Chapter 53……………
“Sometimes I wonder if I’ve spent more than ten years clinging to just one thing.”
“Isn’t that how craftsmen are by nature? I don’t see that as a problem.”
“Really?”
Luther had a way of saying things that tickled the heart. Hearing the word “craftsman” oddly brought Noah to mind, which only made Cordelia feel more embarrassed. She pretended to glance around the room to shake off the awkwardness.
“This place has grown a lot. When I first came, it was so small.”
“And you were a fledgling chick of an author back then.”
“Well, I am as cute as a chick.”
“Ha… haha.”
“That smile looks suspicious. Do you disagree?”
“Of course not.”
Cordelia grumbled at Luther’s feigned flattery but pressed no further. It was true that she felt at ease with him—he was one of the few men who never seemed to see her that way.
After finishing her plate, Cordelia daintily dabbed her lips, rose from the sofa, and with her wide-brimmed veiled hat shading her face, she spoke with haughty grace.
“Well then, I’ll be going.”
“Yes. Shall I send the profit reports to the usual person?”
“Yes, do that.”
When she stepped out, the empty corridor of the building greeted her. Her shoulders drooped for an instant, then she straightened proudly. Clenching her fist, she resolved herself.
No. I can’t.
My name is far too valuable to shrink away over something like this.
Cordelia strode down the stairs with elegance and vigor. But as she crossed the hall, she halted—the front doors opened, and another veiled woman entered.
The stranger also paused upon seeing Cordelia. The two gazed at one another in silence, then resumed walking almost at the same moment.
As they brushed past, a crisp, refreshing fragrance wafted from the other woman. Without a word, each continued on her way.
“At the Grand Temple, you say?”
Noah repeated in surprise. Peron, guildmaster of Holemiya, nodded vigorously.
“Yes. They seem very pleased with that mural you painted last time.”
It was unusual for the temple to commission work. Even Noah hadn’t expected to be chosen for the previous task.
Considering the mural depicted one of the temple’s scandals, it was natural that most artists had avoided it.
Though the project had been backed by overwhelming support from the lower clergy, no one knew what retribution the temple might impose later. Most painters couldn’t risk their livelihood for a fleeting taste of honor.
Noah, however, had little to fear from offending the temple, so he had accepted. And while he worked, the temple had generously provided materials and tools. No doubt because his uncle, Tirain, often came to check on him.
“But I never expected them to ask for a sculpture.”
With part of the Grand Temple undergoing expansion, they wanted decorative works—among them, a large statue to complement the mural.
“Don’t you also have some skill in sculpture?”
“Who told you that?”
“Why, your master, of course.”
Noah sighed inwardly. He could already picture his teacher chuckling.
“Please thank them for the offer, but I must decline.”
“What? Do you realize what an opportunity this is?”
In this age, religious art was considered the pinnacle of the craft. It was a chance to display one’s work before the masses, to elevate one’s name. No ordinary artist would turn it down.
But Noah was firm.
“I don’t plan to take on projects that require so much time, not for now. I’m sorry.”
From what he gathered, the expansion was a grand undertaking. Several other artists would surely be brought in. That meant frequent visits to the temple, frequent encounters with people he preferred to avoid. Who knew what complications might arise.
And while sculpture could be done in his workshop, transporting it outside was another matter. Paintings he could carry himself, but statues required laborers—too many eyes on the place he lived.
Given that, his refusal was well justified.
After a polite bow of apology, Peron clicked his tongue in regret but pressed no further. Noah was Olive Flotera’s cherished disciple, and the man behind him was too formidable to anger.
“Then how about this? There’s another offer—a picture book.”
As a fallback, Peron revealed his second option. Noah tilted his head slightly.
“A picture book?”
“Yes. They want to record the lordship’s seasonal festivals with illustrations.”
“That sounds like at least a year-long job.”
“True, but really, you’d only need to attend about four festivals. The rest of the illustrations would be entirely up to your skill.”
