Over the next few days, life became monotonous once more.
Monday.
Work.
Sorting through the West End census records.
Taking the drug.
Entering the dream.
Tuesday.
Recopying the old parish registers.
Insomnia.
Wednesday.
Helping Alvin cross-reference death records.
Taking the drug.
Entering the dream.
Thursday.
Continuing to process relocation files.
Insomnia.
Every day was much the same: leaving at seven in the morning and returning at six in the evening.
Ryan did not seek out any further contact with the extraordinary—at least, not on the surface.
He had learned to restrain himself.
He got the feeling that everyone might be tainted with a bit of the extraordinary, yet no one ever spoke of it.
Secrecy and restraint. Everyone was maintaining this delicate illusion.
During his working hours, he even went out of his way to avoid thinking about those things.
Because if he pondered too deeply,
his eyes would easily begin to burn.
Once, he had stared at an old file for too long.
The ink on the page had actually shown faint signs of rearranging itself.
Startled, Ryan had immediately looked away.
He finally realized now.
The Lantern aspect was already beginning to affect him.
It was just that the influence was not yet deep.
Over those few days, the biggest news at the archive was that the end of the month was fast approaching.
The atmosphere in the entire Formal Recording Hall was visibly lighter.
Because payday was finally coming.
Even if the wages weren't high, it was at least enough to survive.
On Thursday afternoon,
Simon had even planned ahead:
“On payday, I'm heading straight to the tavern.”
Someone nearby laughed.
“And then you'll be broke again the next day.”
Simon shrugged.
“At least I'll have one night of fun.”
Finally,
the day arrived: October thirty-first.
Friday.
The atmosphere in the archive today was clearly different from usual.
Even Alvin's expression had softened considerably.
Because wages were being distributed this afternoon.
Throughout the entire morning,
everyone worked much faster than usual.
By noon, some had already begun discussing what they would buy once they got their hands on the money.
Ryan, however, remained very quiet.
Because he knew
his wages wouldn't be very high.
After all, he had only been promoted to a formal clerk for about ten days.
Around four in the afternoon,
the Formal Recording Hall finally began distributing pay.
Names were called out one by one.
The employees took turns going into the office to sign for their money.
When it was Ryan's turn, he stood up and walked into the small office.
Inside was the same familiar old wooden desk.
The one handling the register was Hackett, the accountant.
He was bald
and wore glasses,
and he spoke very quickly.
He flipped through the ledger.
“Ryan Harold.”
“Assistant Formal Clerk.”
“Ten days' worth of work.”
With that,
he bowed his head and began calculating.
His fountain pen made several rapid scratching sounds on the paper.
“Deducting uniform deposit, writing pen wear and tear, and your advance payment—”
Hackett paused
and turned another page.
“And the two shillings you owed Director Morton.”
The corner of Ryan's mouth twitched slightly.
Of course he remembered.
Finally,
Hackett counted out a pile of coins from the drawer.
“One pound, fifteen shillings, and sixpence.”
“Sign here.”
Ryan took the pen.
He signed his name in the ledger,
then slipped the money into his pocket.
It felt heavy.
At this moment,
after pocketing the money, Ryan's first reaction wasn't joy.
Instead, he let out a sigh of relief.
Finally, he wouldn't have to live day-to-day counting copper coins.
One pound, fifteen shillings, and sixpence.
To a truly respectable Londoner, this was nothing.
But to him now, it was a small fortune.
At least he wouldn't have to worry about starving to death in the near future.
Hackett lowered his head and continued flipping through the ledger,
then looked up at Ryan again as if suddenly remembering something.
“Oh, right.”
“You can collect your uniform now.”
As he spoke, he fished a stamped slip of paper from a nearby drawer.
“Go to the supply room.”
“Look for Mrs. Brown to register.”
Ryan took the slip and nodded.
Then, he left the small office.
The Formal Recording Hall outside was still lively; those who had already received their pay were visibly more relaxed.
Simon had even started whistling.
“Ryan!”
“Are you really not going to join us for a drink tonight?”
