Dinner

Another Gythra lived in an inconspicuous two-story apartment. When Jorgen arrived at the apartment door that day, he happened to encounter a couple walking out. They were poorly dressed, and their eyes, weary, glanced at Jorgen. A flyer against Military Intelligence Seven was stuck to the wall on the right side of the apartment. It had clearly been there for a long time, enduring wind and rain, becoming a gray stain sunken into the wall.

The landlady of the apartment was a woman in her fifties. As expected, Jorgen had to reveal his detective identity to get information.

"Gythra?" she said. "Yes, she lived here for over two years. Worked at some club... I only accept tenants with legitimate jobs."

"She's not here anymore?"

"She's dead. Ah, I knew this would bring trouble."

Dead. Jorgen wasn't surprised to hear that word.

"When did it happen?"

"Just a few days ago. Don't spread it around; I've barely kept the neighbors from knowing. If anyone finds out someone died in that room, it won't be rented for months."

"How did she die?"

"Complications during childbirth, neither the mother nor the child survived."

Jorgen recalled: Gythra stopped meeting Hallmair six to eight months ago, well before any visible signs of pregnancy. She quit her job at the club, leaving no trace.

Seeing Jorgen silent, the landlady seemed somewhat at a loss. "Sir, did the girl do something wrong? Is she pregnant with some important person's child? Ah, I shouldn't have let a woman of unknown origin stay, but I couldn't just kick her out. Now it's bad luck... My life has been going downhill lately; maybe it's also..."

"Take me to her room."

Although the landlady was reluctant, she reluctantly took out a bunch of keys and led Jorgen up to the second floor of the apartment. The floor emitted a decaying odor, and the corridor was littered with debris like broken bottles. There were eight rooms on the second floor, and they arrived at the door of one.

"There's nothing to see, really," the landlady said, "and I really don't want to go in. When I walk by here at night, I often feel something strange behind me."

"You can leave the keys with me and go down yourself."

The landlady hesitated for a moment but opened the door. Jorgen walked into the room ahead of her. The entire room was not much bigger than the interrogation room at Seven, with a cupboard, bed, window, a small square table, two chairs, and a stove. There was a bucket in the small toilet on the right.

"I regret renting this room to her," the landlady said, "Not every room has its own toilet."

The window was open, letting in a continuous cold breeze. Even so, the air in the room was still stale and unbearable. Jorgen wasn't sure if he smelled a vague scent of blood, as if he were in a slaughterhouse where all the Roar meat and knives had been removed, repeatedly washed, and disinfected. There were no pillows on the bed, and the bedspread was gone; there were no utensils on the stove. However, there were still traces of someone living here. The dust near the table legs was thick but messy, obviously with footprints left on it. There was a small strand of hair on the bed. Most importantly, there was the scent of a human being: someone with a warm body temperature had spent a long time here. If no one had lived here at all, the house would present a blank coldness, and the bed and cupboard would only be assemblies of wood, not furniture that had become a home.

"Did she leave anything behind?" Jorgen asked.

"Sir, doctors and coffins cost money. She hadn't worked for months and had no relatives visiting. I sold whatever she left behind and even had to contribute a bit to gather enough for the funeral expenses."

"No one ever came to see her?"

"My rule here is no outsiders allowed into the rooms. Of course, these tenants often sneak people in without me knowing, but with my own eyes, I've only seen a doctor enter this room in the past few months. Of course, there's also me."

Jorgen walked to the table and found irregularly shaped burnt marks on it, as if someone had extinguished many cigarette butts on it.

"Tell me where she's buried, and where the doctor who delivered her lives."

After getting the landlady's answer, Jorgen rewarded her with ten silver coins. Although she was a bit dissatisfied, Jorgen wasn't willing to pay too much to informants at this stage. He walked out of the empty room, out of the apartment's main door, stood there for a while, suddenly feeling a sense of emptiness. Yet, this emptiness had nothing to do with discovering that the person he was investigating might be dead. He had done this for over a decade, embedding the concepts of life, death, and everything related to them neatly into his working procedure. The lack of compassion for a stranger's death was complete, but at this moment, he felt that he might be tired—tired of the absence of emotions. He wanted to go home and tell Dalia, "Today, I investigated a case. A woman died unknown to anyone. Such things happen every day in this world, I've seen it countless times, but I won't let it happen to you."

