Day 5

Meanwhile, somewhere far away, in an Order city...

It was a quiet afternoon in the post room of Chandler Banking Firm, where a short, crooked man with furrowed face was seated on a velvet-cushioned stool before the counter, the heavy tome and various paperwork on which it carried illuminated by a single candle planted firmly on the mound of melted wax gathered at its base. The candlelight adorned the waiting room before the old man with a striped pattern of shadows from the brass bars protruding the edge of the desk, perpetually separating him and his vault of packages and postbags resting against the concrete wall, from the rest of the office complex. All this lent the old man the appearance of a trapped bird, specifically a ragged old pidgeon as it hunched over to pick up the scraps of crumb left over on the bottom of its cage.
Unkempt, bushy grey hair stuck out from under the marine coloured kepi on his head. He wore his squarepane glasses at the very top of the ridge of his bloated nose, almost as if pinched between his eyebrows and cheekbones like windowframes for his tired amber eyes.

He had worked for the that company for sixteen years by that point, and he still had no idea how the forms he had to fill out every week could tell him exactly what information he needed to scribble down, and yet it was he specifically who was required to write that information down.
Not that he complained though. After all, if he couldn't fill out forms then there really wouldn't be anything to do at all for the vast majority of his working day. He'd be left there in his gilded cage, day in and day out, all by himself. Or, even worse, in the company of the dry dimwits who ran that banking firm.

The man pulled a golden pocketwatch from the front pocket of his open red waistcoat, which he wore over his white and blue striped shirt, the sleeves of which had been rolled up to the elbows. He popped the watch open to view the time of day, which was something he needed to fill out on the form, then snapped the clock closed and slipped it back into his pocket, whereupon he dipped his quill into the ink bottle before resuming his task.

The hinges of the door opposite the old man creaked as it opened. A man entered, aged around twenty-seven, dressed in yellow trousers and a white waistcoat under which a cravat was folded up all the way to his chin. The perplexion of his skin was void of colour, and since his face, though smooth with gentle and handsome features, was perpetually locked into a cool, phlegmatic expression; the illusion of a marionette doll in posh attire was complete. It certainly didn't help that his erect posture and courtly mannerism made him appear stiff both in terms of mobility and personality. His blue hair was kept short and neatly swept according to latest fashion.

The old man looked up from the paperwork towards his guest, "Ah, why if it isn't Wilmore. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Wilmore was carrying a bundle of letters, hanging from his hand in a bow made from the red string in which he had wrapped the bundle. He picked up his own pocketwatch, and popped it open to view the time, "It is fifteen past two in the afternoon, Herman. I would have presumed that, by now, you would be expecting me at this time to come here and drop off my daily correspondance."
"Oh... Oh, but of course." The old man laughed awkwardly, "That completely slipped my mind. I've had a lot to deal with, now that my dear Henrietta is bedridden. So as you can imagine I'm understandably distracted."
The neatly dressed man placed the bundle on the desk, and slid it through the one slot in the bars, which is big enough to fit one small package but nothing more, "Regretable. You will have to give your wife my most sincere regards, Herman. Let us hope for a swift recovery."

Herman pulled on the string, and shifted between the letters. There were five of them in total. Three of them were to locations within the city limits, and the two other were to addresses were no further than two cities over. One of the letters addressed outside the city was marked with a priority mail insignia.
"Two... Three... Five letters here, right?" Herman asked.
"Five letters today, Herman." Wilmore sighed, "Really, though. The new catalogue of our prospects can not get here any sooner. Just today I had to consult my previous correspondence on four separate occasions. Any news on when it might arrive?"
"Patience, Wilmore. It'll be here when it's ready. If the new catalogue is inaccurate then that will just create more problems down the line."
"Certainly, though I would have hoped that asking for speed and accuracy would scarcely be too much to ask."
"From what I can tell, people asking for too much appears to be what is the problem. If I get any more news on the matter, Wilmore, you'll be the first to know. But there's one thing I need to know from you."
"Yes, Herman?"

