Dr. Callan had distilled Ghervil’s essence into a single word: money.
Day in and day out, the young nun, far from her pious calling, spoke only of earning money, a veritable little miser.
Ghervil now found herself understanding a common saying among the less refined nobility and the newly rich: ‘There is nothing a Trin Gold Coin cannot resolve; if a problem persists, it is simply because an insufficient sum has been offered.’
“Two… two hundred Denarii a day! Surely I haven’t misheard?” The young woman’s voice was laced with utter disbelief.
“No, you heard correctly,” Dr. Callan patiently affirmed. “You may, of course, opt for settlement in other currencies of equivalent value, though I would highly recommend paper notes. In sprawling metropolises such as the capital, or within the circles of high society, transactions are predominantly conducted using banknotes.”
Trembling with excitement, the young woman began to calculate on her fingers.
Twenty Denarii silver coins equated to a single Soldeau banknote, and sixteen Soldeau notes, each bearing a value of one, amounted to one Trin Gold Coin.
Converting two hundred Denarii, her daily wage would be ten Soldeau, roughly equivalent to 0.6 gold coins.
Gold, being the most stable and reliable currency across all epochs, instinctively became her unit of measure.
Two hundred Denarii; a sum that would require ten months of labor if she were to earn only a basic salary.
To put it into perspective, for the average citizen of Mistfall City, a single day’s work under this contract equated to a month, or even more, of their arduous, penny-pinching toil—a truly astronomical wage.
This immense sum was enough to afford her a truly comfortable life; she could purchase any food that tickled her fancy, replace furniture at whim, and adorn her feet with socks of the finest quality.
She had previously noted that the water-heating apparatus in her home’s washroom had rusted into an archaic relic; receiving this money would allow her to replace it without delay.
If she continued to work for a while longer, she might even amass enough to acquire a Blood Rose.
It wasn’t avarice that drove her; it was the pressing, undeniable need for funds!
Her hands trembling slightly, she brought the cup to her lips, a mouthful of water meeting her tongue just as her eyes locked onto the woman’s self-assured, almost imperious, posture.
“Should you find this insufficient,” Dr. Callan offered, “we could certainly increase the sum in the contract. Perhaps we could round it up to a full Trin Gold Coin per day?”
“Pfft—”
The unswallowed water erupted from her mouth, splashing across half the table.
Dr. Callan, though swift to react, was so preoccupied with shielding the precious parchment that she failed to evade the spray, a small portion of it dampening her long, black-stockinged legs.
“My apologies, truly,” Ghervil murmured, simultaneously retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket and offering it.
“There’s no need to increase it,” Ghervil quickly added. “I’m genuinely worried you might then ask me to commit something unlawful or criminal.”
“You yourself declared it unnecessary,” Dr. Callan remarked, her voice sharp. “Do not come to regret this decision later.”
Dr. Callan’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly as she accepted the handkerchief. While not truly angered by the incident, she felt a flicker of annoyance at the young woman’s superfluous remark.
‘What do you mean, I would ask you to commit something unlawful or criminal?’
She was, after all, a figure of considerable standing within this very system; how could she possibly stoop to such self-degrading acts?
Furthermore, even if she did, would you actually comply?
The world inhabited by the wealthy was indeed beyond comprehension.
After a moment’s internal sigh, Ghervil regained her composure, reminding herself that, even amidst such tempting riches, she must remain rational.
“How many clauses remain?” Ghervil asked, her tone now steadier. “Please read them all. I shall not interrupt this time, and my decision to sign will hinge upon their content.”
Provided the subsequent clauses proved no more outrageous than those already presented, signing the contract would likely pose no issue.
Yet, a lingering doubt persisted: could there truly be no hidden catches? Such an exorbitant salary felt almost too good to be true.
Dr. Callan let out a weary sigh. This interaction was akin to haggling with a seasoned old woman at the Canary Street Market (TL Note: A common term for a bustling marketplace, often associated with shrewd bargaining). If the price was low, the woman would suspect the goods weren’t fresh; if high, she’d demand a discount. Even when the vendor had already dropped to cost price, she would still inquire if it could be reduced by even a single Grotte.
Any less patient stall owner would have long since dismissed her, advising her to seek wares elsewhere.
She had deliberately positioned the clauses regarding remuneration and payment, the very details the young woman obsessed over, as the fourth item, precisely because the remaining terms were largely negligible.
“Perhaps your dean’s diary is mistaken,” Dr. Callan mused. “She ought to have found you on a rainy night on July 1st, 1939, at the market, rather than at the abbey gates.”
