative mood.


    Rifling through the carter¡¯s personal effects, Remoulade found a few old blankets and, using one, began to wipe away what she could of the blood before relocating her unconscious assistant to the back of the cart.


    That done, Remoulade¡¯s ears perked up, and turning, she realized that Crispin had returned. Once more dressed, the young man was attempting to drag the mangled corpse of the cart driver toward the ditch.


    Crispin¡¯s expression was tight, somewhere between nauseous and heartbroken. Jumping down from the cart, Remoulade grabbed the corpse¡¯s feet, and together they placed the old man as gently and with as much solemnity as they could to rest.


    With that done, Crispin began rolling his shoulders as he walked back to the cart. Curious, Remoulade watched the man as he began to inspect the cart.


    Making a slow circle about it, and dodging away from the now calm cow¡¯s affectionate tongue, Crispin crouched down to inspect the wagon¡¯s wheels, all the while talking to himself.


    Wiggling his way under the cart to check its shaft, Crispin muttered, ¡°I might be a poor carpenter compared to my cousins, but....¡±


    **


    =="And then he says ''I still know my way around wood" finished Remoulade.== ¡°Does he then?¡± asked Wingyatt, casting a quizzical eye at the back of Crispin¡¯s head. ¡°Well, he got this old, rickety thing rolling, didn¡¯t he?¡± Remoulade replied. ¡°I suppose he did at that,¡± agreed the vulture, somehow sounding proud though he had nothing to do with the cart¡¯s repair.


    ¡°Anyways,¡± continued Remoulade, ¡°once Crispin made his peace with the passing of old Giuseppe, we were able to get the cart hooked up to the big brute,¡± gesturing to the gentle giant that pulled the tiny cart. ¡°And then we just drove down into the city. Guards didn¡¯t even blink an eye.¡±


    ¡°No surprise there,¡± quipped Wingyatt. ¡°Oh, how so?¡± ¡°Place like this, city watch has to be on the take. Everything would break down otherwise.¡± ¡°Well, aren¡¯t you the worldly traveler,¡± drawled Remoulade. ¡°I¡¯d do more traveling if I could drag you away from your cave.¡± ¡°Our cave, but I¡¯ll take it under consideration.¡± ¡°Truly?¡± A near-boyish note of excitement entered her assistant¡¯s voice. ¡°Probably,¡± said Remoulade, her own tones shifting to teasing.


    A subtle cough cut through Remoulade and Wingyatt¡¯s insouciant discussion on the merits of travel. ¡°Pardon, Ms. Remoulade,¡± said Crispin, his previous sullen demeanor seeming to have evaporated, ¡°but the compass you gave me seems to be acting up,¡± and tossed it to her.


    This was poor timing, as they were just going around a corner and the young man¡¯s aim had been off. Fast for one not used to physical rigor, Remoulade leapt to catch the fine burnished compass.


    Tangling its chain in her fingers, Remoulade found herself dangling off the side of the cart and may have gone tumbling down into the canal below if not for loyal Wingyatt. Feeling a thrill and terror only comparable to the times she¡¯d gambled away her yearly vacation, Remoulade shot a cold glare at Crispin.


    The unmoored soul seemed sheepish, even apologetic. Remoulade wondered, though, if this was that evil and pernicious thing: malicious incompetence. Putting aside such thoughts along with any intent for retribution, Remoulade inspected the compass by which they were tracking Crispin¡¯s body snatcher.


    The so-called compass Crispin had tossed her way wasn¡¯t exactly that, but more a way of finding out where to send a spirit when they were lost or in the wrong place. As such, it was technically not Remoulade¡¯s possession, and if lost, she would have had to either report it and file a requisition for a replacement or have Wingyatt filch it from office supplies.


    Rather than the standard nomenclature found on a compass, it was made up of three concentric rings that kept spinning. Reading the device, Remoulade began to grow both concerned and confused. If she was interpreting correctly, their quarry was right on top of them.