However, this was just imagination. He couldn't say it out loud. But he must remember it.

Lindy appeared at Dalia's doorstep at the appointed time, still holding two medical books and bringing no attendants. After the maid Daisy answered the door, she thought it was someone selling books, so Lindy had to wait at the door for a while until Daisy called Jorgen to identify him.

"I got off the carriage halfway and walked over." As they walked from the corridor to the living room, Lindy spoke incessantly. "Walking is good for the body. I like to walk before dinner. Some people say it's good to walk right after a meal, which is wrong. The problem is that this idea is deeply rooted. Even if I publicly say as the hospital director that it shouldn't be done, not many people are willing to change their views. However, forcibly reversing some traditional health concepts is not a behavior worth promoting because they contribute to building a positive mental state, which also has a significant impact on health. Sometimes it's really hard to weigh the pros and cons of a thing comprehensively. Moreover, to thoroughly study this matter, we must also consider the huge differences in the digestive systems between various races..."

After they entered the dining room, they saw Dalia standing by the dining table. "Bishop Lindy, welcome." She greeted the bishop.

"Dalia, my lady." Lindy came forward, took her hand, and then looked up. "Just call me Lindy. Your voice sounds as beautiful as the morning bell, and my cumbersome title does a disservice to the natural quality of your voice." He kissed the back of her hand and added, "Moreover, there won't be another person whose appearance complements your voice so well. Vice versa."

"Oh... thank you." Dalia replied with a somewhat embarrassed smile, glancing at Jorgen.

"Please have a seat first," Jorgen said. You'll get used to this person slowly. Hopefully.

After they all sat at the dining table, Lindy said, "This is a truly exquisite feast. I must remind you both: I came for official business, but not at this moment. Just looking at the arrangement of these dishes, Lady Dalia has made me forget the original purpose of my visit with her culinary skills. Although I'm here as a guest, I can't help but say something impolite: let's immerse ourselves in enjoying this heavenly dinner, without bringing up official business."

He lived up to his words. Jorgen witnessed the rare moments when Archbishop Lindy spoke the least, and it made him almost uncomfortable. Like his walking pace, Lindy ate quickly and eagerly, yet the napkin on his chest remained completely pristine. Holding both the position of a grand bishop and a hospital director, Jorgen could hardly think of a more formal professional combination, but Lindy clearly didn't bring professional formality to the private dining table. He even casually said to the maid, "Could you move that dish a bit closer here?" If there weren't others around the table, Jorgen believed Lindy would probably lick the soup off his fingers.

After dinner, Dalia and the maid cleared the table, and as they passed behind Jorgen, Dalia nudged him discreetly. Jorgen said to Lindy, "Excuse me, please go to the living room first," then stepped into the kitchen. Dalia followed him into the kitchen, put down the tableware, and stood in front of Jorgen.

"Did he have lunch today? And breakfast."

"Isn't that good? You used to complain about cooking too much."

"He likes these dishes, of course, I'm happy. But if he could eat like Benedictus... now I'm a bit nervous."

"It's okay, relax a bit. He's here to help us." Jorgen brushed away a strand of thread falling on Dalia's forehead. "Let Daisy take care of the rest. Let's go talk to him about business."

They entered the living room, seeing Lindy standing by the window, looking outside. He turned around and said, "Can we discuss matters on the second-floor balcony? I like the night view; it makes my head clearer."

Dalia looked a bit hesitant and glanced at Jorgen. Going to the second-floor balcony would inevitably mean passing through a room that used to display many artworks but was now filled with large wooden boxes.

"No problem, let's go." Turning around, he whispered to Dalia, "He won't mind."

Before entering the balcony, Jorgen asked the maid from the adjacent room to prepare a chair and brought a lantern. After the three of them sat at the table, lit the lantern, the balcony, now emitting a faint yellow glow, became part of Stormwind City's night scenery. From here, the three could see the nearby trees and roads, distant towers, and the moon. The scenery they observed, illuminated by a gentle glow, silently watched them.