Cork's diner

Had John ever wondered what the food from his favorite novel's world tasted like? He was about to find out as he settled into a seat at Cork's Diner, a cozy upscale tavern catering to middle- and high-class clientele.

The moment Hilda stepped inside, she exchanged brisk pleasantries with the waitress, who promptly guided them to a table for two. The chair, carved from polished oak, creaked faintly as John sat alone, occupying both seats. The gesture puzzled Reeva—he'd assumed they'd shown him the table for two so Hilda could sit beside him—but she remained standing, poised behind his chair like a shadow.

His fingers brushed the crisp linen tablecloth, its pristine whiteness a stark contrast to the diner's dim, amber-lit ambiance. John's eyes wandered, taking in the rustic charm of the place. The walls were adorned with oil paintings in gilded frames, and the—ornate and weathered wooden furniture —whispered of decades of patronage.

As a maid, Hilda wasn't permitted to share a table with her master. Instead, she stood rigidly beside him, her gaze averted or risked being dismissed to the servant's corner—a cramped nook near the kitchen where staff waited like forgotten props.

"What would you like to order, master?" Hilda asked, her voice low and deferential.

John glanced around the room, his brow furrowing. He'd expected menus, but the tabletops lay bare save for polished silverware and crystal goblets.

"What do you recommend?"

Hilda inclined her head slightly. "Since it's still morning, I'd suggest starting with Eyre stew and freshly baked bread. It's… substantial, master. Ideal for fortifying oneself."

"Then that's what I'll have," John said, masking his uncertainty.

He had no idea what Eyre stew entailed—boiled leather? Charred roots?—but curiosity outweighed caution. Hilda offered a curt nod and glided toward a waitress stationed near the hearth. The woman, clad in a crisp black-and-white uniform, vanished into the kitchen's swinging doors to relay the order.

As John waited for his meal, his gaze wandered across the restaurant's tiered layout. The space was divided into distinct sections, each tiered like a social hierarchy carved in mahogany and velvet. The second floor, reserved for dignitaries and high nobles, loomed above like a gilded cage, its balustrades draped in silken banners.

With his diminished status, the first floor was the best he could manage—a liminal zone between high society and the common bustle. The patrons here wore tailored coats and polished boots, but none bore the crests or jewels of the upper echelons.

A hundred stac remained a small fortune, even stripped of his title. One stac equaled sixty-four copper coins, and a single coin could buy a loaf of bread. By most standards, a commoner could survive on one or two stac a month. John's stash could sustain him for years in obscurity if he lived frugally.

As John lingered in the diner's amber-lit haze, half-absorbed in calculations of coin and consequence, a figure strode past his table—then abruptly backtracked. The stranger was flanked by two servants: a broad-shouldered man with a soldier's bearing and a sharp-eyed woman whose gaze darted like a hawk's.

Their master appeared no older than fifteen, his face a blend of sharp angles and youthfully soft curves. He leaned against the table, lips quirking into a smirk as he drawled

"Well, well, well… who do we have here?" His voice dripped with mockery, each word spaced like a blade being unsheathed. "Since when do they let vagrants into Cork's Diner?"

"....."

Truthfully, John didn't know who this was. His best move was to say nothing.

"Truly, their standards have fallen."

"...."

The young man gave John a playful smile and then invited himself to the opposite side of the table.

"What can I get for you, master?" the butler asked the young man.

"I'll have the usual," the young man replied with a smile, and the butler left. Then he turned his attention back to John, who had been listening to the exchange.

"Quite a nice place, right?"

"It's up there, for sure."

The young man's smile grew wider at John's response. And John knew something was up. He shouldn't have answered that question.

"You know, for a guy who's just been disowned from his family, dining at a place like this is quite in character for you."

John didn't fully understand the game they were playing, but there was definitely something going on.

"Why are you trying to mock a homeless man having breakfast?"

The young man turned to look at his servants.

"You can go. I'll be having a chat with this gentleman over here."

The two servants nodded in unison and left their master to his own devices. The servants had a separate room for dining. It wasn't too far, and it was usually safe to leave their master.

"You made two mistakes there, Reeva, or whoever's in there." The young man stretched his fingers into a V pose.

"First, I'm Duke Tudor's second son, Plutus Tudor, and you HATE my guts." He lowered one of his fingers. "And second, you picked the worst place to be since Reeva hates this restaurant. He said it's too Eastern for him to enjoy the food."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I have memory loss."

John replied with a deadpan expression. Either Plutus was bluffing, or Reeva really did hate this place. But John was inclined to believe that Reeva did hate it.

"Oh, come on. Even if someone had lost their memory, I doubt they'd go from avoiding my father's district at all costs to dining in one of our endorsed restaurants."

"Still don't know what you're talking about," John said, still not confirming Plutus's story.

"If you insist." Plutus rested his hand on the table, looking quite smug. John, however, maintained his calm composure. Despite his earlier outburst in the hospital, John had pretty good control of his emotions. He wasn't easily surprised.

"I've only been here for a minute, words sure travel fast."

"Indeed, especially when you know what to look for." A cup of tea was served as Plutus said this. He reached for the handle and sipped the tea, maintaining eye contact with John.

"And you see, lately there have been a lot of heretics around here. Just last month, we caught three, and one of them could switch bodies."

"I got a head concussion and lost my memories." John shrugged. "Nothing more."

"I'm not here to judge you." Plutus reached into his pocket and placed an item on the table. He tapped it and said, "But this thing here is."

A silver gleam reflected the lantern light of the restaurant. It was an amulet in the shape of a sun with a torch handle attached—a Sunlight charm, produced by the Sunlight Church.