“They’re going that far?”
“They were very impressed with your recent works. They promised to spare no support, and the pay is…”
When Noah heard the figure, he blinked in astonishment. The sum and conditions were almost too generous. Why go this far?
And when he learned who the patron was, his suspicion only deepened.
“So, what will you do?”
After some thought, Noah murmured,
“I’ll need to negotiate a few conditions…”
He couldn’t stay away from the capital for too long—Cordelia was here. They had agreed to meet at least once a week, just in case. Still, the chance to try a field he had never attempted before sparked his interest.
“All right. I’ll take it.”
“Oh, Noah?”
As he finished with Peron and came down to the lobby, Noah blinked at the sight of three people gathered at the reception desk. His hidden jawline was impossible to see beneath his bangs, but the slight parting of his lips showed his surprise.
“It is Noah.”
“Feels like ages since we’ve seen you.”
Commoners typically had no surnames. At most, they might be called Tropa son of Bella, Avery daughter of Franky, Laura granddaughter of Edith—or identified by region or trade.
Tropa was a blacksmith, Avery a jeweler, and Laura a weaver. Despite their different trades, they had become close after bonding over drinks at a guild banquet years ago.
Why they had taken a liking to him, Noah still didn’t know. Aside from Olive, they were the only guild members with whom he had anything resembling real fellowship.
“Has it really been that long? Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Of course—it’s impossible to tell when you’re around. Make some noise when you visit, would you?”
Avery slapped Noah’s arm with mock complaint, wondering why such a big man had so little presence. Tropa gently pulled her back by the shoulder.
“What brings you three here?”
“Laura made a lot of money recently, so she’s treating us. You coming?”
“Yeah, let’s go. We’re heading to our usual spot.”
Their business finished, the three cheerfully dragged Noah along. Before he knew it, he was seated inside a tavern. All around, other tables buzzed with chatter.
Not far from Artisan Street, the place was famous for hearty, cheap meals behind its rough exterior. Perhaps the nearby Academy helped its popularity.
“Four servings of today’s special—no, six! And four beers!”
Laura shouted, and the lone server hurried away. Soon steaming dishes arrived: two platters of spicy braised fish, six skewered grilled fish, a basket of bread, and a pot of stew loaded with meats and vegetables.
“So, what job did you take this time?”
Tropa asked as he scooped braised fish into his mouth. Noah, finishing a bowl of stew, paused with the ladle mid-air. After a moment’s thought, he answered.
“A picture book.”
“A… book?”
“They insisted I take it. It seemed fine, so I agreed.”
He spoke casually, tearing off bread with force. Tropa grumbled, incredulous.
“Nobles really have too much money. What use is a book like that?”
“Who cares? Thanks to them, people like us make a living.”
Avery said around a mouthful of stew-soaked bread. As a jeweler, her clients were mostly nobles and wealthy merchants, so she tended to be lenient on such matters. She also had a strong love for adornment, and looked far more polished than the others—no surprise, since she had admired jewelry long before she made it.
“Of course, that makes competition brutal too.”
Tropa and Laura kept silent, focusing on their meals. From that silence, Noah sensed the truth.
“Another group split off, didn’t they?”
Tropa’s voice dropped low.
“The locksmiths rebelled. They had a steady clientele and enough connections to go independent. The recent hike in guild fees pushed them over. Laura, how about in your line?”
“For us it’s different. We’re too many. As far as the guildmaster’s concerned, weavers are a dime a dozen—hard to band together.”
“Figures.”
“Still, we’ll have to negotiate sooner or later. How can anyone live on these scraps?”
Laura, who had been working since age thirteen and was now twenty-seven, tore into her fish skewer with calloused fingers that bore witness to her years. Then, she suddenly turned to Noah.
“By the way, some of the painters have been talking about you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Saying you’re sly, only picking the choicest jobs. That maybe you’ve got someone powerful backing you.