Ryan shook his head.
“Next time.”
Simon tutted.
“You really don't know how to live a little.”
Someone nearby chimed in,
“Looks like he's trying to save up for a wife.”
A burst of laughter erupted in the recording hall.
Ryan merely smiled and didn't explain. He only wanted to go home now.
Before leaving, however, he first headed to the supply room.
The supply room was located at the back of the archive, near the boiler room, and was crammed with all sorts of miscellaneous items.
There were stacks of paper, old files, kerosene drums, and boxes of uniforms.
Mrs. Brown was a stout woman in her fifties, currently sitting behind a desk knitting a sweater.
Seeing Ryan enter, she squinted at the slip of paper.
“New employee?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Brown grunted.
She slowly stood up and began rummaging through the cabinets behind her.
Before long,
she pulled out two dark gray uniforms
and a thicker coat.
“These are yours.”
Ryan reached out to take them.
The clothing was much better than the temporary clerk's set; at least the fabric was significantly thicker.
There were even spots on the cuffs for a Formal Hall ID number, though he didn't have one yet.
It even came with a standard soft cap.
Mrs. Brown added,
“Formal employees get two sets a year.”
“If you ruin them, you pay for them yourself.”
Ryan nodded.
“Understood.”
With that, he cradled the clothes in his arms and left the archive.
It was almost dark outside, but London was blessedly free of rain today.
He could even catch a faint glimpse of the setting sun's color.
The people on the streets were visibly happier than usual.
After getting paid at the end of the month, many workers were heading straight to the taverns.
Some had already started drinking early.
Ryan walked all the way back to St. Blaise Street.
As soon as he stepped into the apartment building, the smell of stewed potatoes and onions hit his nose.
Someone was laughing, and children were running around.
With payday at the end of the month, even the slums felt different.
Ryan carried his uniforms upstairs.
Once back in the attic, he took the money out and counted it again.
Then he carefully sorted and divided it.
Rent.
Food.
Kerosene.
Laudanum.
Everything had to be budgeted precisely.
In this era, if one spent money recklessly, they would quickly end up destitute again.
After finishing his budgeting, Ryan looked down and sniffed his clothes.
Then he frowned.
There was a distinct smell of old paper, sweat, and coal smoke.
He hadn't taken a proper bath in days. In the East End, bathing was a luxury to begin with.
Many of the poor only bathed a few times a month, but now he finally had money in his pocket.
Ryan hesitated for a moment, but ultimately picked up a towel and some clean clothes and headed downstairs.
There was a public hot water house in the alley behind the apartment building.
It charged a fee: two pence per visit.
Normally, Ryan could never bear to spend it, but tonight, he finally walked inside.
The steam inside was thick, and the water boiler hummed continuously.
A few workers were rinsing themselves off, bare-chested.
The air was thick with the scent of soap and hot steam.
Ryan paid his two pence, then carried a bucket of hot water into a stall.
The moment the wooden door closed, the rest of the world seemed to fall quiet.
He slowly took off his clothes, revealing skin that was terribly pale.
His ribs were clearly visible, and his chest bore a bluish-gray tint from his chronic coughing.
Ryan stared down at himself for a moment, then slowly poured the hot water over his body.
Splash—
Steam rose instantly.
At that moment, he felt so comfortable he almost sighed aloud.
The fatigue that had accumulated over the past several weeks seemed to finally wash away a little.
The chill in his lungs eased considerably.
Ryan closed his eyes, leaning against the wooden partition to rest for a long while before he began thoroughly washing his hair and scrubbing his body.
The soap was cheap and had a pungent smell, but at least it got him clean.
By the time he was completely finished, he felt as if his body had grown a fraction lighter.
After changing into his newly acquired formal clerk uniform,
his reflection in the mirror no longer looked as wretched as before.
Though he was still thin, some color had returned to his face. At the very least, he looked like a proper municipal clerk rather than a vagrant on the verge of death.
Ryan stared at the mirror, falling silent for a few seconds.
Rate on N.U.
