Ryan actually already knew a bit about his landlord's daughter.
Irene was seventeen this year and attended a church high school in the East End. It wasn't some prestigious academy for aristocrats, but it wasn't a bottom-tier school for laborers' children either. The tuition was quite high, at least for an ordinary family in the East End.
The only reason her family could still afford to send her to high school was mainly because of this old apartment building.
To be precise, Irene's family wasn't truly poor. Her ancestors had some money, and combined with what her father had earned working at the docks, they had managed to buy this old building. Relying on the rent, the family of three could just barely get by.
But it was only "barely."
After all, in a place like the East End, the buildings were old, the tenants were poor, and late rent payments were a frequent occurrence.
On top of that, Irene's father had fallen gravely ill a few years ago. Not only did it drain the family's meager savings, but it also left him completely unable to perform physical labor, forcing him to stay home to recuperate.
To make ends meet, Irene's mother had to work several odd jobs every day, running around the East End's markets and small eateries from morning till night. Most of the money she earned went straight toward her husband's medical bills.
And since Irene was still in school, books, uniforms, and exam fees all cost money.
Ryan even knew that Irene's mother had been wanting her to drop out early and get a job, but her father stubbornly refused to agree.
She was actually very smart, with beautiful handwriting and a knack for arithmetic. With a bit of luck, she might actually be able to leave the East End one day—unlike most of the girls here, who entered the factories in their teens, married, had children, and ultimately died in the slums.
Irene glanced at the sky.
“I'm leaving now.”
“Yeah.”
Just as she was about to walk away, she paused.
“About last night...”
“Thank you.”
Her voice was very soft. The moment the words left her mouth, she quickly turned and hurried away.
Ryan stood in place, watching her figure until she disappeared around the corner of the alley. Only then did he slowly exhale, turning to walk toward the main street.
The morning in the East End was as cold and gloomy as ever. Street vendors had already begun selling hot bread and thick soup, the air thick with a mixture of coal smoke, damp fog, and the smell of cheap food.
Ryan stopped in front of a stall, spending two pence on two pieces of black bread and another penny on a cup of hot tea.
He had to strictly control his daily expenses now, or he wouldn't make it to the end of the month.
Especially when it came to laudanum.
The price wasn't extraordinarily high, but drinking it every day added up.
Yet, he couldn't afford not to drink it.
At this thought, Ryan felt a sudden pang of irritability.
He felt as if he were slowly becoming dependent on it.
But he had no other choice for the time being.
At least for now, he still needed the dreams to maintain his mental stability.
After finishing his breakfast, Ryan walked along the street toward the archive.
London on a Saturday was slightly quieter. The factory steam whistles weren't as piercing, and the streets lacked some of their usual weekday rush.
By day, he worked as a civil servant; by night, he studied the Glory, gradually touching the truly extraordinary within his dreams.
Saturday noon.
The archive was much quieter than usual, and some people in the formal clerk offices upstairs had already left early.
Ryan finished sorting the last few review sheets and let out a soft sigh of relief.
Simon walked over from the adjacent work area.
Today, he wore the deep-gray uniform of a formal clerk, complete with bronze trim on the cuffs and a small archive badge pinned to his chest.
Simon had been working on the first floor for over two years. With a stable salary and the occasional side job doing proofreading, he was considered well-off for someone living in a place like the East End.
At least, he was respectable.
Moreover, he was clearly skilled at managing interpersonal relationships, and quite a few people in the archive knew him.
“Simon.”
Simon leaned against the edge of the desk.
“About those four pence from before.”
Ryan reached into his pocket, pulled out the coins, and handed them over.
When he had first been promoted and money was at its tightest, Simon had lent him some spare change.
Simon looked down at the coins and laughed. “You actually remembered.”
“Of course.” Ryan placed the money on the desk. “I can't keep owing you forever.”
But Simon pushed the coins right back. “Forget about it. Consider it buying the newcomer a drink.”
Ryan frowned. “It's not like I can't afford to pay you back now.”
“I know you can,” Simon said, smiling as he patted the desk. “But today is Saturday. You've been up here for so long, yet you haven't actually gone out to sit down with the people upstairs, have you?”
A few formal clerks behind them had already begun packing up their files.
Hearing this, one of them chimed in immediately: “Yeah, Ryan. We're going to the White Oak today. Simon's buying. They just got a fresh batch of kegs there.”
Someone nearby burst out laughing.
Ryan was taken aback for a moment.
The White Oak tavern.
He knew of that place. It was one of the nicer taverns in the East End, not far from the archive. Most of its regular patrons were clerks, bookkeepers, and shop assistants with stable jobs, unlike the filthy, chaotic pubs near the docks.
Simon glanced at him. “Don't just scurry back home every day after work. You're practically half-integrated into the formal system now. You need to get to know some people.”
There was truth to that.
Ryan remained silent for a couple of seconds before finally nodding. “Alright.”
Simon immediately smiled. “That's the spirit.”
Half an hour later, they left the archive together.
The East End on a Saturday afternoon was noticeably more relaxed. Many shops along the street were open, and one could even see people dressed in slightly more decent clothes coming out for lunch.
Simon greeted acquaintances all along the way, occasionally stopping to chat for a bit.
Ryan walked beside him, quietly observing.
He realized that formal clerks and the temporary clerks in the basement belonged to two entirely different social circles.
At least in the East End, those with stable clerical jobs could already be considered part of the "respectable class."
Although they were still far from wealthy, at least they didn't have to worry every day about whether they would starve to death the next month.
Ten minutes later, the group arrived at a slightly cleaner street.
This area was noticeably better than the slums where Ryan lived. There were even glass display windows along the roadside, alongside small shops selling clocks and fountain pens.
The White Oak tavern stood on the corner.
A deep-green sign hung at the entrance, and the windows were wiped clean, revealing the warm yellow light inside through the glass.
Simon pushed the door open, and a wave of warmth immediately washed over them.
It was much quieter inside than a typical East End tavern. The wooden floor was swept clean, the tables and chairs were of a uniform style, and there was even the sound of someone playing the piano.
A few bookkeepers in suits sat against the wall, while others on the opposite side were reading newspapers.
Ryan instinctively took a few extra glances.
It had been a long time since he had stepped into such a "normal place."
Simon was clearly a regular.
The moment they walked in, the owner behind the counter looked up with a smile. “Brought a newcomer today?”
“From the archive,” Simon replied casually, then led the group to a table near the window.
Soon, a waiter brought over dark beer, hot beef pies, and a plate of fried potatoes.
Ryan glanced at the price board.
He fell slightly silent.
It reminded him of his previous "Gluttony Combo."
Noticing his expression, Simon smiled. “Don't worry. It's my treat today.”
The others nearby also began to chat.
Some discussed the recent archive review rules, others mentioned that the Treasury might lay off a batch of lower-level clerks, and some complained about the ever-increasing workload.
Ryan sat quietly to the side, listening and occasionally chiming in with a word or two.
Simon leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his drink. “How have you been lately?”
Ryan knew he was asking about the evaluation for becoming a formal clerk. “Not bad. At least I haven't been sent back to the basement yet.”
Simon let out a chuckle. “Since Morton brought you up, it means you've already passed halfway. Just don't make any mistakes for the remaining two months, and you'll be fine.”
Rate on N.U.
