Number 5

By Tate Trenouth

Morning broke, and no one woke save for me. I spent that morning cleaning, then morning turned to afternoon, and I turned to speak to my employer.

"Sir, you must come here quickly. Your daughter appears quite sickly," I said with a hint of caution. My employer was generally benign, but he could sometimes be a bit rhadamanthine. He rushed past me with a furrowed brow.

"This seems quite nasty. I'll call the doctor here, and then there's nothing to fear," he said, with a slight waver in his voice. Despite what he said, fear I did. It was a slight uneasiness, which gradually shifted and reared its head as a bilious pit in my stomach. Something was afoot, I was sure of it. I turned as I heard a foot. The signature tip-tapping of a medical professional. First, his dark grey pants peeked around the corner, ensuring the room was good enough for his white coat. The doctor's head followed behind the cluster of clothing. He was not a flamboyant man, his modest attire showed he was a rational buyer. His cloud-grey eyes placed themselves on the unmoving body. If he were not a doctor and used to the sight, the clouds would have surely rained. A lachrymose energy seemed to stifle anyone who may want an eyeful of this poor girl. I watched as the doctor pried and prodded, tried and nodded. He realized there was nothing he could do. You needn't know the situation or anything else, the look when he faced me told you everything. Her body was carried out on a stretcher, and her father tried to fetch her, but to no avail.

"Sorry," the carriers said. "There's nothing we can do."

We held her vigil on cold Sunday drizzle, and it was a quiet and civil affair. Only his family and I went there to see her coffin be lowered into the ground. Yet after the precession, I found that there was some element of mystery, so I endeavoured to find the history of her death

Now I, a humble butler had tasked myself with finding out the cause of this mortality. I made haste to the morgue and took a gander at her file, after inquiring about it, of course. After some back and forth, they let me see, but with a slight fee, deemed the "Investigation Tax". I hardly think it was legal, but reporting such a large firm may have been lethal because heaven knows what sorts of unsavoury and uncouth methods they may employ.

"Listen here, there seems to be some mistake here because Miss Lake here has a high level of Arsenic in her body," I said to the coroner.

"Well," he said, "it seems our report was shoddy, and we'll look into it for you."

My progress had been blunted, but I prefer not to be garrulous, so I went on my way and on with my day without having to say another word to the coroner. And that was how I liked it. My lead there had been extinguished for now, and I felt I should explore for now. I walked out of that office and down the street. However, I was not alone, as a figure trailed me. I figured that it must just be a coincidence. However, I began to doubt my ruling as time went on. I took a left, and the person did. I made a quick right, and so did they. I decided to stop to see who they could be, and they just walked right by me. In their passing, my eyes caught on an emblem. It was a strange collection of shapes that shaped up to show an anchor and a hook.

I was hooked and decided that I should go to the library to find information about the symbol. The imposing marble columns stood guard in front of the library, warding off anyone who they deemed unacceptable and welcoming those who had enough smarts. I found that I was marvelling at the cool, judging pillars. My gaze moved to their warm counterparts inside the building, which had a more friendly aura. Every brown-backed, leather-bound tome in the building was invariably the same, each pleading to be taken off the shelves. Every bright-coloured, paperbacked novel begged to be read with fascination. However, they were not my destination. I asked the fervent librarian where I could look for the book. With great delight, she brought me a small, cozy nook in the corner of the library, which was illuminated by soft, warm light. A candle stood, poised perfectly. Its light shimmered elegantly off the slight shine of the leather-bound books. Papers littered the tables, which encapsulated the chaotic nature of the room. I searched for the book in the piles.

"Aha!" I exclaimed. I grabbed the book from a pile and gave it a slight smile. It was old and stuffy. As I turned each jaundiced page, the paper crackled like a campfire. The leather cover moved along with the paper, making an orchestra of cracking. I carefully turned each page and found the anchor and hook. My eyes danced across the elegant, swooping letters. The symbol was a mark of an organization called "RKA," which was marked as "dangerous".

That was all the books knew of them, but I knew that I needed to be back home soon. The walk back was eerie. The late afternoon fog was thick, and I was in the thick of it. My inhibition soon melted away when I saw the imposing grey of home. I pushed through the wrought iron gate and a feeling of calm bloomed in my chest. My employer greeted me nonchalantly. He was the library. His cold steel eyes, his composure, and his silence were all tests of intelligence rather than indifference. Once you passed the columns of formality, there was quiet warmth enjoyed by a lucky few. However, he kept certain books out of sight. They were in the back rooms, hidden and dusty, only looked at by the custodian, their secrets known by only a single soul.

"We need to talk," he said carefully. He gestured to the door, and we both entered the house quietly.

"Listen, from what I've heard about RKA…" he paused. "Let's just say there are things best left undiscovered." He implicated I should do no further research. I scratched my chin and looked up at him.

"How do you know I was looking into RKA?" I asked fearfully.