Herman shifted his eyes left and right, "Do you remember that morning, around two weeks ago, when you showed up at the backdoor to the postroom in a stock sailor outfit?"
Wilmore coughed, "Ahem... I most certainly do."
"I gave you an extra uniform that was lying around, so you could make it past that day, and be spared the embarrassment."
"I remember..."
"So, what I want to know is... What happened on that day?" Herman asked.
"I told you, Herman," Wilmore said, "My regular outfit was spoiled, so I had to show up at work in... That thing."
"Ah, but of course..." Herman sighed. He didn't think Wilmore had it in himself to lie, even if just because he would consider it a waste to invest the time and effort needed to remember and maintain that lie, but he was definitely holding back some crucial information regarding that event, "If you ever feel like talking, you're always welcome, boy."
"I certainly will keep that in mind."

"So... speaking of wives," Herman said in a clunky attempt to change the subject, "What about you, Wilmore? Still no closer to getting yourself hitched?"
"Indeed so, Herman. As for now, my commitment falls solely on serving the company."
"Ah, be careful about that, though. You're in prime age for getting married now, boy. But if you keep waiting, you'll soon find it gets ever harder to find anyone to settle with."
"Be that as it may, Herman, I have resolved myself to not just marry some woman merely out of convenience. I have made it well for myself, becoming chief-clerk of this firm at my age. As such I will be expected to marry above my class, and I shall not settle for anything else."
Herman stamped the letters, as he opened his colossal tome and wrote the details of the letters as entries on the designated rows within the book, "Ah... But Wilmore... Higher class doesn't always mean better person. A woman of a poor class who can make you happy, is better than a woman of a high class who makes you miserable, right? A good life isn't necessarily one of higher status, but one lived together with the woman you love. Won't you consider trying to marry out of love instead?"

"Herman, I do seek to marry out of love," Wilmore said, "Out of love for my father, who raised me by himself, provided for me during childhood, and became an object of admiration throughout my life. If the name of anyone deserves to be elevated to the realm of aristocracy, it would certainly be his. And as his progeny, the duties of accomplishing that much falls on me. To settle with a partner simply because she suits my tastes and my personal preferences... That certainly would be selfish."

Herman laughed, "But Wilmore... You're working for a capitalist banking firm, no? I certainly hope you're not suggesting one ought not be selfish."
Wilmore scoffed, "What I am saying, Herman, is that some decisions are more fruitful than others. And it is prudent to discern between choices that leads one to excellence, and the ones that merely are guided by ones personal appetites. Such is the way in which our House does things."
"That was a joke, Wilmore. You need to learn to lighten up."
"Hmph... I must ask you to keep your jokes to yourself this afternoon, Herman. I am in too good of a mood for jokes."

Once the last letter had been stamped, Herman shut the tome and shifted the letters into slots within the shelf next to him, "Oh, that's right... Beore I forget, I heard that the director wished to speak to you, Wilmore. You'd better go deal with that."
"Oh, certainly," Wilmore straightened his cravat, "I will go there first thing in the morning tomorrow. Director Polder's visiting hours were between eight fifteen and eight thirty, if I recall correctly."
"No, Wilmore. You misunderstand." Herman wiped his hands on the ragged old handkerchief he kept in his trouser pocket, "The Director wants to speak to you immediately. He has booked an appointment with you at three."

Wilmore raised an eyebrow, "Really, now? This is the first I have heard of it. Did you learn of what this matter concerned?"
Herman shrugged, "No idea, sir. I understood this to be private matters for your ears only."
Wilmore lightly pinched his chin between his thumb and index finger, "Well, as my performance has been nothing but exemplary, I can only presume this to be good news." He slipped his pocketwatch out from his pocket and popped it open.
It was twenty five minutes past two.
"I shall go and get myself ready then. That will be all, Herman. Thank you for your assistance."
"And to you too." Herman said as Wilmore turned around and opened the door, "And Wilmore... Good talk, right? Remember what we discussed."
"I certainly will, Herman. Until later." With that, Wilmore took his leave.