“‘Found at the market’?” Ghervil echoed, utterly perplexed. Then, a memory surfaced.
The diaries, returned by Ramsey, had been unceremoniously discarded into her desk drawer, never to be consulted again. They were, after all, merely fabricated evidence the dean had concocted to establish her identity.
But what conceivable connection did that have to a market?
“She found a little money-grubber at the market,” Dr. Callan quipped with a smile, before resuming her recitation.
In less than a minute, she had concluded the reading.
To Ghervil’s surprise, the remaining text consisted primarily of clarifications and supplementary details for the preceding clauses, along with the stipulation that the contract would be valid solely within the borders of the Elephant Kingdom.
“There truly isn’t any illegal content, after all…” Ghervil murmured, stroking her chin as she meticulously re-examined the clauses for any potential loopholes or hidden traps.
Upon hearing this pronouncement, Dr. Callan’s face abruptly paled.
“You seem to be conflating a highly esteemed doctor within The Order with a common street gang leader,” Dr. Callan stated, her voice edged with frost. “If such methods appeal to you, we could certainly proceed with a ‘gangster’ style contract.”
“No, no, not at all!” Ghervil quickly interjected, her face contorting into an awkward, apologetic smile as she recognized her blunder.
“You have always been my dear neighbor, the neighbor I hold in the highest esteem.”
‘She couldn’t possibly allow this cooked duck to fly away’ (TL Note: A Chinese idiom signifying the loss of an opportunity that was already considered secure).
“It appears you are, in fact, capable of speaking appropriately,” Dr. Callan observed dryly.
“So, a pleasant cooperation?”
The woman extended a hand towards her, a silent invitation.
“Pleasant cooperation indeed…”
After a brief hesitation, Ghervil extended her hand and clasped it. Immediately, her fingers were subjected to a rather forceful squeeze.
‘She’s still upset, then!’
****
Three minutes later, with Dr. Callan’s careful, guiding hand, Ghervil painstakingly inscribed her name upon the parchment, then pressed her handprint, officially bringing the contract into effect.
She couldn’t fathom why such meticulous caution was required merely to sign a name. Dr. Callan’s hand, already larger than her own, had, in the oppressive heat, caused her entire right hand to grow slick with sweat.
Dr. Callan, noticing her confusion, offered an explanation: “This parchment is exceedingly rare, hence only a single copy was produced. There can be no errors. Guard it carefully; do not misplace it.”
“Couldn’t you simply sign it on my behalf?”
“The contract explicitly mandates a personal, handwritten signature,” Dr. Callan replied, her finger tracing what, to Ghervil’s eyes, appeared to be a chaotic tangle of distorted symbols on the parchment.
‘Very well, if there’s only a single copy…’
“And what would happen if the contract were to be violated?” she couldn’t help but ask, a fresh concern surfacing.
“Rest assured on that front,” Dr. Callan began. “Should I fail to provide your stipulated wages, you may present this very contract to His Holiness the Pontiff, who would undoubtedly champion your cause…”
“I meant, what if *I* violate it?”
The young woman’s abrupt clarification caused Dr. Callan’s thoughts to momentarily seize.
This particular query had, truthfully, never crossed her mind.
Given the sheer disparity in their capabilities, she knew she could, if she so desired, compel the young woman to honor the agreement through far more stringent means.
However, she chose not to voice this, opting instead for a jocular tone.
“I trust you implicitly,” Dr. Callan declared, a playful glint in her eyes, “but should you betray that trust, I imagine the story of a Solis Abbey nun failing to uphold her word would quite sensationally grace the front page of the capital’s morning papers.”
Unless absolutely necessary, she intended to fully respect the young woman’s wishes.
“I, for one, hope the headlines won’t instead proclaim, ‘Black-hearted Employer Exploits Diligent Worker, Employee Seeks Wages from His Holiness the Pontiff,'” Ghervil retorted, matching Dr. Callan’s jocular tone.
“It’s excellent that you possess such a mindset,” Dr. Callan affirmed, handing over the parchment. “Now, gather your belongings. We depart immediately.” She then turned to open the door.
“So soon?” Ghervil questioned, rising to her feet with an expression of surprise.
“You have ten minutes,” Dr. Callan instructed, pausing at the doorway with her back to Ghervil. “Bring a set of your society robes and anything else you deem essential. I, too, require a moment to prepare.”
“But what of my promise to confide in you about my condition…?”
“We shall discuss it en route.